The Book of Acts does something deeply unsettling to readers who are used to clean conclusions. It does not resolve every storyline. It does not tell us what happened to every character. It does not even tell us how its central human figure, Paul, ultimately died. Instead, Acts 28 closes with motion rather than resolution, with proclamation rather than punctuation, with a man under house arrest preaching freely and a story that simply stops mid-breath. This is not a mistake. It is a deliberate theological choice, and it is one of the most powerful endings in all of Scripture.

Acts 28 opens with survival. After shipwreck, storm, fear, and loss, Paul and the others discover they are on Malta. They are wet, cold, exhausted, and vulnerable. This is not the triumphant arrival one might expect for the final chapter of a book about the unstoppable expansion of the gospel. It is not Rome yet. It is not the center of empire. It is a forgotten island with unfamiliar people and no apparent strategic importance. And yet, Acts has already trained us to recognize that God’s purposes often unfold in places the world overlooks.

The islanders show unusual kindness, Luke tells us. They build a fire. They welcome strangers. Before any sermon is preached, before any miracle occurs, hospitality leads the way. Christianity, once again, enters a place not first through argument but through embodied kindness. This matters. Luke is reminding us that the gospel does not advance only through eloquence or power, but through ordinary human compassion. The fire on Malta becomes a quiet echo of Pentecost flames, not dramatic or visible to crowds, but warming, sustaining, and life-giving.

Then comes the moment that feels almost symbolic to the point of discomfort. Paul gathers sticks for the fire. The apostle to the Gentiles, the theologian, the church planter, the prisoner of Rome, is bending down to collect firewood like everyone else. There is no sense of entitlement here. There is no hierarchy in survival. And it is precisely in this moment of humility that the viper strikes.

The snake fastens itself to Paul’s hand, and the islanders immediately interpret what they see through the lens of their own worldview. Justice, they assume, has caught up with him. He must be a murderer. The sea spared him, but the gods will not. They expect him to swell up or fall dead. Instead, Paul shakes the snake off into the fire and suffers no harm. No incantation. No prayer recorded. No drama. Just a quiet refusal to let poison determine the story.

This scene is not about snake handling or spectacle. It is about expectation versus reality. The world expects judgment. God reveals grace. The world reads suffering as evidence of guilt. God reveals endurance as evidence of calling. The same people who assumed Paul deserved death now assume he must be a god. Luke exposes the instability of human judgment. We swing from condemnation to idolatry without ever pausing to seek truth. Paul does neither. He does not defend himself, and he does not accept worship. He simply keeps going.

From that moment, healing flows. Publius’s father is healed. Others come. The sick are brought. The island that was merely a place of delay becomes a place of ministry. Malta was never on Paul’s itinerary, but God wastes nothing. What felt like interruption becomes assignment. What felt like setback becomes stage.

There is something profoundly important here for anyone who feels stalled, delayed, or detoured in life. Acts 28 refuses to treat waiting places as empty places. Paul does not wait passively for permission to matter again. He lives fully present where he is. He serves. He heals. He gives dignity to people the empire does not see. The gospel does not pause just because Paul is in transit. It never has.

After three months, they sail on. Winter has passed. Rome awaits. Paul finally arrives at the city he has longed to reach, not as a free man, not as a celebrated teacher, but as a prisoner under guard. Again, Luke subverts expectation. Rome is not conquered by spectacle. It is entered in chains.

Yet even here, Paul is allowed to live by himself with a soldier guarding him. This detail matters. It is not just narrative color. It shows us that God’s sovereignty does not always remove limitations, but it does redefine them. Paul is confined, but the gospel is not. His body is restrained, but his voice is free.

Paul calls together the local Jewish leaders. He explains himself. He tells the story of his imprisonment not with bitterness but with clarity. He insists he has done nothing against his people or the customs of their ancestors. He frames his chains as connected to “the hope of Israel.” This is remarkable. Paul does not see Christianity as a betrayal of Judaism but as its fulfillment. He is not rejecting his heritage; he is interpreting it through the lens of Jesus.

The leaders respond with cautious curiosity. They have heard reports, mostly negative. Christianity is spoken against everywhere, they say. This line feels eerily contemporary. Faith that disrupts systems is always controversial. Truth that refuses to be domesticated is always opposed. The gospel does not gain cultural traction by being palatable. It advances by being faithful.

They set a day to hear more. Paul spends an entire day explaining, testifying, and trying to persuade them about Jesus from the Law of Moses and the Prophets. Luke emphasizes duration. This is not a soundbite. This is not a viral moment. This is patient, sustained engagement. Some are convinced. Others are not. The divide remains.

And then Paul quotes Isaiah. He speaks of hardened hearts, dull ears, and closed eyes. This is not said in anger. It is said in sorrow. Paul has carried the burden of his people throughout Acts. Their resistance is not a personal rejection; it is a spiritual tragedy. And yet, he ends not with despair but with declaration. This salvation of God has been sent to the Gentiles. They will listen.

This is not abandonment. It is expansion. The gospel does not replace Israel; it flows outward because Israel’s story was always meant to bless the nations. Acts 28 brings us full circle to the promise given to Abraham. What began in Jerusalem now reaches Rome. What started with a small group of frightened disciples now confronts the heart of empire.

The final verses of Acts are deceptively simple. Paul lives there two whole years at his own expense. He welcomes all who come to him. He proclaims the kingdom of God and teaches about the Lord Jesus Christ with all boldness and without hindrance.

Without hindrance.

These may be the most important words in the entire book.

Paul is under house arrest. He is guarded. He is awaiting trial. And yet Luke insists that the gospel is unhindered. This is not naïveté. This is theological conviction. The kingdom of God does not require ideal conditions. It does not wait for political permission. It does not collapse under pressure. It moves through prisons, across borders, into households, and through ordinary conversations.

Acts does not end with Paul’s death because the story is not about Paul. It does not end with Rome’s response because the story is not about empire. It ends with an open door because the story is about mission. The reader is meant to feel the incompleteness. The baton has been passed.

Acts 28 is not a conclusion; it is an invitation.

The gospel that reached Rome now reaches us. The same Spirit that sustained Paul now empowers ordinary believers. The same message proclaimed without hindrance is still advancing, often quietly, often imperfectly, but relentlessly.

If Acts ended with resolution, we might admire it. Because it ends unfinished, we are implicated by it.

We are not meant to close the book and move on. We are meant to recognize ourselves inside its final sentence.

The story continues.

Acts ends the way real faith is lived: unresolved, unfinished, and still moving forward. There is no final miracle recorded, no courtroom verdict, no dramatic martyrdom scene. Luke leaves Paul alive, teaching, welcoming, explaining, reasoning, proclaiming. The silence after Acts 28 is not absence. It is space. Space intentionally left open so that the reader understands something essential: the work of God did not stop when the ink dried.

This is why Acts 28 matters so deeply, especially for those who feel like their lives have stalled or narrowed. Paul’s world has shrunk. He is no longer traveling freely, planting churches across regions, debating philosophers in public squares, or enduring riots and shipwrecks. His ministry is now confined to a rented house and the people willing to walk through its door. And yet Luke dares to describe this season as one marked by boldness and freedom. Not freedom of movement, but freedom of message.

There is a quiet rebuke here to our obsession with scale, visibility, and momentum. We often assume that if God is truly at work, things should be expanding outward in obvious ways. More reach. More recognition. More influence. Acts 28 dismantles that assumption. The final picture of apostolic ministry is not a stadium or a platform, but a living room. The gospel does not lose power when it moves from crowds to conversations. In fact, it often becomes more personal, more disruptive, and more transformative.

Paul welcomes all who come to him. Luke does not qualify that statement. Not “all who agree.” Not “all who behave.” Not “all who belong.” All who come. This hospitality mirrors the opening scene on Malta. From firelight on an island to open doors in Rome, kindness frames the final chapter of Acts. Before people are persuaded, they are welcomed. Before they are convinced, they are received. This is not accidental. Luke is teaching us what the posture of the church must be if it is to carry the story forward.

Paul proclaims the kingdom of God. That phrase is loaded. He does not merely talk about personal salvation or private belief. He speaks of a kingdom, a competing reality that challenges every earthly power. And he teaches about the Lord Jesus Christ. Not Jesus the moral teacher. Not Jesus the cultural symbol. Jesus the Lord. In Rome. At the center of empire. Under guard.

Nothing about this is subtle.

And yet Luke insists that this proclamation happens “without hindrance.” That phrase does not mean without resistance. Acts is filled with resistance. It means without ultimate obstruction. The gospel is not stopped by chains, geography, bureaucracy, or opposition. It moves differently, but it moves. It adapts without compromising. It advances without force.

This is where Acts 28 becomes intensely personal. Many people reading this are not where they thought they would be. Plans have changed. Doors have closed. Seasons have shifted. There is a temptation in those moments to believe that usefulness has expired or that purpose is on hold. Acts 28 refuses to allow that narrative. Paul’s calling does not expire because his circumstances change. It matures.

There is also something deeply sobering about the way Acts ends with mixed responses. Some believe. Some do not. That tension never resolves. Luke does not give us numbers. He does not tally success. He simply tells us that the message was faithfully given. Acts measures faithfulness, not outcomes. That is a desperately needed correction in a world obsessed with metrics.

When Paul quotes Isaiah about hardened hearts, he is not condemning individuals as hopeless. He is naming a reality that runs throughout Scripture: revelation does not guarantee reception. Truth does not coerce belief. God invites, but He does not force. This protects both divine sovereignty and human responsibility. The gospel is offered freely, but it must be received willingly.

And still, the mission expands. “Therefore,” Paul says, “this salvation of God has been sent to the Gentiles; they will listen.” That sentence is not triumphal. It is hopeful. It is the sound of a man who believes God’s purposes cannot be thwarted, even when his own people struggle to hear. The kingdom does not shrink because some refuse it. It widens.

Acts began with a promise in Jerusalem: “You will be my witnesses.” It ends with a witness in Rome. But it does not say, “The end.” It does not say, “Mission accomplished.” It leaves us mid-sentence because the story is not over. The Spirit has not retired. The church has not finished its work. The world has not exhausted its need.

Acts 28 is the chapter that quietly asks the reader a question without ever writing it down: what happens next?

The answer is not found on the page. It is found in lives.

Every generation has to decide whether Acts will continue or stall. Not globally, but locally. Not abstractly, but personally. The gospel moves forward through ordinary faithfulness, through conversations that feel small, through hospitality that looks unimpressive, through courage exercised in confined spaces.

Most believers will never stand before emperors. Most will never travel continents. But many will open their homes. Many will speak truth patiently. Many will endure misunderstood seasons. Many will discover that God’s definition of “without hindrance” looks very different from their own.

Acts 28 teaches us that the presence of limits does not mean the absence of God. It often means the refinement of calling. Paul’s final recorded ministry is not flashy, but it is profound. It is steady. It is accessible. It is deeply relational. And it is free.

There is a reason Luke ends where he does. If he had recorded Paul’s death, we might have admired his sacrifice and closed the book. If he had recorded his acquittal, we might have celebrated his victory and moved on. By ending with ongoing proclamation, Luke forces the reader to reckon with responsibility.

The gospel that reached Rome did not stop there.

It traveled through households, through letters, through persecution, through centuries. It crossed oceans. It outlived empires. It reached us.

Acts 28 is not a period. It is a comma.

And now the question is not how the story ended, but how it is being lived.

Because somewhere, right now, someone is building a fire for strangers. Someone is shaking off poison and refusing to let bitterness define them. Someone is speaking truth in a confined space. Someone is welcoming all who come. Someone is proclaiming the kingdom of God without hindrance.

And the story continues.

Your friend, Douglas Vandergraph

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There are moments in life when everything you know, everything you’ve learned, and everything you’ve relied on suddenly feels inadequate. You can do everything right, make the most reasonable decisions, listen to the most experienced voices in the room, and still find yourself driven into a storm you never chose. Acts 27 is not a story about reckless faith or dramatic miracles alone. It is a deeply human account of what happens when wisdom collides with uncertainty, when control slips away, and when trust becomes the only thing left standing.

Paul is a prisoner in this chapter. That matters more than we usually acknowledge. He is not the captain. He is not the owner of the ship. He is not the Roman officer in charge. He is cargo. He has no authority, no rank, and no official voice in the decision-making process. And yet, paradoxically, he is the only person on the ship who sees clearly. Acts 27 reminds us that spiritual clarity does not require positional power. Sometimes the person with the least control has the deepest insight.

The voyage begins with optimism mixed with caution. Luke’s language is careful and observational. This is not a fairy tale retelling; it reads like a logbook. Ports are named. Winds are described. Delays are noted. There is a growing sense of tension as time passes and sailing becomes dangerous. The Fast is already over, which tells us it is late in the sailing season. Anyone with maritime experience would recognize the risk. Paul recognizes it too. He speaks up, not as a prophet invoking divine authority, but as a man offering reasoned counsel. He warns them that the voyage will bring loss, not only of cargo and ship, but of lives.

This is one of the most overlooked moments in the chapter. Paul’s first warning is not framed as a revelation from God. It is discernment. It is wisdom born from experience, prayer, and attentiveness. And it is ignored. The centurion trusts the pilot and the owner of the ship more than a prisoner. That decision makes sense on paper. It aligns with expertise, hierarchy, and conventional authority. Acts 27 quietly exposes one of the great tensions of human decision-making: we often trust credentials over character, titles over truth, and familiarity over discernment.

When the gentle south wind begins to blow, it feels like confirmation. They assume they have gained their purpose. This is how self-deception often works. A small shift in circumstances convinces us that our risky choice was actually wise. The problem with gentle winds is that they don’t last. The storm that follows is sudden and violent, a northeaster that seizes the ship and refuses to let go. Luke’s description is vivid. The ship is driven, not guided. They give way to the wind. Control is gone.

There is something deeply relatable about this moment. Many storms in life don’t begin with catastrophe. They begin with a sense of progress. We move forward, confident, even relieved, only to find ourselves overwhelmed by forces we cannot negotiate with. Acts 27 does not portray faith as a shield that prevents storms. It portrays faith as an anchor when storms arrive anyway.

As the ship is battered, the crew does everything they know how to do. They undergird the ship. They lower the gear. They throw cargo overboard. Eventually, they throw the ship’s tackle into the sea with their own hands. This is not laziness or panic. This is survival. There is a painful honesty here. Sometimes faith does not look like stillness. Sometimes it looks like frantic effort, exhausted problem-solving, and the gradual surrender of everything you thought was necessary.

For many days, neither sun nor stars appear. Luke tells us that all hope of being saved is finally abandoned. This is one of the darkest lines in the entire book of Acts. It is not poetic exaggeration. It is despair. Orientation is gone. Direction is gone. Time blurs. Hunger sets in. Silence replaces conversation. Acts 27 allows despair to exist without correction for a moment. It does not rush to comfort. It sits with the reality that human beings can reach the end of their emotional and psychological resources.

Then Paul stands up.

This is not dramatic defiance. It is quiet authority. He does not scold them. He does not say, “I told you so,” even though Luke notes that his earlier counsel was ignored. Instead, Paul speaks hope into a space that has none left. He tells them to take heart. Not because the storm will stop, not because the ship will survive, but because an angel of the God to whom he belongs and whom he serves stood by him and spoke. The message is specific and restrained. There will be loss. The ship will be lost. But not a single life will perish.

This moment reframes the entire chapter. God does not promise rescue from consequences. He promises preservation of purpose. Paul must stand before Caesar. That calling anchors everything else. The storm cannot cancel what God has already spoken. Acts 27 teaches us that divine purpose does not eliminate danger; it outlasts it.

Paul’s faith is not abstract. He tells them plainly that they must run aground on some island. Salvation will come through wreckage, not avoidance. This is one of the most uncomfortable truths in Scripture. Sometimes God’s deliverance looks like survival through loss rather than escape from it. The ship you are trusting in may not make it to shore, but you will.

As the night deepens and the sailors sense land approaching, fear returns in a different form. Now survival itself becomes a threat. Some sailors attempt to escape in the lifeboat, pretending they are laying out anchors. Paul sees through it immediately and speaks again, this time with urgency. He tells the centurion and the soldiers that unless these men stay with the ship, they cannot be saved. This is not contradiction. It is cooperation. God’s promise does not negate human responsibility. Faith does not excuse abandonment.

The soldiers cut the ropes and let the lifeboat fall away. This is a remarkable moment of trust. Roman soldiers cut loose their best contingency plan because they trust the words of a prisoner who claims divine assurance. Acts 27 shows us that credible faith earns trust not through volume, but through consistency. Paul has been calm, clear, and steady. In chaos, that steadiness becomes persuasive.

As dawn approaches, Paul urges everyone to eat. This may seem minor, but it is profoundly pastoral. He knows they need strength. He knows faith is embodied. He thanks God in front of them all and breaks bread. The act is sacramental in its simplicity. Gratitude in the middle of crisis becomes a declaration that life is still worth sustaining. All two hundred seventy-six souls are encouraged and eat.

Only after this do they throw the remaining wheat into the sea. Nourishment first. Release second. Acts 27 is careful about order. There is wisdom in knowing what to let go of and when. Panic discards everything at once. Faith discerns timing.

This chapter is not about heroic certainty. Paul does not command the storm. He does not silence the wind. He does not walk on water. He trusts God and speaks truth while everything else falls apart. He remains present, attentive, and grounded. Acts 27 offers a different model of spiritual strength, one that does not dominate chaos but endures it.

What makes this chapter a legacy text is its refusal to oversimplify suffering. Obedience leads Paul directly into danger. Discernment is ignored. Experience is discounted. And yet, none of this negates God’s faithfulness. Acts 27 teaches us that being right does not guarantee being listened to, and being faithful does not guarantee smooth passage. It does guarantee that your life is held even when circumstances are not.

There is more to this story. The wreck is still coming. The shore is still unseen. And the final lessons of Acts 27 emerge not in the storm itself, but in how survival unfolds afterward. What happens when the promise is fulfilled through broken planks and freezing water reveals something essential about the nature of hope.

That is where we will continue.

The wreck does not happen all at once. That detail matters. Acts 27 does not rush the fulfillment of God’s promise, and it does not portray salvation as neat or cinematic. The ship strikes a reef where two seas meet, and what remains of human control finally collapses. The bow sticks fast, immovable, while the stern is broken to pieces by the violence of the waves. The vessel that carried hope, plans, hierarchy, and human expertise is reduced to debris.

This is where fear changes shape again. The soldiers’ first instinct is to kill the prisoners. Not out of cruelty, but policy. A Roman guard was personally responsible for prisoners under his charge. An escape could mean execution. Survival logic turns cold in moments like this. The storm has already stripped away compassion once; now it threatens to strip it away again. Acts 27 does not romanticize crisis. It shows how quickly people revert to self-preservation when systems fail.

But once more, Paul’s presence alters the outcome. The centurion wants to save him. That desire interrupts protocol. And because of that interruption, every life on board is spared. This is one of the quietest but most powerful truths in the chapter: one life lived faithfully can shield many others without them even realizing it. Paul never asked for influence. He never demanded protection. He simply remained faithful, and that faith created a ripple effect strong enough to override lethal policy.

Then comes the moment that defines the chapter’s theology. Those who can swim are ordered to jump first. The rest follow on planks or pieces of the ship. There is no orderly disembarkation. No clean transition. Salvation arrives through improvisation, through fragments, through what is left after loss. Luke tells us, almost casually, that all were brought safely to land. The promise is fulfilled exactly as spoken, but not as imagined.

Acts 27 confronts one of the most persistent misconceptions in faith: that if God is in control, outcomes should feel controlled. The reality is often the opposite. God’s faithfulness is revealed not by the preservation of structures, but by the preservation of people. The ship is destroyed. The calling is not.

The shore they reach is unfamiliar. Malta is not Rome. It is not the destination. It is a pause between storms, a place of unexpected kindness, a reminder that survival itself is sometimes the miracle. The chapter technically ends at the shoreline, but its implications reach far beyond it. Paul’s journey continues, scarred but intact, delayed but not derailed.

What Acts 27 ultimately teaches is not how to avoid storms, but how to live truthfully inside them. Paul does not pretend certainty where he does not have it. He does not spiritualize danger away. He does not weaponize faith to control others. He listens, he discerns, he speaks when necessary, and he trusts God when speaking is no longer enough.

This chapter also dismantles the idea that obedience guarantees efficiency. Paul’s route to Rome is indirect, painful, and costly. And yet, every detour becomes testimony. Every delay becomes platform. Every crisis becomes confirmation that God’s purposes are not fragile. They do not require ideal conditions to survive.

There is a sobering honesty in the way Acts 27 portrays leadership. The captain is experienced. The owner is invested. The centurion is authoritative. None of them are villains. They make reasonable decisions with limited information. And still, they are wrong. Scripture does not condemn expertise, but it does warn against confusing expertise with wisdom. Paul’s insight comes not from nautical training, but from spiritual attentiveness. He belongs to God, and he serves God, and that relationship gives him clarity when systems fail.

This matters deeply in modern life. We live in a world saturated with expertise, credentials, and confident voices. Acts 27 reminds us that discernment often sounds quieter than authority. It may come from unexpected places. It may be inconvenient. And it may be ignored until the storm proves it right.

There is also a personal cost to being right in Acts 27. Paul is not spared the storm because he warned against it. He is not removed from danger because he heard from God. Faith does not grant immunity. It grants endurance. The same waters that threaten everyone else threaten him too. Trusting God does not mean standing outside the chaos; it means standing steady within it.

Perhaps the most profound lesson of Acts 27 is the way hope is reintroduced. It does not arrive with relief. It arrives with resolve. Paul tells them to take heart while the storm is still raging. Not because circumstances have improved, but because truth has been spoken. Hope anchored in God does not wait for visual confirmation. It rests on promise.

And that promise does not eliminate fear; it outlasts it. Fear resurfaces again and again in the chapter, shifting forms as circumstances change. But each time, it is met with a decision. Will we act out of panic, or out of trust? Will we abandon one another, or remain together? Will we cling to false security, or release it when necessary?

Acts 27 does not offer easy answers, but it offers a faithful posture. Listen before you act. Speak when truth is required. Stay when abandonment tempts you. Nourish yourself and others before discarding what sustains you. Trust God not to preserve everything, but to preserve what matters most.

This is why Acts 27 belongs among the great legacy chapters of Scripture. It is not about triumphal faith. It is about resilient faith. It speaks to anyone who has ever done the right thing and still ended up in a storm. To anyone who warned, and was ignored. To anyone who lost what they thought would carry them, and had to cling to fragments instead.

And it offers this quiet assurance: storms do not negate calling. Wreckage does not cancel purpose. Detours do not mean abandonment. Sometimes the only way forward is through waves you cannot control, trusting that God’s promise is stronger than the ship you’re standing on.

When you reach the shore, soaked, exhausted, and alive, you may realize that the storm did not destroy you. It revealed what could not be destroyed.

And that is the kind of faith that carries you all the way to Rome.

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Your friend, Douglas Vandergraph

Poking around YouTube, I found an artist making cool stuff. And then, because algorithm, I found other artists using the same mediums he was – the gel plate. Most were using the commercially-available gel plates, but I feel like spending the money for something that I might not enjoy using doesn’t math.

But, as is the way of so many commercially-available art supplies, they’re easily made at home, and so I did!

My plate ended up about 8”x9”. For about $15. Versus the $30-50 for the commercial version. And, if mine is messed up or in need of refresh, I can just melt the thing down and start over.

I will probably melt this down after a while and repour anyway – both because the paper I use for experimenting is only 7x9, and so this doesn’t fit quite right; and, because there are bubbles – the bane of a gel-plate pour. But for experimental purposes, this is awesome.

My first image really sucked. Like, pitched it straight into the bin kind of sucked. I was doing a transfer of a photo I’d taken, but I put the paint on way to thick and it just didn’t do what it was supposed to. Still, I could kind of make it out, so I waited til it dried… and added way too much paint to pick up the image. Oof. There’s bad art and then there’s unintelligible blobs.

So, I cleaned it off and started again. This time, I tried using one of the images I block-printed with oil, thinking maybe that would work? It kind of did. I think if I’d used a darker paint instead of the pale iridescent paint I’d used, it might have turned out a little more distinguishable. Again, though, I used too much paint to pick the image up (and maybe the wrong color. You can barely see the words, or the image, and the plate wasn’t particularly clean when I laid down the second image, so while it’s definitely got grungy texture, it’s not so much on the clarity of form.

Incidentally, here’s the image I used, after I transferred it. With the paint, it might actually be improved.

I see so much potential with gel plates, as a background to put other things onto, as a complement to other work, and as a form in and of itself. I’m excited to play more!

There are moments in Scripture where the air feels thick with consequence, where history pauses not because armies are clashing or miracles are erupting, but because truth is standing alone in front of power and refusing to bow. Acts 26 is one of those moments. It is not loud. It is not rushed. It is a courtroom without a verdict, a defense without a plea bargain, a testimony without a strategy to win. It is a man who has already lost everything that once mattered to him, standing before people who still believe status and control are the ultimate currencies of the world. And in that setting, Paul does something that still unsettles readers today: he does not argue to survive. He argues to be faithful.

Acts 26 is often read as a continuation of Paul’s legal troubles, another chapter in a long chain of hearings and trials. But that framing misses the deeper pulse of what is happening. This is not primarily a legal defense. This is a spiritual unveiling. Paul is not trying to prove his innocence so that he can go free; he is explaining his obedience so that truth can be seen clearly, even if it costs him his life. The courtroom becomes a pulpit, and the judge’s seat becomes irrelevant, because Paul answers to a higher authority than any king in the room.

What makes Acts 26 so powerful is not just what Paul says, but how he says it and to whom he says it. He is standing before King Agrippa, a man who understands Jewish customs and Scriptures far better than the Roman officials beside him. Paul knows this. He opens not with flattery, but with clarity. He speaks respectfully, but without submission of conscience. He acknowledges Agrippa’s familiarity with Jewish law, and then he does something daring: he appeals to Agrippa’s knowledge not as a political advantage, but as a spiritual responsibility. Paul is essentially saying, “You know these things. You know our Scriptures. You know our hope. So listen carefully to what I am about to say.”

This is one of the great overlooked tensions of Acts 26. Paul is not addressing ignorance. He is addressing informed resistance. Agrippa is not a pagan unfamiliar with Israel’s story. He knows about the Pharisees. He knows about the resurrection debates. He knows about messianic expectations. And Paul leans directly into that knowledge, not to shame him, but to confront him with the unavoidable question: if you know the hope of Israel, what do you do when that hope stands in front of you fulfilled?

Paul begins by grounding his story in continuity rather than rebellion. He does not present himself as someone who abandoned Judaism for something new and foreign. He emphasizes that his life has been lived within the strictest tradition of the Pharisees. This is not a casual claim. Paul is reminding everyone in the room that his faithfulness to God did not begin after Damascus. His devotion, discipline, and theological seriousness existed long before he encountered Jesus. That detail matters, because it reframes the accusation against him. He is not a renegade. He is not a traitor to Israel. He is someone who followed the logical and spiritual conclusion of Israel’s own hope.

Then Paul introduces the question that sits at the heart of the entire chapter: why is the resurrection considered unbelievable? He asks it plainly, almost innocently, yet it cuts deeply. “Why is it thought incredible by any of you that God raises the dead?” This is not rhetoric meant to trap. It is a genuine exposure of inconsistency. If the God of Israel is truly God, if He created life, if He sustained generations, if He delivered people from Egypt, if He spoke through prophets, then why does resurrection suddenly become an impossible idea? Paul is not introducing something radical. He is pointing out that disbelief in resurrection says more about human limitations than divine power.

What follows is one of the most personal confessions Paul ever gives in Scripture. He speaks openly about his past persecution of followers of Jesus. He does not minimize it. He does not excuse it. He does not soften the edges. He admits that he was convinced he had to oppose the name of Jesus of Nazareth. He describes imprisoning believers, voting for their execution, and pursuing them relentlessly. This is not the language of someone defending a reputation. This is the honesty of someone who has already laid his reputation in the dust.

There is something profoundly instructive here for anyone who feels pressure to sanitize their past when speaking about faith. Paul does the opposite. He tells the truth fully, because the power of his testimony does not come from his moral superiority but from the transformation he experienced. He does not fear being known for who he was, because who he is now bears witness to the mercy of God. His past is not a liability; it is evidence.

Then comes the Damascus road moment, but notice how Paul tells it in this setting. He emphasizes not just the encounter, but the authority of the voice that spoke to him. The light was brighter than the sun. The voice addressed him by name. The message was unmistakable. This was not an inner feeling or a vague impression. This was a confrontation that stopped him physically and spiritually in his tracks. And crucially, the voice did not merely rebuke him; it commissioned him.

Jesus does not simply say, “You are wrong.” He says, “I am appointing you.” Paul recounts being told that he was being sent to open eyes, to turn people from darkness to light, from the power of Satan to God. This language is weighty. It frames Paul’s entire life after Damascus not as a career change, but as an assignment. He did not choose this path because it suited him. He obeyed it because it was given to him.

That sense of obedience becomes the moral backbone of Acts 26. Paul explains that he was not disobedient to the heavenly vision. This is one of the quietest yet most profound lines in the chapter. It reveals how Paul understands faith. Faith is not agreement. Faith is obedience. Faith is responding to revelation with action, even when that action leads to suffering, misunderstanding, and loss. Paul does not describe his preaching as innovation. He describes it as faithfulness to what he was shown.

When Paul explains that his message was consistent wherever he went, he highlights repentance, turning to God, and demonstrating faith through deeds. This is important, because it dismantles the accusation that he was undermining moral law. His message was not lawlessness. It was transformation. It was not abandonment of righteousness. It was the fulfillment of righteousness through repentance and changed lives. Paul presents Christianity not as a philosophical alternative, but as a lived response to divine truth.

Then he addresses the accusation that has followed him everywhere: that he is preaching something dangerous and new. Paul responds by anchoring his message firmly in the prophets and Moses. He insists that he is saying nothing beyond what they foretold: that the Messiah would suffer, that He would rise from the dead, and that He would proclaim light to both Jews and Gentiles. This is not a departure from Scripture. It is the unveiling of what Scripture has been pointing toward all along.

At this point in the chapter, the tension peaks. Festus interrupts Paul, accusing him of madness, suggesting that too much learning has driven him insane. This moment is revealing. Festus, a Roman official, does not share the Jewish framework that makes Paul’s argument intelligible. To him, resurrection and prophecy sound like intellectual excess. Paul’s response is calm, measured, and dignified. He does not react defensively. He simply states that he is speaking words of truth and reason.

This contrast matters. Paul does not argue emotionally. He does not raise his voice. He does not insult his accuser. He remains composed, because his confidence does not rest in winning the room. It rests in the truth of what he has witnessed. He then turns back to Agrippa, bringing the conversation to its most uncomfortable point. He asks Agrippa directly whether he believes the prophets. Paul is no longer speaking in generalities. He is addressing a man’s conscience.

Agrippa’s response is famously ambiguous. Depending on translation, it can sound dismissive or unsettled. But regardless of tone, the effect is clear: Paul has struck close to the heart. Agrippa recognizes that Paul is not merely defending himself; he is inviting belief. And that invitation is dangerous, because belief would require change. It would require surrender. It would require acknowledging that power, lineage, and position are not ultimate.

Paul’s reply to Agrippa’s remark is one of the most revealing statements of his heart. He expresses a desire that not only Agrippa, but everyone listening, would become as he is, except for the chains. This is not sarcasm. It is not self-pity. It is genuine longing. Paul does not resent the audience that holds him captive. He hopes for their freedom. He does not envy their power. He wants them to know the truth that has set him free, even while he stands bound.

Acts 26 closes without resolution in the legal sense. Agrippa and Festus agree that Paul has done nothing deserving death or imprisonment. There is an almost tragic irony here. Paul is innocent, yet he remains bound. Not because of guilt, but because of the path God has set before him. His appeal to Caesar will take him to Rome, not as a criminal seeking escape, but as a witness carrying testimony to the heart of the empire.

What Acts 26 leaves us with is not a verdict, but a question. What do we do when truth stands plainly before us? Paul’s life testifies that obedience to God may lead into courts instead of comfort, chains instead of applause, misunderstanding instead of affirmation. Yet he also shows that faithfulness carries a freedom that no prison can remove. He stands before kings not as a victim, but as a servant of a higher King.

Now we will look more deeply at what Acts 26 teaches us about testimony, conscience, courage, and the cost of speaking truth in a world that prefers control over conviction. We will explore why Paul’s words still unsettle modern readers, and how this chapter quietly asks each of us whether we are more concerned with being released or being faithful.

Acts 26 does not simply record a historical exchange; it exposes the anatomy of conviction under pressure. When Paul stands before Agrippa, Festus, and the assembled elite, he is doing far more than recounting events. He is demonstrating what it looks like when a life has been reoriented so completely around truth that fear loses its leverage. This chapter is not about courage in the abstract. It is about what happens when conscience becomes immovable because it is anchored somewhere deeper than circumstance.

One of the most striking features of Acts 26 is how deliberately Paul places responsibility back onto the listener. He does not overwhelm his audience with theological complexity. He does not bury them in citations or arguments. Instead, he tells a story that demands a response. He frames his testimony in such a way that neutrality becomes impossible. Either his encounter with Jesus was real, or it was delusion. Either the prophets were pointing toward a suffering and risen Messiah, or they were not. Either God raises the dead, or He does not. Paul leaves no comfortable middle ground.

This is unsettling because most power structures depend on ambiguity to maintain control. Ambiguity allows leaders to postpone decisions, preserve appearances, and avoid costly commitments. Paul removes that luxury. By appealing directly to Agrippa’s knowledge of the prophets, he forces the issue out of the realm of theory and into the realm of personal accountability. Agrippa cannot claim ignorance. He cannot claim unfamiliarity. Paul’s words press against the boundary where belief becomes obligation.

What we see in Agrippa’s response is not outright rejection, but hesitation. That hesitation is revealing. It shows how close one can come to the truth without stepping fully into it. Agrippa recognizes the logic. He understands the framework. He senses the weight of Paul’s words. And yet, he stops short. This moment is not unique to ancient kings. It is repeated whenever people sense the truth of the gospel but recoil at the cost of accepting it. The problem is rarely intellectual. It is existential. Belief would require change, and change threatens carefully constructed identities.

Paul, by contrast, has already surrendered his identity. His former status as a Pharisee, his reputation, his security, his future prospects—none of these hold power over him anymore. This is why he can speak freely. He has nothing left to protect. The chains on his wrists do not define him, because he has already relinquished control of his life. This is one of the quiet paradoxes of Acts 26: Paul is the only truly free person in the room.

This freedom does not come from detachment or indifference. It comes from purpose. Paul understands why he exists. He understands what he has been called to do. And because of that clarity, he is not destabilized by opposition. When Festus interrupts and questions his sanity, Paul does not spiral into defensiveness. He simply states the truth calmly and continues. His identity is not being negotiated in that room. It was settled on the Damascus road.

Acts 26 also confronts us with the uncomfortable reality that truth does not always produce immediate transformation. Agrippa does not repent. Festus does not convert. The hearing ends with polite conclusions and unresolved tension. And yet, this does not diminish the value of Paul’s testimony. Scripture does not measure faithfulness by visible results. It measures it by obedience. Paul’s responsibility was not to control outcomes, but to speak truth clearly and without compromise.

This is an essential corrective for anyone who equates faithfulness with success. Acts 26 reminds us that obedience can look like standing alone, misunderstood, and dismissed, while still being fully aligned with God’s will. Paul’s message does not fail because it is not accepted. It fulfills its purpose because it is faithfully delivered. The gospel is not validated by applause. It is validated by truth.

Another profound layer of Acts 26 is how it reframes suffering. Paul does not present his imprisonment as evidence of failure. He presents it as a consequence of obedience. This distinction matters deeply. When suffering is interpreted as punishment, it leads to shame and despair. When suffering is understood as part of faithful witness, it becomes meaningful, even if it remains painful. Paul does not romanticize his chains, but neither does he resent them. They are simply part of the assignment.

This perspective challenges modern assumptions about comfort and calling. We often assume that alignment with God should lead to ease, affirmation, and progress. Acts 26 quietly dismantles that expectation. Paul is precisely where God wants him to be, and he is in chains. His life is not off course. It is on mission. This truth is unsettling because it means faithfulness does not guarantee safety. It guarantees purpose.

Paul’s willingness to speak honestly about his past also carries deep implications for how we understand transformation. He does not hide his former violence against believers. He names it. He owns it. But he does not allow it to define him. His past becomes a testimony to grace rather than a source of paralysis. This balance is rare. Many people either deny their past or become trapped by it. Paul does neither. He integrates it into a larger story of redemption.

Acts 26 shows us that testimony is not about self-promotion. It is about pointing beyond oneself. Paul’s story consistently directs attention toward God’s initiative. He emphasizes that he was confronted, commissioned, and sustained by divine action. He does not portray himself as a hero who found truth through superior insight. He presents himself as someone interrupted by grace. This humility gives his words credibility. His authority comes not from achievement, but from obedience.

The chapter also reveals something crucial about the nature of belief. Belief is not merely agreement with facts. It is allegiance. When Paul invites Agrippa to believe, he is not asking him to accept an idea. He is inviting him to reorient his loyalty. This is why belief feels threatening. It demands a shift in what we serve, what we trust, and what we prioritize. Paul understands this, and he does not soften the invitation to make it more palatable.

Paul’s final statement—his wish that all who hear him would become as he is, except for the chains—captures the heart of Christian witness. He does not wish his suffering on others. He wishes his freedom. He recognizes that his chains are temporary, but the truth he carries is eternal. This reveals a remarkable lack of bitterness. Paul is not resentful toward those who judge him. He genuinely desires their good.

Acts 26 also invites us to reflect on how we respond when confronted with truth. Agrippa’s near-persuasion is haunting precisely because it is incomplete. It reminds us that proximity to truth is not the same as submission to it. One can be knowledgeable, respectful, and even intrigued, yet still refuse to cross the threshold of belief. This chapter does not let us hide behind familiarity. It presses us to ask whether we have truly responded or merely observed.

There is also a broader narrative movement at work in Acts 26. Paul’s appeal to Caesar means that his testimony will move from provincial courts to the center of imperial power. What appears to be a delay is actually a strategy. God is not scrambling to adjust to Paul’s imprisonment. He is using it to advance the message into places it might not otherwise reach. This reframes how we interpret obstacles. What looks like interruption may actually be direction.

Acts 26 stands as a reminder that God often places His witnesses in uncomfortable positions not because He has abandoned them, but because their presence there matters. Paul’s testimony before Agrippa may not have produced immediate conversion, but it bore witness to truth in a place saturated with power and compromise. That witness echoes through history precisely because it was uncompromised.

For modern readers, Acts 26 raises sobering questions. Are we more concerned with being understood or being faithful? Do we soften truth to preserve relationships, or do we trust God with the outcome of honest witness? Are we willing to speak clearly even when the response may be indifference or dismissal? Paul’s example does not offer easy answers, but it offers a clear model.

This chapter also challenges us to reconsider how we define victory. Paul does not leave the courtroom vindicated in the way most people would hope. He leaves bound. And yet, the narrative presents him as victorious. His conscience is clear. His testimony is complete. His obedience is intact. Victory, in the biblical sense, is not escape from suffering, but faithfulness within it.

Acts 26 ultimately reveals a God who works through testimony more than through force. Paul does not compel belief. He presents truth and allows freedom of response. This reflects the character of God Himself. God does not coerce allegiance. He invites it. Paul’s posture mirrors this divine patience. He speaks clearly, passionately, and respectfully, trusting that God will do what only God can do.

As we step away from Acts 26, we are left with a mirror rather than a conclusion. The chapter does not resolve neatly because it is not meant to. It asks us where we stand. Are we content to be almost persuaded, or are we willing to surrender fully? Are we seeking release, or are we committed to obedience? Are we more concerned with our chains, or with the truth we carry?

Paul’s life testifies that obedience may lead us into uncomfortable places, but it also leads us into alignment with God’s purposes. Acts 26 does not promise ease, but it offers clarity. It shows us what it looks like when a person chooses faithfulness over fear, truth over convenience, and obedience over self-preservation. In a world that often rewards compromise, Paul’s testimony stands as a quiet, unyielding witness to the power of conviction rooted in truth.

And perhaps the most unsettling truth of Acts 26 is this: the question Paul poses to Agrippa still echoes today. It is not a question of knowledge. It is a question of response. What do we do with the truth when it stands directly in front of us?

Your friend, Douglas Vandergraph

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Just before Christmas, I spent an hour or so setting up uncloud on my homelab, and I am stunned at how easy it was to get working.

The motivation for doing this is because I’ve known for a long time that Swarmpit is basically abandoned. Disappointing, but true. The latest release of DietPi, my preferred distro for my Raspberry Pi and RockChip SBCs, included an update to docker and docker-compose completely broke all operability with Swarmpit. Queue panicked hunting for alternatives and a fortuitous discovery of Uncloud

Here's what I've done:

• Added a wildcard DNS record pointing *.suranyami.com to my dynamic DNS address: suranyami.duckdns.org.
• Installed tailscale on each of the machines (Installation Instructions), and connected them to my free tailnet (free tier allows up to 100 nodes). This gives me a stable URL for each individual machine that I can SSH into without needing to do NAT redirection on the router. For instance, my machine called node1 is available to me (and only me) at ssh dietpi@node1.tailxxxxx.ts.net.
• Updated my ~/.ssh/config with entries for all the machines that look like this:

Host node1
  Hostname node1.tailxxxxx.ts.net
  User dietpi

• Installed uncloud on my laptop: curl -fsS https://get.uncloud.run/install.sh | sh
• Initialized the cluster by picking one of the above machines as a first server: uc machine init dietpi@node1.tailxxxxx.ts.net --name node1
• Add other machines using uc machine add dietpi@node2.tailxxxxx.ts.net --name node2
• Deploy services using uc deploy -f plex.yml where plex.yml is a subset of a docker-compose file, but with minor changes. For instance, to deploy to a specific machine (which I have to do because I need to redirect port 32400 from the router to a specific machine, because plex is annoying like that), I do this:

services:
plex:
  image: linuxserver/plex:arm64v8-latest
# ...
  x-machines:
    - node2
  x-ports:
    - 32400:32400@host
    - plex.suranyami.com:32400/https

And that's about it. No reverse-proxy configuration, no manual entry of IP addresses, everything is just automatically given a letsencrypt SSL certificate and load-balanced to wherever the servers are running.

This is honestly the easiest way to self-host anything I've found.

It's been 2 weeks or so now, and now that I've got the knack of the x-ports port-mapping syntax, I've also managed to get all my other services running everywhere.

Notable edge cases were:

Minecraft

x-ports:
  - 25565:25565@host

Plex

x-ports:
  - 32400:32400@host
  - plex.suranyami.com:32400/https

Needed 2 mappings, one for the internal subnet for use by the AppleTV, because of some idiosyncrasy of the way the native Plex app works with behind the NAT versus over t'interwebz.

Jellyfin

x-ports:
    - 1900:1900@host
    - 7359:7359@host
    - jellyfin.suranyami.com:8096/https

Only outages I've had so far were purely hardware-related: robo-vacuum somehow knocked out a power cord that was already loose… derp. That won't happen again. And, the fan software wasn't installed on my RockPi 4 NAS box, so it overheated and shut down. Fixed that this morning.

global deployment

I'm currently using Netdata to monitor my nodes. It's WAY overkill for what I'm running, but hey, whatever. For this we need to do a global deployment:

services:
  netdata:
    image: netdata/netdata:latest
    hostname: "{{.Node.Hostname}}"
# ...
    volumes:
# ...
      - /etc/hostname:/host/etc/hostname:ro
    deploy:
      mode: global

This is essentially the same as a normal docker-swarm compose file, but because it's not actually docker-swarm, this line is a hack to get the hostname: - /etc/hostname:/host/etc/hostname:ro.

There is also a quirk that (hopefully) might be fixed in future versions of uncloud: the volumes don't get created automatically on each machine. For that I had to execute a bunch of uc volume create commands like this:

c volume create netdataconfig -m node2
uc volume create netdataconfig -m node3
uc volume create netdataconfig -m node4
uc volume create netdatalib -m node2
uc volume create netdatalib -m node3
uc volume create netdatalib -m node4
uc volume create netdatacache -m node2
uc volume create netdatacache -m node3
uc volume create netdatacache -m node4

Replicated deployment

One very nice feature is replicated deployment with automatic load balancing. There's not a lot of documentation about how it works at the moment, so I'm a bit suss on it, but essentially it looks like this in the compose file:

    deploy:
      mode: replicated
      replicas: 4

This will cause it to pick a random set of machines and deploy a container on each, and load-balance incoming requests.

There are caveats to this, of course. The service configuration will need to be on a shared volume, for instance, and some services do NOT behave well in this situation. plex is the worst example of this… if you store its configuration, caches and DB on a shared volume, you are gonna have a very bad time indeed because of race-conditions, non-atomicity, file corruption etc.

Which is a shame, because Plex is the service I'd most like to be replicated. I dunno what the solution is. Use something other than Plex seems like the most obvious answer, but as far as I know the alternatives have the same issue.

Acts 25 is not a chapter about miracles, crowds, or sudden conversions. It is a chapter about waiting. It is about power that hesitates, truth that must endure bureaucracy, and a faithful witness trapped inside systems that were never designed to recognize innocence. If Acts 24 showed Paul imprisoned unjustly, Acts 25 shows him navigating a political machine that is polite, procedural, and deeply compromised. This chapter forces us to wrestle with a reality we would often rather avoid: God’s purposes are not always revealed through swift justice. Sometimes they move forward through delays, hearings, titles, and rooms where no one is spiritually awake, but everyone is politically alert.

Paul has now been imprisoned in Caesarea for two full years. Two years of silence. Two years of stalled justice. Two years of being “almost” released but never quite free. When Acts 25 opens, the Roman governor Felix has been replaced by Festus. From a human standpoint, this should be good news. New leadership often brings new reviews, fresh eyes, and renewed hope. But Luke immediately shows us that systems change more slowly than people expect. Within days of taking office, Festus is approached by the Jewish leadership, and they revive their accusations against Paul with the same intensity and hostility as before.

What is striking is not merely that the charges persist, but that the intent behind them is openly murderous. The religious leaders request that Paul be transferred to Jerusalem, not for justice, but so they can ambush and kill him along the way. This is not a legal dispute. This is a vendetta. And yet it unfolds through official channels, polite requests, and diplomatic language. Acts 25 quietly exposes one of the most uncomfortable truths of human history: evil often wears a professional face. It speaks calmly. It files paperwork. It schedules hearings. And it smiles while planning destruction.

Festus, to his credit, does not immediately comply. He insists that Paul remain in Caesarea and that the accusers come there if they have legitimate charges. On the surface, this sounds fair. But Luke is careful to show us that fairness and justice are not the same thing. When the Jewish leaders arrive, they bring “many serious charges,” yet they cannot prove any of them. Paul responds simply and clearly. He has committed no offense against Jewish law, the temple, or Caesar. His defense is rational, factual, and restrained. There is no anger in his words. No bitterness. Just truth.

And yet, truth alone does not free him.

This is one of the hardest lessons in Acts 25. Paul is innocent, articulate, and consistent. The evidence is on his side. But innocence does not guarantee release when politics enters the room. Festus, Luke tells us, wants to do the Jews a favor. That single phrase explains everything that follows. Justice is not denied outright. It is postponed, negotiated, and diluted. Festus asks Paul whether he would be willing to go to Jerusalem to stand trial there. This is not a neutral question. It is a calculated move designed to appease powerful local leaders while preserving Roman authority.

Paul immediately recognizes the danger. He knows that Jerusalem is not a courtroom for him; it is a death sentence. More importantly, he understands something deeper: agreeing to this proposal would place his fate back into the hands of people who have already proven they cannot be trusted. And so Paul does something extraordinary. He appeals to Caesar.

This is not a dramatic flourish. It is a legal right. As a Roman citizen, Paul has the authority to demand that his case be heard by the emperor. But spiritually, this moment carries immense weight. Paul is not escaping responsibility. He is stepping into a longer road of uncertainty. Appealing to Caesar means extended imprisonment, dangerous travel, and an unpredictable outcome. There is no guarantee of safety. Only obedience.

What makes this moment so powerful is that Paul does not appeal out of fear. He appeals out of clarity. He understands that God has already told him he will testify in Rome. The appeal to Caesar is not a plan B. It is a step deeper into the plan God has already revealed. Acts 25 shows us a man who has learned how to recognize God’s will not by circumstances improving, but by discernment sharpening.

Festus confers with his council and responds with words that sound almost ceremonial: “You have appealed to Caesar; to Caesar you shall go.” On the surface, this feels like resolution. But the chapter does not end with freedom. It ends with preparation for another hearing, another explanation, another round of explanation to people who still do not understand Paul’s message. The system moves forward, but the chains remain.

At this point in the chapter, something subtle but deeply revealing happens. King Agrippa and Bernice arrive in Caesarea to welcome the new governor. Festus uses the opportunity to explain Paul’s case, not because he seeks justice, but because he is perplexed. He admits that the charges against Paul are not what he expected. There is no clear crime. Instead, there is “a dispute about their own religion and about a dead man named Jesus, who Paul claimed was alive.”

This line is easy to read quickly, but it deserves to be sat with slowly. To Festus, the resurrection of Jesus is an obscure religious argument. A minor theological disagreement. To Paul, it is the axis of all reality. Acts 25 quietly reveals how the gospel often sounds to those in power: confusing, irrelevant, and inconvenient. Not threatening enough to punish outright. Not important enough to investigate deeply. Just strange.

And yet, everything hinges on it.

Paul’s entire imprisonment exists because he insists that Jesus is alive. Not as a metaphor. Not as a memory. Alive. This claim disrupts every category the Roman system relies on. If Jesus is alive, then death is not final. If Jesus is alive, then authority does not rest with Caesar. If Jesus is alive, then justice cannot be reduced to politics. And so the system stalls. It does not know what to do with resurrection.

Acts 25 ends without resolution because this chapter is not about closure. It is about positioning. Paul is being moved, slowly and painfully, toward Rome. The gospel is advancing, not through revival meetings, but through courtrooms and corridors of power. God is not in a hurry, but He is precise. Every delay places Paul in front of another ruler. Every hearing becomes another witness. What looks like stagnation is actually expansion.

There is something deeply relevant here for anyone who has ever felt trapped in a season of unjust waiting. Acts 25 speaks to those who have told the truth and still paid a price. To those who have done the right thing and been ignored. To those who are faithful and yet stuck inside systems that do not reward integrity. Paul’s story does not offer easy comfort. It offers something better: perspective.

God is not absent in delay. He is not confused by bureaucracy. He is not intimidated by power. Acts 25 reminds us that God can advance His purposes through flawed leaders, compromised systems, and prolonged injustice without ever compromising His truth. Paul does not manipulate. He does not protest violently. He does not lose his witness. He simply continues to speak truth wherever he is placed.

And that is the quiet challenge of this chapter. Not to demand immediate outcomes. Not to equate faithfulness with visible success. But to remain steady, clear, and obedient when progress feels invisible. Acts 25 invites us to consider whether we trust God enough to believe that waiting itself can be a form of calling.

Paul is still in chains at the end of this chapter. But the gospel is already moving toward the heart of the empire. Rome is not ready yet. Caesar has not heard the name of Jesus spoken plainly. But the path is being prepared. Not through spectacle. Through endurance.

Acts 25 is a reminder that some of the most important movements of God happen quietly, slowly, and under pressure. Truth does not always win quickly. But it always endures.

Acts 25 does not give us a triumphant ending, and that is precisely why it matters so deeply. Scripture often trains us to look for resolution, but Luke refuses to offer it here. Instead, he leaves Paul in custody, the charges unresolved, the authorities confused, and the future uncertain. This unfinished feeling is not a flaw in the narrative. It is the point. Acts 25 is not a chapter about justice achieved; it is a chapter about faith maintained when justice is postponed.

When Festus explains Paul’s case to Agrippa, he reveals far more about himself than he likely realizes. He admits that he inherited the situation from Felix, that the accusations did not rise to the level of Roman crimes, and that he is unsure how to proceed. This is a man in authority who lacks moral clarity. He knows something is wrong, but he does not know how to confront it without disrupting political alliances. And so he speaks carefully, vaguely, and diplomatically.

This is the world Paul is navigating now. Not mobs screaming for his death, as in earlier chapters, but educated men in clean rooms discussing him as a logistical problem. In some ways, this is more dangerous. Outright hostility is easier to recognize. Polite injustice is harder to resist. Acts 25 forces us to acknowledge that evil does not always announce itself with violence. Sometimes it whispers through procedure.

Agrippa’s interest in hearing Paul is not driven by compassion or conviction. It is curiosity. And yet God will use that curiosity in the next chapter to place the gospel directly in front of a king. Acts 25 shows us that God can work even through motives that are mixed, shallow, or self-serving. Festus wants help writing a report to Caesar. Agrippa wants intellectual engagement. Paul wants only one thing: to speak truth faithfully, wherever God places him.

What makes Paul’s posture so compelling here is that he does not rush God. He does not attempt to force an outcome. He does not treat his appeal to Caesar as a shortcut to freedom. He understands that obedience often involves surrendering control over timing. Paul’s faith is no longer reactive. It is settled. He has learned to live inside unresolved tension without losing clarity of purpose.

This is one of the most mature expressions of faith in the entire book of Acts. Earlier chapters show bold preaching, miraculous healings, dramatic conversions. Acts 25 shows endurance. It shows a man who has already counted the cost and is no longer negotiating with God for comfort. Paul’s witness has moved beyond urgency into depth.

For many believers, this is where faith becomes most difficult. It is one thing to trust God in moments of visible movement. It is another to trust Him in seasons where nothing seems to change. Acts 25 speaks directly to those seasons. It reminds us that faithfulness is not measured by momentum, but by consistency. Paul does not know how long it will be before he reaches Rome. He does not know what Caesar’s response will be. He does not even know if he will survive the journey. What he does know is that Jesus is alive, and that truth is worth carrying, no matter how long the road becomes.

The tragedy of Acts 25 is not that Paul remains imprisoned. The tragedy is that everyone around him hears about a risen Jesus and treats it as an administrative inconvenience. Festus reduces resurrection to a religious disagreement. The leaders reduce truth to a political nuisance. This chapter exposes how easily human systems can normalize injustice when it becomes inconvenient to address.

And yet, God is not absent from this normalization. He is working beneath it. Paul’s appeal to Caesar is not merely a legal maneuver; it is the mechanism by which the gospel will enter the highest levels of imperial power. Rome does not invite the message of Christ. It is brought there in chains. Acts 25 reminds us that the gospel often travels the hard road first.

There is a quiet reassurance embedded in this chapter for anyone who feels overlooked or sidelined. God does not waste faithfulness. He does not overlook obedience performed in obscurity. Paul’s two years in custody are not lost years. They are forming him, positioning him, and refining his witness. The delay is not denial. It is preparation.

Acts 25 invites us to examine our own response to waiting. Do we interpret delay as abandonment, or do we see it as part of a larger story still unfolding? Paul’s life at this point is not dramatic. It is constrained. But it is deeply purposeful. He continues to speak truth when asked. He continues to trust God when answers are slow. He continues to move forward even when progress is invisible.

This chapter also challenges us to reconsider how we view power. Festus has authority, but no moral anchor. Agrippa has knowledge, but no commitment. Paul has neither position nor freedom, yet he carries the only truth that actually matters. Acts 25 quietly inverts our assumptions. Influence does not belong to those with titles. It belongs to those with conviction.

By the end of the chapter, nothing appears resolved. And yet everything is moving. Paul is one step closer to Rome. One step closer to fulfilling the calling spoken over him years earlier. One step closer to proclaiming Jesus in places no missionary strategy could ever reach intentionally. God’s work continues, not despite the delay, but through it.

Acts 25 teaches us that faith is not always loud. Sometimes it is patient. Sometimes it is procedural. Sometimes it waits in a cell while history quietly shifts around it. And sometimes, the most powerful witness is simply refusing to compromise truth while the world decides what to do with it.

Paul does not yet stand before Caesar. But the road is set. The gospel is on the move. And the waiting, though painful, is not empty.

That is the invitation of Acts 25. To trust God not only in breakthrough, but in bureaucracy. Not only in miracles, but in monotony. Not only when justice is swift, but when it is slow. Because God is just as present in the delay as He is in the deliverance.

And when the time comes, the truth Paul carries will speak louder than every accusation ever raised against him.

Your friend, Douglas Vandergraph

Watch Douglas Vandergraph’s inspiring faith-based videos on YouTube https://www.youtube.com/@douglasvandergraph

Support the ministry by buying Douglas a coffee https://www.buymeacoffee.com/douglasvandergraph

⚠️ SPOILER WARNING: MILD SPOILERS

When the heist goes right: Meet the trio behind the biggest score of their lives in 'The Pickup'.

My Rating: ⭐⭐⭐ (3/5 stars)

“The Pickup” serves as a pleasant diversion with its fairly engaging plot and commendable performances. The film is entirely a work of fiction. A notable concern, however, is the excessive crude language, particularly from Pete Davidson, which seemed unnecessary for its comedic aspirations.

#review #movies #streaming

13 December 2025

Another significant bit in the New Models podcast episode mentioned in the previous post was Allado-McDowell's mention of Edward Steichen's landmark photography exhibition The Family of Man (first shown in 1955) as an early example of a “multi-channel environment” in which, due to its dynamic installation, a viewer could in theory produce their own subjectivity via the way they chose to navigate the presentation. This led to further conversation on how media constructs physical space as well as information—the television gathering people in a living room. Naturally this led me to think about paintings as organizers of space, information, and subjectivity. There's room to push this further in my work, maybe experiment with a more tenuous approach to cohering my spatial recordings, see how far they can bend before they break. David Salle immediately comes to mind as a potential tangential relation.

Acts 24 is one of those chapters that feels unsettlingly familiar. Not because it is dramatic in the way shipwrecks or prison escapes are dramatic, but because it shows how power actually works in the real world. It shows how truth can be known, recognized, and still delayed. It shows how injustice does not always roar; sometimes it smiles politely, schedules another meeting, and keeps you waiting. This chapter is not about a miracle that breaks chains in the night. It is about a man who is free on the inside while being held captive by a system that has no intention of letting him go.

Paul stands before Felix, the Roman governor, accused by religious leaders who have mastered the language of flattery and manipulation. They are not interested in truth. They are interested in control. They dress their accusations in polished speech, they hire a professional orator to make their case sound legitimate, and they frame Paul as a dangerous agitator. Yet beneath all of it is fear. They fear Paul’s message because it cannot be contained by their hierarchy. They fear his integrity because it exposes their compromises. They fear the resurrection because it threatens the finality of their power.

What makes Acts 24 so compelling is that Paul never loses himself in the process. He does not beg. He does not flatter. He does not rage. He speaks plainly, clearly, and without distortion. He knows who he is. He knows what he believes. He knows that his life is no longer his own, and that clarity gives him a freedom that Felix, for all his authority, does not possess.

This chapter invites us to sit with an uncomfortable truth: sometimes God does not remove us from unjust systems right away. Sometimes He places us inside them, not to endorse them, but to reveal them. Paul’s imprisonment is not a detour from his calling; it is the stage on which his calling continues to unfold.

Felix is an interesting figure in this story because he is not ignorant. He is not confused about Paul. Luke makes it clear that Felix has a fairly accurate understanding of “the Way.” He listens attentively. He postpones judgment not because he needs more information, but because making a just decision would cost him something. Felix is caught between conscience and convenience, and convenience wins.

This is one of the most sobering realities of Acts 24. Knowledge alone does not lead to righteousness. Awareness does not automatically produce courage. Felix knows enough to do the right thing, but not enough to surrender his self-interest. He is willing to listen to Paul talk about faith in Christ Jesus. He is even willing to hear about righteousness, self-control, and the judgment to come. But when those truths begin to press too close to home, Felix becomes afraid. And instead of responding, he postpones.

There is a quiet danger in postponement. It feels neutral, but it is not. Every delay is a decision. Every “later” is a choice to preserve the status quo. Felix tells himself there will be a more convenient time, but convenience is a moving target. It never arrives. The longer he waits, the easier it becomes to keep waiting.

Paul, meanwhile, remains consistent. Whether he is speaking to an angry crowd, a hostile council, a Roman commander, or a governor and his wife, his message does not shift. He does not soften the edges to gain favor. He does not tailor truth to protect himself. He speaks about righteousness, about self-control, about accountability before God. He does not accuse Felix directly, yet everything he says lands directly on Felix’s life.

This is one of the most powerful forms of witness: truth spoken without manipulation. Paul does not try to scare Felix into belief, but neither does he avoid the implications of the gospel. He trusts that the truth itself carries weight. And it does. Enough weight to make Felix uncomfortable. Enough weight to make him tremble. Not enough, however, to make him repent.

Acts 24 also exposes the corrosive nature of corruption. Felix hopes Paul will offer him a bribe. That detail matters. It tells us something about the moral climate Paul is navigating. Justice is available, but it is for sale. Freedom could be bought, but Paul will not buy it. He refuses to participate in a system that trades righteousness for advantage. His integrity becomes its own form of resistance.

And yet, Paul remains imprisoned for two years.

This is where many people struggle with the story. Why would God allow that? Why would a faithful servant, an apostle called to preach the gospel, be sidelined by political delay? Why would God leave Paul in custody under a governor who knows the truth but refuses to act on it?

The answer is not neat, but it is meaningful. God is not in a hurry the way we are. He is forming something in Paul that cannot be rushed. And He is also revealing something about the world as it is, not as we wish it were. Acts 24 pulls back the curtain on how systems preserve themselves. It shows how injustice often wears the mask of procedure. It reminds us that delay can be as damaging as denial.

But it also shows us something else: Paul’s inner freedom does not depend on external release. His conscience is clear. He says so himself. He strives always to keep his conscience clear before God and man. That sentence carries enormous weight. Paul is not claiming perfection. He is claiming alignment. His life may be constrained, but it is not compromised.

This clarity allows Paul to endure uncertainty without becoming bitter. He does not waste his imprisonment. He continues to speak. He continues to testify. He continues to live in a way that makes the gospel visible, even in confinement. His faith does not require ideal circumstances. It thrives in imperfect ones.

There is something profoundly instructive here for anyone who has ever felt stuck, delayed, or overlooked. Acts 24 is not just about Paul’s trial; it is about what happens when your faith is tested by time rather than trauma. Waiting can be harder than suffering. Unresolved tension can wear down the soul. But Paul shows us that faithfulness is not measured by outcomes alone. It is measured by consistency.

Felix eventually leaves office, and Paul remains bound. The chapter ends without resolution, which is itself part of the message. Not every story closes neatly. Not every injustice is addressed immediately. Not every moment of truth leads to repentance. But God is still at work, even when the credits do not roll the way we expect.

Acts 24 challenges us to ask uncomfortable questions of ourselves. Where have we postponed obedience because it felt inconvenient? Where have we listened to truth without letting it change us? Where have we mistaken delay for neutrality? And perhaps most importantly, can we say, as Paul does, that we strive to keep a clear conscience before God and others?

This chapter does not call us to dramatic gestures. It calls us to quiet integrity. It calls us to speak truth without manipulation, to live faithfully without guarantees, and to trust that God’s purposes are not derailed by human hesitation.

Paul’s chains do not mean God has lost control. Felix’s authority does not mean he has ultimate power. The real verdict of Acts 24 is not rendered in a Roman courtroom. It is rendered in the unseen realm, where faithfulness matters more than freedom, and conscience matters more than comfort.

And this is where the chapter leaves us: not with a release, but with a resolve. Not with applause, but with endurance. Not with closure, but with clarity. Paul waits. The gospel advances. God remains at work.

And the story is not finished yet.

Acts 24 does not move quickly, and that slowness is intentional. It forces us to live inside unresolved tension. Luke does not rush us to the next miracle or dramatic escape. Instead, he lingers in a room where power listens to truth, feels its weight, and then chooses delay. That lingering is part of the lesson. This chapter teaches us what happens when truth is acknowledged but not obeyed, when conscience is stirred but not surrendered, and when righteousness is postponed for the sake of comfort.

Paul’s situation under Felix exposes a reality many believers eventually face: obedience to God does not guarantee immediate vindication. Faithfulness does not always lead to quick resolution. Sometimes it leads to waiting, and waiting reveals what we truly believe about God’s justice, timing, and sovereignty.

Paul is not confused about why he is there. He does not see his imprisonment as meaningless. He understands that his life belongs to God, not to circumstances. That perspective changes everything. It allows him to speak with calm authority even when standing before someone who technically holds his fate in their hands. Paul does not grant Felix moral superiority simply because Felix holds political office. Authority, in Paul’s view, is not about position; it is about accountability.

When Paul speaks about righteousness, self-control, and the judgment to come, he is not delivering abstract theology. He is speaking directly into the life of a man who lacks all three. Felix’s rule is marked by brutality and corruption. His personal life is morally compromised. His governance is pragmatic rather than just. And yet Paul does not attack him personally. He lets truth do the work.

This restraint matters. Paul understands something that many miss: truth spoken with clarity does not require aggression. It requires courage. Paul’s courage is not loud. It is steady. He does not try to control the outcome of the conversation. He simply bears witness. That is his role. Conviction belongs to the Spirit, not to the speaker.

Felix’s reaction reveals how dangerous proximity to truth can be when pride remains intact. He becomes afraid. That fear is telling. It suggests that he understands the implications of what Paul is saying. This is not ignorance trembling; this is recognition. Felix sees himself in Paul’s words, and he does not like what he sees. Rather than repent, he defers. He postpones. He waits for a more convenient time.

This pattern repeats throughout history. Truth confronts. Conscience stirs. Fear arises. Delay follows. And delay hardens into habit. Acts 24 warns us that postponement is not neutral. It shapes us. Every time we hear truth and choose not to respond, it becomes easier to do so again. Felix’s delay is not a pause; it is a path.

Paul, meanwhile, continues to wait. Two years pass. That detail is easy to overlook, but it matters deeply. Two years is a long time to live in uncertainty. Two years of confinement under a governor who could release you but will not. Two years of knowing that justice is possible but inconvenient. Luke includes this detail not to frustrate us, but to show us something about faith that lasts.

Paul does not grow resentful. He does not grow cynical. He does not compromise. He remains the same man at the end of those two years as he was at the beginning. That consistency is evidence of spiritual maturity. Paul’s peace does not depend on outcomes. It depends on obedience.

This chapter challenges a subtle assumption many believers carry: that God’s favor is measured by visible success or swift deliverance. Acts 24 dismantles that assumption. Paul is faithful, articulate, courageous, and obedient, yet he remains imprisoned. Felix is corrupt, fearful, and self-serving, yet he retains power. The apparent imbalance forces us to ask deeper questions about how God works in the world.

The answer is not that God is absent. It is that God is operating on a different timeline and toward a larger purpose. Paul’s imprisonment under Felix sets the stage for his eventual appeal to Caesar. It moves the gospel toward Rome itself. What looks like delay is actually redirection. What feels like stagnation is preparation.

But none of that would matter if Paul lost his integrity along the way. That is why his statement about maintaining a clear conscience is so central to the chapter. Paul is not merely defending himself legally; he is bearing witness spiritually. His life is coherent. His words match his actions. His faith is not performative; it is lived.

This clarity gives Paul an authority that Felix lacks. Felix can summon Paul at will, but Paul is not afraid of Felix. Fear moves in the opposite direction. Felix fears the truth because it threatens his illusions of control. Paul, having surrendered control to God, has nothing to protect.

Acts 24 invites us to consider what we fear and why. Fear often reveals what we are unwilling to surrender. Felix fears judgment because he clings to power. He fears righteousness because it would require change. He fears self-control because it would disrupt his habits. He fears accountability because it would expose his compromises.

Paul fears none of these things because he has already died to himself. His life is hidden with Christ. He has nothing left to lose. That freedom cannot be granted by a governor or taken away by imprisonment. It is internal, rooted, and unshakable.

This chapter also speaks to those who feel silenced by systems larger than themselves. Paul’s voice is constrained, but it is not extinguished. He speaks when given the opportunity, and when he is not speaking, his life itself testifies. Faithfulness does not always look like activity. Sometimes it looks like endurance.

Acts 24 reminds us that God often works through prolonged faithfulness rather than dramatic intervention. Paul’s witness to Felix and Drusilla may not produce immediate repentance, but it is not wasted. Truth spoken is never wasted. It either softens or hardens. Either way, it accomplishes something.

The tragedy of Felix is not that he hears the truth and rejects it outright. It is that he hears it and delays. He remains undecided long enough for decision to become unnecessary. When he leaves office, he leaves the truth behind with him, unresolved and unanswered.

Paul remains bound, but the gospel does not. It continues to move, quietly and steadily, through conversations, testimonies, and lives transformed. Acts 24 is not about spectacle. It is about substance. It is about what endures when nothing seems to change.

For modern readers, this chapter is deeply personal. Many people live in prolonged seasons of waiting. Waiting for justice. Waiting for healing. Waiting for clarity. Waiting for God to act. Acts 24 does not offer easy answers, but it offers a faithful model. It shows us what it looks like to remain grounded when circumstances are unstable.

Paul does not define himself by his chains. He defines himself by his calling. He does not measure success by freedom, but by faithfulness. He does not allow delay to erode his identity. He remains who God has called him to be, regardless of where he is placed.

This is the quiet strength of a clear conscience. It does not shout. It does not demand recognition. It simply endures. And in enduring, it bears witness to a kingdom that operates by different rules.

Acts 24 ends without resolution, but it does not end without hope. The hope is not that Felix will change, though he could. The hope is not that Paul will be released immediately, though he will eventually. The hope is that God is at work even in unresolved spaces, shaping His servants and advancing His purposes in ways we cannot always see.

This chapter teaches us that faithfulness is not suspended during waiting. It is refined. It teaches us that truth does not lose its power simply because it is delayed. It teaches us that a clear conscience before God is worth more than favor before men.

Paul waits. Felix postpones. God moves.

And that is often how the story goes.

Your friend, Douglas Vandergraph

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11 December 2025

At one point in the episode of the New Models podcast with K. Allado-McDowell (from 2024), one of the hosts (which appears to be the artist Daniel Keller) mentions how despite human vision spanning 180 degrees, it doesn't distort like a lens, but rather it flattens. This was in the context of a conversation revolving around Allado-McDowell's theorization of what they term “neural media” and how one of its defining characteristics is that its content is hallucinated. Anyone reading this should go listen to the episode for a deeper unpacking of what they mean by this and how they think about hallucination with respect to the user/consumer and neural media itself. It's a fascinating subject.

But the eye's flattening implying hallucination is less interesting to me than the act of its flattening itself, especially as it relates to painting—what I've been working on recently seems like it is dealing with flatness more directly than any of my previous work. A new painting, titled Flat window (Wandsworth) (working title) is an exercise in compression; of planes that can perhaps be traced to my body in space while walking on a sidewalk through Wandsworth, a car passing by me on the road, ambient light changing as the sun went down, seeing a reflection of said car passing in the window of a flat I was walking by, and seeing beyond that reflection into a fragment of the interior of the flat. Painting as a node.

Simon Jacobs 223 pages Two Dollar Radio (2018)

Read this if you like: “Sorrow” by Catherine Gammon, “The Road” by Cormac McCarthy, Bret Easton Ellis

tl;dr summary: Punk kids with a past navigate a world where people have vanished. 

See the book on Bookshop

Lately, I've been picking up a lot of books that float around the edges of realism, not quite pushing into full fantasy territory but take little forays outside of consensus reality. Palaces is definitely in-line with this trend. It has a similar floaty, deeply interior feel to Catherine Gammon's Sorrow, and the voice beautifully matches the story and helps to build the tension and pull the reader through. 

One of the most useful things about this kind of super-close, near stream-of-consciousness POV is that it leaves a lot of room for the reader to speculate about exactly what's going on and how much is happening inside the narrator's head versus what is actually some kind of supernatural force at play. Do weapons really just randomly appear in various places throughout the story, or is the narrator actually just a psychopath, or someone with multiple personalities? Whichever of these options you center as your truth alters how you see the other facts that are presented. If you believe the narrator about the gun just appearing, then things randomly appearing and disappearing in the mansions seems to reinforce this reality; if you don't believe him, his experience in the mansions just reinforces that he's probably crazy.

I think this is a completely intentional interplay set up by the author, and the lack of worldbuilding details is another piece in the puzzle, I think. No attempt is made to explain why everyone disappeared. It simply is, like the randomly appearing knife, and that leaves a lot of space for the reader to interpret things their own way. 

It was a smart move to use John and Joey as the reader’s anchors. Since they live on the fringes of society, it's more difficult to get a sense for whether society itself has broken down or if they just exist in a part of it where normal rules don't apply. Even the scenes in the city at the beginning have a surreal, fairy tale kind of feel. The only scenes that feel like they take place in consensus reality are the ones before they leave Richmond that are shown in flashbacks. I actually found these intrusions of relative normalcy refreshing, a kind of palate cleanser from the weird. 

From a craft standpoint, one detail that's done beautifully in Palaces is the weaving together of the past with the present. The control and slow release of information is very effective, and the past plotline helps to give the story a bit more narrative structure. The main plot thread is wandery and unfocused by design, so having the more straightforward past plot is helpful for grounding and balance. It also adds another source of narrative energy. The reader is as invested in learning about John and Joey's relationship as they are in the events in the story's present. 

You would think, in a book about a world where people suddenly disappear, that absence of people would be the main source of anxiety. One of the things I found interesting about Palaces, though, is that the opposite is true. Whenever it's just John and Joey, things are calm. It's when other people show up that things start to get weird and/or dangerous. That happens even before they take the mysterious empty commuter train to the abandoned mansions. The only interactions with individuals shown on-page are potential sources of violence: the punk he screams at during the show, the men in their squat, the man on fire fleeing the riots. For the most part, this holds true throughout their time out in the mansions, too.

The potential exception is the character of Vivian, a child they discover hiding in a closet during their exploration of one abandoned home. The intriguing thing about Vivian, for me, is John's reaction to her. He comes to see her as a potential threat more than as someone who needs to be protected. His paranoia about her motives is mirrored by another weapon appearance, and was one of the main places I leaned toward reading John as someone with schizophrenia or a similar mental illness. Here again, though, like elsewhere in the story, it’s left open to the reader’s interpretation. Usually I’m the kind of reader who likes more grounding and clarity in my settings, but in this case I appreciated how the inherent ambiguity and lack of tangible details actually added to the story’s energy and gave it forward momentum instead of bogging it down, like that kind of confusion often does.

Palaces is one of those books where I definitely felt like it was smarter than me while I was reading it, which always makes me feel a little self-conscious about reviewing it. I think a lot of things would become much clearer after a second read and sitting with the story for a minute. The only place I felt actually confused on the first read was the ending. I don't want to give too many details for the risk of spoilers, but it takes a very sudden shift that I couldn't completely make sense of. Despite this, I enjoyed the journey through Palaces, and the fact that it didn't try to over-explain things, even if that did leave me with some lingering questions. 

 

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Un año de cambios e impulsos transformadores en abertura ascendente para EFÍMERE

El año 2025 que ahora finaliza, y en el que presentamos el nuevo número de la revista EFÍMERE, ha resultado ser un año muy intenso, vitalmente, para todas las personas que conformamos el proyecto de la revista EFÍMERE. Queremos compartir con quienes leen esta editorial las consecuencias de este año tan impactante y su vinculación con el presente y el futuro de EFÍMERE.

El año 2024, publicamos nuestro primer volumen de EFÍMERE, naciendo con una vocación de servicio evidente y con un objetivo todavía más claro: permanecer al servicio de la sociedad que nos alberga y que nos vio nacer, hacerlo con dignidad y ética, evitando caer en malos usos, así como mantener nuestra revista siempre como revista diamante, es decir, que no cobra tasas de publicación ni de lectura y que ofrece todo su contenido en abierto.

Por todo ello, era imprescindible nacer sentando las bases de nuestro origen. Por lo que el primer número estuvo dedicado al estudio de las estéticas de la cultura valenciana. Era necesario afirmar nuestro compromiso con la sociedad local, para desarrollar nuestra vocación universal, partiendo de este punto como declaración de intenciones.

Ha sido un año intenso y repleto de acontecimientos para los impulsores de la revista, que vino además azotado por la terrible DANA sufrida en nuestro origen y sede, Valencia. Este suceso supuso una tragedia colectiva indescriptible que nos empujó también a tomar decisiones, que a día de hoy se han demostrado profundamente acertadas. En primer lugar, impulsar el monográfico que ahora publicamos en este volumen 2 de 2025. En segundo lugar, desarrollar un proyecto de investigación I+D que ha sido finalmente financiado por el Ministerio de Ciencia, Innovación y Universidades dentro de los Proyectos de Generación de Conocimiento 2024: “ANDANA. Emergencias artísticas para la participación e inclusión de las expresiones infantiles en situaciones de crisis” (PID2024-158826OB-I00). Un proyecto que se inicia justo ahora, a finales de 2025, para alargarse hasta el verano de 2028, y que cuenta como investigadores principales con la doctora Amparo Alonso-Sanz y el doctor Ricard Ramon, que también firmamos en conjunto esta misma editorial del volumen 2 de la revista EFÍMERE.

Todo ello no hubiese sido posible sin una evolución que nos ha llevado a la construcción de nuevas estructuras de investigación durante este año, como el grupo de investigación ABERTURA, coordinado por Amparo Alonso Sanz y que ahora se suma al proyecto de la revista EFÍMERE, reforzando su papel y su sentido. La revista EFÍMERE nació como consecuencia de un maravilloso proyecto, Efímere, Unidad Mixta de Investigación UV+UPV, suscrita por convenio que duró entre 2019 y 2023, entre las dos principales universidades públicas valencianas, coordinado por Ricard Ramon. Ahora la revista EFÍMERE continúa bajo el auspicio del grupo de investigación de la Universitat de València, ABERTURA. Pero nuestra apuesta de futuro es reactivar de nuevo el proyecto Efímere de Unidad Mixta de Investigación, incorporando nuevos equipos y grupos de investigación con los que ya hemos establecido lazos de trabajo muy intensos, y seguir así con nuestra política de integración y extensión de un instrumento al servicio del pensamiento artístico como es la revista EFÍMERE.

Nuestro compromiso es firme y apuesta con ambición ética por la continuidad y refuerzo de este proyecto, y con planes para el nuevo monográfico de 2026, con una nueva llamada de trabajos centrada en explorar y profundizar en la Investigación Educativa Basada en las Artes, partiendo de la idea de su autonomía como metodología de investigación independiente frente a otros métodos como la investigación cualitativa o cuantitativa. Invitamos a la comunidad investigadora en este ámbito a empezar a preparar y enviar sus artículos para el volumen 3 de 2026.

Un contexto de catástrofes, un marco para la mentira y una revelación de verdades desde la ficción artística

En este monográfico de la revista EFÍMERE, hemos propuesto a personas investigadoras que escriban y reflexionen sobre las relaciones que, desde el arte, las prácticas artísticas y visuales y la educación artística, existen entre aquello que llamamos ficción, o poéticas de ficción, frente a lo que pretende presentarse como registro de verdad y esconde en realidad mil mentiras. 

Nuestra revista está ubicada en Valencia, que en octubre de 2024 sufrió una devastadora catástrofe de inundaciones, provocada por la crisis climática imparable, de la que la ciencia lleva años advirtiendo. La DANA ha dejado cientos de muertos y una responsabilidad política clara del gobierno de la Generalitat Valenciana, por la falta de actuaciones en la prevención adecuada del riesgo inminente. Pero también existe una responsabilidad política general mundial en la inacción para mitigar los efectos del cambio climático. Y una responsabilidad de los negacionistas de la verdad que prefieren creer en la imagen ficticia de un mundo que no existe, para evitar ver alterada su falsa seguridad y agarrarse a una imagen registral, no de un mundo ficticio, sino falso, mentiroso, que ya se ha desvanecido. Una imagen que pretende seguir construyéndose con el apoyo del supuesto valor certificador de la imagen, para crear una mentira aceptable que encubra la verdad.

Esta tragedia ha supuesto la emergencia, entre los restos del barro, de las ratas de la mentira, en un mundo donde el valor de esas falsedades se construye y afianza por la necesidad de muchas personas de evitar afrontar la verdad. Así se produce una plaga de “creadores de contenido”, básicamente, creadores de imágenes necrológicas enmascaradas en una verdad inexistente, es decir, en una falacia. Pero también los medios tradicionales se han abocado a tratar de fortalecer esta quimera de que la crisis climática no existe, con argumentos descabellados, pero construidos con apoyo de los medios registrales a los que se atribuye el papel de certificación, que asociamos a la verdad.

Por contra, no solo los miles de estudios científicos, sino especialmente el arte, la fotografía artística, el cine, las series de ficción y numerosos proyectos artísticos, desde instalaciones o exposiciones a performances, nos están mostrando la verdad, desde una narrativa de ficción, que es necesariamente educativa.

Por ello, y por la urgencia derivada de esta situación, que ahora nos ha tocado vivir a nosotros en primera persona, pero que mañana afectará, sin duda alguna, a otros pueblos, ciudades y personas, nos vimos en la obligación de proponer el desarrollo de investigaciones que, desde nuestro campo de conocimiento, el arte y la educación artística, tratara de responder a una de las problemáticas más perniciosas para nuestro futuro y nuestra vida. El uso y la creación de una imagen de verdad construida sobre un muro de mentiras, aprovechando la falsa idea de que la imagen es un registro notarial del mundo, desvirtuando su verdadero valor y concepto. Así como afianzar el valor de las artes en la construcción de la verdad desde la ficción.

Nos hallamos ante una problemática vinculada al Antropoceno, cuyos efectos multiplicadores parten de lo humano y sus acciones, pero van más allá de las afecciones al ser humano, incluyendo el daño a otras especies vegetales y animales, a los objetos y lo matérico. Una situación que nos parece irreversible y que produce hastío, rendimiento, dejadez, indefensión y sumisión, incluso antes siquiera de haber intentado iniciar la lucha. Un sometimiento generalizado en sociedades mal educadas para sobrevivir sometidas al poder ajeno, que se enriquece a costa de un extractivismo voraz, a su vez alimentado por un consumo desmedido de esas mismas masas autómatas cuyas conciencias han sido retorcidas y enajenadas para tal fin lucrativo.

Afrontamos una ceguera colmada de imaginarios raudos, voraces, inmediatos, producidos y reproducidos en bucle, cocinados y fagocitados para ser vomitados o regurgitados en un hambre insaciable de más visualidades que aletarga las mentes y cuidados mientras la vida pasa a un lado. Un tiempo de supuesta abundancia y a su vez máxima deuda, que permite una apariencia de riqueza sostenida como escaparate y que esconde una pobreza máxima, especialmente en valores.

También nos encontramos en una era tecnologizada, dominada por la aparición de la inteligencia artificial, que bien podría ser reemplazada a tiempo por una era ecoética en la que las prácticas artísticas y educativas inspiraran a la sociedad a valorar y proteger los ecosistemas como parte de su identidad cultural, conectando humanidad con naturaleza y tecnología. El arte y la educación tienen la capacidad de promover la sostenibilidad, el respeto y la observación atenta del entorno; pueden transformar profundamente las mentalidades, pero especialmente tienen la capacidad de alterar las prácticas en favor de un equilibrio ambiental y social. Un eco que debe reverberar en referencia a la ecología, a la economía y a la ética integrada en relación con los ecosistemas que habitamos.

La DANA, esa Depresión Aislada en Niveles Altos, llega a Valencia como un torrente indomable, un pulso de cielo y agua que barre el terreno, rompe barreras, arranca las raíces y, finalmente, transforma el paisaje. Esa fuerza imparable es la necesaria para una educación artística transformadora que se disuelva en cauces improvisados, que haga ceder las murallas de lo cotidiano, que vuelva vulnerables a las mentiras ante la fuerza impredecible de su tormenta crítica. Que la corriente de consciencia se despliegue en la sociedad con la fuerza de una tormenta erosionadora y modeladora. Que esta otra DANA, la educativa y artística, disuelva las capas superficiales de mentiras y deje ver las capas ocultas, revelando estructuras invisibles, enfrentando los medios de comunicación que usan las estrategias visuales y audiovisuales, nuestras propias armas artísticas, esas de las que se ha desprovisto a la sociedad mediante un analfabetismo audiovisual premeditado.

Buscábamos investigaciones que se centrasen en el análisis del papel de las ficciones visuales como fuente de verdad, frente a las mentiras visuales como fuente de supuesta verdad, que generan un uso de las imágenes retorcido y pernicioso; sobre el que el papel de la educación artística debe construir un muro de contención y defensa, mediante el análisis serio y riguroso, pero especialmente mediante el diseño de acciones que permitan la construcción y el uso consciente de las imágenes, desde lo que habitualmente se asocia a lo que llamamos ficción.

Aprender a usar y a crear las imágenes y el valor de verdad que estas prácticas artísticas tienen en esencia es un reto pedagógico fundamental y urgente. Esto permite, además de prevenir el falso discurso de la mentira de las imágenes necrológicas registrales, capacitar a las personas a profundizar en su pensamiento y en la búsqueda de la verdad a través del pensamiento visual poético. Esto permite ser capaces de comprender que a la verdad no se llega a través de una supuesta mirada registral, como queda demostrado una y mil veces gracias al arte, sino en la profundización de un pensamiento complejo como el que se articula a través de las artes.

Ricard Ramon y Amparo Alonso-Sanz Texto original publicado en el v. 2 de la revista EFÍMERE como editorial.

#investigación #publicaciones

Il y a des décisions politiques qui relèvent de l’erreur stratégique, d’autres de l’aveuglement idéologique. Et puis il y a celles qui ressemblent à un sabotage en règle. La volonté de la Maison-Blanche de démanteler le National Center for Atmospheric Research (NCAR), au Colorado, appartient clairement à cette dernière catégorie. Sous couvert de lutter contre un prétendu « alarmisme climatique », l’administration américaine s’attaque à l’un des piliers de la recherche atmosphérique et spatiale mondiale, avec une désinvolture qui frôle l’irresponsabilité.

Le directeur du bureau de la gestion et du budget, Russ Vought, n’a même pas pris la peine de masquer le fond idéologique de l’opération. Dans un message publié mi-décembre, il a qualifié le NCAR de l’une des plus grandes sources d’alarmisme climatique du pays. Comprenez, quand les faits dérangent la ligne politique, on supprime les faits. C’est une méthode violente, mais efficace, pour qui préfère les slogans aux données scientifiques.

Cette attaque n’est pas un accident isolé. Elle prend place dans une guerre ouverte menée depuis des années contre la science du climat: budgets rabotés, programmes de recherche menacés, données effacées des sites gouvernementaux. À force de nier la réalité, l’administration Trump ne se contente plus de la déformer, elle cherche désormais à la faire disparaître.

Le plus absurde, dans cette affaire, c’est que le NCAR ne se limite pas à l’étude du climat terrestre. Depuis plus de soixante ans, le centre travaille sur l’atmosphère, la météo, mais aussi sur la météo spatiale à travers l’activité du Soleil, le vent solaire et leurs effets sur la magnétosphère terrestre. Autrement dit, des phénomènes qui influencent directement nos satellites, nos communications, nos réseaux électriques et même la sécurité des astronautes. Saboter le NCAR, ce n’est pas seulement nier le réchauffement climatique, c’est affaiblir la capacité des États-Unis à comprendre et anticiper des risques bien réels.

Ironie supplémentaire, deux missions majeures de la NASA en héliophysique reposent directement sur les travaux de scientifiques du NCAR. La mission CMEx, dirigée par la chercheuse Holly Gilbert, doit étudier la chromosphère solaire pour comprendre l’origine des éruptions et des vents solaires. Une autre mission, STRUVE, prévue pour 2029, vise à analyser les régions où s’accumule l’énergie responsable des tempêtes solaires. Ces projets ne sont pas des lubies académiques. Ils sont essentiels pour protéger les satellites dont dépend notre quotidien et pour sécuriser les futures missions habitées vers la Lune ou (potentiellement) Mars.

Mais qu’importe, semble dire Washington, tant que l’idéologie est sauve. La Maison-Blanche promet vaguement que les activités de recherche « approuvées » pourraient être reprises par d’autres organisations, sans jamais expliquer lesquelles ni selon quels critères. Une promesse creuse, typique d’une administration qui détruit d’une main ce qu’elle prétend reconstruire de l’autre.

Face à cette offensive, des voix s’élèvent. Des sociétés savantes demandent au congrès américain d’exercer son rôle de contre-pouvoir et d’examiner les motivations réelles de ces décisions. Des élus tentent de faire passer des lois pour rétablir les financements scientifiques avant la date butoir budgétaire de fin janvier. Mais le mal est déjà là, un signal clair envoyé aux chercheurs, leur rappelant que leur travail n’est toléré que tant qu’il ne contredit pas le récit politique dominant.

Ce climat de répression idéologique ne se limite d’ailleurs pas à la science. Dans le même temps, l’administration Trump s’attaque à des chercheurs et militants travaillant sur la désinformation et la haine en ligne, allant jusqu’à brandir l’arme de l’immigration pour faire taire des voix jugées gênantes. Visa annulé, menace d’expulsion, accusations floues de menace pour la politique étrangère. La panoplie est digne d’un régime autoritaire plus que d’une démocratie qui se targue de défendre la liberté d’expression.

Le message est limpide, qu’il s’agisse de climat, de santé publique ou de régulation des plateformes numériques, toute expertise indépendante est désormais suspecte. Toute recherche qui met en lumière des faits dérangeants devient une cible. Et toute critique est assimilée à une attaque contre la nation.

En s’acharnant contre le NCAR et contre des chercheurs engagés, le gouvernement américain ne protège ni ses citoyens ni ses intérêts stratégiques. Il affaiblit sa propre capacité d’anticipation, saborde son leadership scientifique et sape les fondements mêmes de la démocratie qu’il prétend défendre. À force de confondre science et idéologie, vérité et propagande, l’Amérique risque de se réveiller un jour face à des crises qu’elle aura elle-même choisi d’ignorer. Détruire la science ne fait pas disparaître la réalité. Cela ne fait que rendre ses conséquences plus brutales. Et l’histoire jugera sévèrement ceux qui, par dogmatisme ou par cynisme, auront préféré éteindre la lumière plutôt que d’affronter ce qu’elle révélait.

I officially moved out of my childhood home when I was 19. I’d tried subletting and couch surfing at 18, but it didn’t last long. Living on my own was never financially viable, and by 2015, my first full calendar year on my own in Boston, I needed a roommate just to afford a one-bedroom. My rent was $800 a month. That year my net income was $24,000. At the time, it felt like success. Up until then I’d been working part-time for $12 an hour. Now I was making $15 an hour, full-time, with benefits, at the world’s most admired brand: Apple. After covering my basic expenses, I had about $150 a week left over.

Moving into any apartment meant first and last month’s rent plus a security deposit. Thousands of dollars I had to come up with just about every year to stay housed. The affordable-housing lottery in Boston was exactly that: a gamble. Each move cost about $2,500 upfront, so I set aside at least $50 a week from what little I had left, knowing I’d eventually need it for my next inevitable move. I tried to save, but unexpected expenses constantly knocked me off balance. When my first 12-month lease ended and it was time to move again, I was financially drained.

When you’re living paycheck to paycheck, can’t afford food, and you’re not “poor enough” for food stamps, the only way left to feed yourself that I found was to open a credit card. How naive I was. Credit, for people with low income, creates a false sense of stability. First it’s just for essentials. Then one day you treat yourself and it becomes a slippery slope into financial ruin.

Five years of that cycle — move, save, struggle — left me with $25,000 in credit card debt. Apple gave me 3–5% annual merit increases and my net income eventually rose to $30,000. But none of it mattered. Once you’re trapped in high-interest debt, you need a miracle to get out.

Fast-forward several years to today. I’m 30, I have no debt, I own a home, I drive a new car, and I live a financially comfortable life. And yet, when I look around at my peers, I feel self conscious about my success. So many people I know are still stuck in that same cycle I remember so vividly — move, save, struggle. There has to be a better way for society to function. One that lifts those with little supported by those who already have more than they need.

Because let’s be honest: yes, I worked hard to get where I am today. Some would say that’s meritocracy rewarding me. But I know the truth — what I experienced over the past ten years was, in many ways, simply luck.

And that’s what motivated me to become a Democratic Socialist. Because my story didn’t have to be this hard and neither do the stories of the people I care about. With stronger social programs, my life at 19 could've looked different. Affordable housing, real tenant protections, universal healthcare, guaranteed food assistance, even something as simple as rent stabilization or public broadband. These are socialist ideas that would've given me stability instead of uncertainty. They would've kept me out of debt, out of constant crisis, and allowed me to build a future without gambling my well-being on luck.

I want that for all who share this struggle now. Not a world where survival depends on never slipping up, but one where we all start on steadier ground. Because if I’m being honest, the reason I “made it” isn’t that I’m exceptional. It’s that I got lucky in a system that constantly fails people who work just as hard as I did.

A better world is possible and we owe it to each other to build it. 🌹