What Are You Still Holding Onto?

An Acts 19 devotional companion to Episode 3: “The Door Opens”

BEFORE YOU BEGIN:

This devotional accompanies Episode 3 of the Kingdoms Collide Podcast that explores 40 years of church in Ephesus. For the historical setting, narrative context, and complete story behind this devotional, listen to Episode 3: “The Door Opens”

You can listen and find more free resources at www.KingdomsCollide.com/ephesus/episode-3  

Read: Acts 19:11-20

For years, Paul had taught.

He had worked.

He had prayed.

He had reasoned in the synagogue.

He had moved into the hall of Tyrannus.

He had gone from house to house.

He had endured.

And then Acts 19 tells us that something extraordinary began happening.

Not ordinary miracles.

Acts calls them extraordinary miracles.

Handkerchiefs and aprons that had touched Paul were carried to the sick. Diseases left. Evil spirits departed.

But Acts is careful about where the power came from.

It does not say Paul was doing extraordinary miracles.

It says:

God was doing them through Paul.

That distinction matters in Ephesus.

This was a city accustomed to spiritual techniques.

Magic.

Formulas.

Incantations.

Sacred objects.

Words believed to carry power.

Things people could purchase, repeat, wear, or use in an attempt to influence the unseen world.

Then God begins working through something as ordinary as cloth that had touched Paul.

From an Ephesian perspective, it would have been easy to misunderstand what was happening.

Perhaps the cloth contained the power.

Perhaps Paul knew a better formula.

Perhaps Jesus was simply another spiritual name to add to the collection.

But Acts will not allow us to reach that conclusion.

The power belonged to God.

Paul was the servant.

The cloth was the instrument.

God was the source.

We still struggle with the same temptation.

We can become so impressed with what God uses that we begin confusing the vessel with the One who filled it.

A gifted preacher becomes the source.

A ministry method becomes the source.

A prayer becomes the source.

A worship song becomes the source.

A church becomes the source.

Even something God genuinely used can quietly become something we trust instead of Him.

But the cloth had no magic.

Paul had no power independent of God.

And the name of Jesus was not a formula.

Ephesus was about to learn that lesson painfully.

Acts tells us that some Jewish exorcists began trying to use the name of Jesus in their own work.

They had heard what was happening around Paul.

They knew that the name of Jesus was connected with extraordinary demonstrations of power.

So seven sons of a Jewish chief priest named Sceva approached a man with an evil spirit and attempted to invoke Jesus’ name.

Their language exposed the problem:

“the Jesus whom Paul proclaims.”

Not the Jesus they knew.

Not the Jesus they trusted.

Not the Jesus they followed.

The Jesus somebody else knew.

They wanted authority without allegiance.

Power without relationship.

The name without the Lord.

And the evil spirit answered them:

Jesus I know.

Paul I recognize.

But who are you?

Then that one man overpowered all seven of them.

They escaped wounded and naked.

The lesson spread throughout Ephesus.

Jesus was not another name to be inserted into an Ephesian formula.

He could not be borrowed.

He could not be controlled.

He could not be used.

The sons of Sceva attempted to make Jesus another tool in their spiritual system.

Instead, their failure revealed that Jesus stood over the system.

That still confronts us.

It is possible to know Christian language without knowing Christ.

Someone else’s faith can introduce you to Jesus.

A parent’s prayers can shape you.

A pastor’s teaching can point you toward Him.

A church can surround you with truth.

A friend can carry you during a difficult season.

But nobody can belong to Jesus for you.

Christianity cannot survive forever as:

the Jesus my parents know.

the Jesus my pastor talks about.

the Jesus my spouse follows.

the Jesus my church believes in.

Eventually the question has to become personal:

Who is Jesus to me?

Not whether you know His name.

Not whether you know how Christians speak.

Not whether you have learned how to ask Him for things.

Have you entrusted yourself to Him?

Because Jesus is not a spiritual resource to improve our existing kingdom.

He is the King who calls us into His kingdom.

When the story of the sons of Sceva spread throughout Ephesus, Acts says fear fell upon the people and the name of the Lord Jesus was extolled.

Jesus’ name became more than a name.

People began seeing Him differently.

And when our understanding of Jesus changes, eventually the way we live has to change too.

That is exactly what happens next.

Acts says many of those who had believed came forward confessing and divulging their practices.

Notice who comes forward.

Believers.

These were not merely outsiders deciding Christianity sounded interesting.

People who already believed began recognizing that there were things from their old lives they were still carrying.

They had encountered Jesus.

But some old practices had apparently survived the encounter.

That may be one of the most uncomfortable truths in this passage.

Sometimes we can sincerely belong to Jesus while still discovering places in our lives where our old loyalties remain.

Something hidden.

Something familiar.

Something comforting.

Something we know does not belong in the new kingdom, but we have not yet released it.

The Ephesian believers began bringing those things into the light.

They confessed.

They disclosed.

They stopped managing appearances.

That is what confession does.

Confession does not tell God something He did not know.

It tells the truth about what God already sees.

And honesty is often the first step toward freedom.

We hide because hiding promises protection.

If nobody knows, maybe nothing changes.

If nobody knows, maybe we do not have to face it.

If nobody knows, maybe we can keep both lives.

But secrecy has a cost.

What we refuse to bring into the light often continues exercising power in the darkness.

Jesus did not die for the polished version of us.

He already knows what we are afraid to say.

He bore our sin completely at the cross.

So confession is not an attempt to convince Him to become merciful.

We confess because mercy has already opened a way home.

But Ephesus does not stop at confession.

The believers bring out their magical books.

And they burn them.

Acts says their total value amounted to fifty thousand pieces of silver.

Whatever exact modern equivalent we try to assign to that number, the point is obvious:

this was costly.

These were valuable objects.

They represented money.

Knowledge.

Security.

Habit.

History.

And for some people, probably years of trust.

They could have sold them.

They could have recovered some of their money.

They could have placed them on a shelf.

They could have said:

I follow Jesus now, but I will keep this just in case.

Instead, they burned them.

Because repentance is more than admitting that something is wrong.

Repentance changes direction.

Sometimes it removes the road back.

That is where the title of this devotional becomes personal.

What are you still holding onto?

What have you confessed but carefully preserved?

What have you asked Jesus to free you from while keeping easy access to it?

What have you stopped publicly but kept privately available?

What old source of comfort, control, identity, pleasure, approval, security, or power are you keeping nearby in case trusting Jesus becomes difficult?

For the Ephesians, it was magical books.

Your answer may look nothing like theirs.

It could be a relationship you know repeatedly pulls you away from Christ.

A secret account.

A habit.

A substance.

A resentment.

A pattern of spending.

Pornography.

Approval.

A number stored in your phone.

A hidden conversation.

An object.

A backup plan built on fear rather than faith.

A way of manipulating people.

A lie you keep protecting because telling the truth would cost you something.

Not every difficult thing in our lives needs to be dramatically destroyed.

But when God clearly exposes something as incompatible with following Jesus, the question is no longer:

How much did this cost me?

The better question is:

Can I keep following Jesus while continuing to hold onto this?

For the believers in Ephesus, the answer was no.

So the books burned.

And that matters because those books represented something deeper than paper.

They represented trust.

Control.

Protection.

Fear.

The promise that when life became frightening, there was still something else they could reach for.

Burning them meant that the next time fear came, the old answer would no longer be available.

That is one reason repentance can feel terrifying.

We are not merely leaving something behind.

We are choosing to trust Jesus when the old escape route is gone.

But Jesus does not call us away from bondage and leave us empty-handed.

He gives us Himself.

The road back may burn.

But the road ahead is traveled with Christ.

And then Acts gives us the verdict over the entire scene:

the word of the Lord continued to increase and prevail mightily.

Notice what had not changed.

The Temple of Artemis still stood.

Rome still governed.

The marketplace still opened.

Magical practices had not vanished from every house in the city.

The skyline still looked Ephesian.

But something underneath the skyline had changed.

People’s loyalties were changing.

The Word was prevailing because people were surrendering.

That is how God’s Kingdom often advances.

Not first by knocking down monuments.

But by changing hearts.

A person trusts Jesus.

Then that trust reaches their secrets.

Their habits.

Their money.

Their fears.

Their relationships.

Their purchases.

Their decisions.

Their Monday morning.

And eventually the invisible allegiance becomes visible behavior.

That is what makes the fire in Acts 19 so important.

This is not merely a bonfire.

It is the physical evidence of changing kingdoms.

Those believers were saying:

This no longer owns me.

This no longer protects me.

This no longer defines me.

I will not run back to this when I am afraid.

Jesus is Lord.

And if Jesus becomes Lord, eventually something else has to stop being lord.

Fear.

Control.

Money.

Approval.

Sex.

Status.

Addiction.

Bitterness.

Power.

Whatever has been whispering:

You need me.

You cannot live without me.

Keep me close just in case.

The gospel confronts that voice.

Because Jesus did not come merely to become one more important thing in our lives.

He came as Lord.

And maybe the question is not whether you believe in Jesus.

Maybe the question today is:

What are you still holding onto because part of you is afraid Jesus will not be enough when you finally let it go?

The believers in Ephesus opened their hands.

Some confessed.

Some burned.

And the Word prevailed.

The fire did not purchase their forgiveness.

Jesus did that at the cross.

The cost did not make them worthy.

Grace had already called them.

They burned the books because grace had made the old allegiance incompatible with the new life.

That is repentance.

Not earning mercy.

Responding to mercy by finally letting go.

Identify one thing you know is keeping an old allegiance, destructive pattern, or source of false security unnecessarily available in your life.

Do not begin by asking how embarrassing it would be to admit it.

Do not begin by asking how much it has already cost you.

Ask:

“Can I keep faithfully following Jesus while continuing to hold onto this?”

If the answer is no, take one concrete action today that makes returning to it more difficult.

Delete the number.

Cancel the account.

Install the filter.

Throw away the object.

Change the route.

End the hidden conversation.

Ask someone trustworthy to hold you accountable.

Confess what needs to be confessed.

Make restitution where it is appropriate.

Do not create a dramatic gesture simply for the sake of drama.

Take the practical step that turns repentance into a changed direction.

Then when the old fear asks:

“What will you do without this?”

answer:

“I will trust Jesus.”

What am I still holding onto because I am afraid of what life will feel like without it?

Write honestly about what that thing has promised you.

Protection?

Control?

Comfort?

Approval?

Escape?

Power?

Security?

Then ask:

What has Jesus promised me that this thing can never actually provide?

Finish with:

“Following Jesus means I need to release…”

and name it plainly.