Your Soul Is Too Big For This

It’s become a recurring phrase for me recently, sometime between the last gift I wrapped for Christmas and the first day of the new year. What happens to me sometimes — when the seasons change and my regimented work schedule is disrupted — is that I have a mild panic.

Is the way I’m spending my life…working?

This is a good, big question. But it’s based on a series of small, bad assumptions: that fame is what makes me valuable, that my body and face are my currency, that the visible good I do a community is the only legacy that means anything.

I passed a billboard on Camp Bowie, the historic road in Fort Worth paved in red bricks. Sprawled across it was a shiny new SUV in a hero pose with bold typeface that made all of life seem pointless unless you owned it. And then I felt the phrase, “Your soul is too big for this,” hit my sternum. Could this be true? Because that was a pretty big SUV on an even bigger billboard. How big IS the soul, really? If it can’t squeeze itself into a Lexus GX, what’s its proper ecosystem?

This got me thinking about the other small spaces into which I am always trying to cram myself. For instance, the 2” x 3” lined section of my planner that I’ve allotted for my daily to-do list. That’s the square footage of four postage stamps, and I expect to dwell and flourish there?

My soul is too big for that.

The number on the scale. Aside from cheese, could it be going up because my soul is growing weightier with time and needs a bigger vessel? Meanwhile, I’m trying to diminish it always, hunkering down in the old jeans. No. My soul is too big for that.

The number of roles or gigs I book. I tallied them in 2024: five. Five booked out of 73 auditions I had. If I’m trying to live in the cottage of my acting accomplishments, I’d look like Alice after downing the DRINK ME potion, huge and wearing my house like a girdle.

But what if I had booked all 73 auditions, I ask? Would that have created enough space for my soul?

And this led me down another line of questioning. Obviously, the things that feel insufficient or disappointing aren’t hospitable environments for my soul. But what about the things I do have or succeed in?

Exhibit A: I feel better and am healthier this year than I have been in my entire life. I have a lot of energy. I’ve been playing tennis and doing yoga and taking long, powerful walks. I sleep great. I didn’t even had so much as a minor cold in 2024. For those of you who’ve read Chronic Grace, you can see this is no small miracle. To live in a body abounding in health – shouldn’t this be a mansion for my soul?

I could list some other happy circumstances. I’m very grateful for them. But when I try to sign a lease to inhabit them, I realize they are also, predictably, too small. Not because they aren’t comfortable square-footage-wise, but simply because they are LEASES and I might not always be able to afford the rent. These gifts are temporary; these accomplishments quickly forgotten. I might be evicted in 2025. I can’t settle in, paint the walls, take a deep breath and look out the window at a permanent view.

So, what is an appropriate, forever home?

In Ephesians 3:14-19, our friend Paul is pouring his heart out to his friends: he’s praying for them. And his prayer is this: “that with both feet planted firmly on love, you’ll be able to take in with all Christians the extravagant dimensions of Christ’s love. Reach out and experience the breadth! Test its length! Plumb the depths! Rise to the heights! Live full lives, full in the fullness of God.” (The Message)

The love of Christ is a whole terrain of love, a whole national park to explore. And it appears to be the only fitting environment for a human being. First we plant our feet firmly on the fact that it exists: his love for us is real. The realest thing about us, in fact. It’s our orienting dimension. And from it we can go on exploring MORE of it. It unfolds off into the distance, up sheer mountain peaks where the blinding sun disappears it into atmosphere. It’s the only world there is, and it just happens to be designed for me, a solid kingdom rising up behind every dreamscape I invent.

Can we walk free of our phantom homes today? The ghost-shacks of fame, importance, success, recognition? Those are mirages, small as gopher holes, unfit for our glorious beings. The idea that we can live on the basis of Christ’s love isn’t a feeble assumption; it’s the scream of Scripture. You don’t have to wait until “heaven” to find your soul at peace by a fire. You can be home now.

Your soul is too big for anything smaller or less.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Julie K. Rhodes lives in Fort Worth, TX, with her husband Gordon and two teenage kids Drew and Maddie, plus pug Eloise ("The Eyeballs."). She performs regularly on stages all over Dallas-Fort Worth area and has multiple film and commercial credits.

 

 

You may also contact Julie at Leadership Speakers Bureau to schedule her for speaking or leadership engagements.