Life on Fire: In the Flow of Power

By Kevin Lyons

A STEP-BY-STEP GUIDE TO THE SUPERNATURAL LIFE

 

Life on Fire is a practical and powerful guide to understanding the ways to minister in the supernatural. Written in bite-size parables in clear and concise language for easy-to-read digestion.

 

This is your roadmap to revelation.

 

Ideal for small groups, Bible study, or church class, this book offers a step-by-step guide to the supernatural.

 

In Life on Fire, you will discover how to:

• Hear from God
• Operate in your authority
• Flow in the Holy Spirit
• Discover the hidden secrets of heaven
• Access divine understanding and wisdom
• Overcome the enemy
• Live in victory
• Take your stand

Kevin Lyons delivers a download of wisdom on each page with a simplicity few can convey. A master storyteller, he releases revelation with pure, clear, and practical insight.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fire House Media
• Release date: Feb 15, 2022
• ISBN: 9798985482416

Kevin Lyons

Kevin Lyons has an M.Div. from Global Awakening Theological Seminary. He teaches, equips, and imparts fresh revelation that’s released quickly and easily understood. He is known for his ability to release impartation and laughter in a New York minute.  His call is to roust, equip, and send the saints into battle. This requires both the prophetic and apostolic working together to build, plant, and water; and then empower others to flow in their spiritual gifts.  Kevin lives in central Florida with his wife Cindy. They have three adult children and one who wants to be. 

Book preview

A Few Helpful Tips

To the reader:

The book you hold contains invaluable gems mined over a lifetime of seeking the mysteries of God. I’ve done the dirty work, put on the coveralls, muck boots, and hardhat to travel deep into the bowels of the earth, at risk of life and limb to recover them for you. 

He tunnels through the rock; his eyes see all its treasures. (Job 28:10, NIV)

Please honor me with a genuine attempt to value the labor. This requires understanding the terrain up ahead. I realize that some readers may not understand my language, lingo, or descriptions right away. So, I have prepared for you some cheat notes, a warning label, and a few helpful tips to get more from the reading:

Warning: Reading this book will turn your life upside-down and inside-out. 

I’m a former New York cop, so my descriptive language may offend some of you. To you, I apologize in advance.

I poke fun at others, including myself. Loosen your belt and enjoy the ride.

I love God. I make no apologies for that.

This book reads with the dialogue of a novel, the storyline of a memoir, and the teaching of a how-to manual.

Laughter is guaranteed.

My desire is simple: That you would seek the Eternal wellspring and discover for yourself the spring that never runs dry. 

Seek Water

The afflicted and needy are seeking water,

but there is none,

and their tongue is parched with thirst;

I, the Lord, will answer them Myself.

(Isa. 41:17)

PREFACE

My life was a mess: I was out of work, twice divorced, and estranged from my children. The life I had so carefully built crumbled all around me. My façade fell to the ground: I was crushed by the rubble of my past and unable to escape the boneyard of my present. The Lord allowed my heart to bleed so I could be a greater instrument in His hands. 

In a three-month period, I lost my health, job, children (divorce), and a house to foreclosure. This dark season drew me closer to Christ, where I discovered a community of Spirit-filled believers.

Today I have a greater understanding and sympathy for those who are sick and suffering. The Lord allowed my heart to bleed so I could be a greater instrument in His hands. 

Although I began my walk with the Lord early in life, I continued to make a few twists and turns along the way. I have had several profound mystical experiences in my life—most recently, being caught in a trance and consumed by God.

Let me tell you what happened….

Write Down

Write down for the coming generations what the Lord has done,

so that people not yet born will praise Him.

(Psalm 102:18, GNT)

1

CLOTHED WITH POWER

The Spirit of the Lord is upon me.

(Luke 4:18)

My journey to God began as a young boy. Although raised in a home without faith or practice, my Irish grandfather came to stay with us when I was around seven or eight years old. He rose early Sunday morning and dressed in a three-piece tweed suit.

I asked, Grandpa, where are you going? 

He replied, Mass. 

(Mass is the central act of worship in the Catholic Church.)

Can I go too? I asked, not knowing what that word meant.

It must have been special if Grandpa was getting all dressed up. I loved adventures, so this was right up my alley.

My grandfather, out of respect to my father, replied, If it’s okay with your Dad, I will take you. 

I ran into my father’s bedroom and asked excitedly, Dad, can I go with Grandpa to Mass? He gave me the okay, and I was off to see what was so special. 

Holding his hand, we walked to St. Kevin’s church, stopping along the way at Salerno’s Bakery. I pressed my freckled face nose-up to the plate-glass window to get a good look at the treats inside. Grandpa said, After Mass we’ll come back, and I’ll get you anything you’d like. I told him, I want that one, Grandpa, pointing to the black and white cookie on the other side of the glass.

During the Mass, I felt the peace and awe of God, smelled the incense, and heard the jingle of the bells as the priest elevated the host. I learned to kneel and asked a lot of questions but felt in my heart: God is here with us. Returning home, I asked my father if I could learn about the faith; I was the only one of my siblings to do so.  

My grandfather, a heaven-sent assignment.

God Is Real (1987)

Although I went through the motions and did the religious stuff because my family members were not believers, I fell away. Occasionally, I would attend church during the holidays, more to gawk at the pretty girls than to seek Christ. While in college, I met a priest on campus and attended services more regularly. He also preached at a local church on Sundays and invited me to come. It was the end of Ordinary Time, the last Sunday in November—the feast of Christ the King. 

Father Edward Doran, the campus priest, preached about the cost of the cross and how God died for me. It felt like he was reaching into my chest and squeezing my heart. People were openly weeping all around me, both men and women: He was an anointed evangelist. My father had taught me that boys don’t cry, so I choked back tears and left. 

Returning home after church, I sat at my kitchen table and opened my books for an upcoming exam. Although, all I could think about was how God had died for me.

My back was to the window, my hands folded together, the words of the preacher still swirling in my head. I closed my eyes, broke down, and wept, tears flowing uncontrollably as I asked the Lord to forgive me for my sins and to be my Lord and Savior. 

When I opened my eyes, I noticed a perfect drop of blood on the back of my right hand. How could this happen? 

My critical scientific mind couldn’t believe the blood drop was from heaven.

Was I bleeding? Or was this just a strange time to have a nosebleed?

I lifted my finger, like doubting Thomas, to check. 

In that instant, the light in the room became white light, like someone had taken out the 60-watt bulbs and replaced them with 2000-watt bulbs. It was a light not of this world. Instantly a flock of blackbirds appeared at the window and serenaded a song of praise to the King. That’s when I heard the voice of God say, "I AM real, My Word is true, I have suffered and so will you. I had just touched my nose with my finger. There was no blood, just mucus from crying. As soon as I received the word," the lights returned to normal, the birds left, and the blood drop evaporated before my eyes.

I jumped up, ran upstairs, and shouted:

Dad, God is real! 

Healing the Brokenhearted

Life is like the beat of your heart: It rises and falls like an EKG machine. Although twice-divorced and happily remarried, it was almost thirty years since my blood drop experience. Although I believed in God, my life just didn’t reflect it. I was half-baked, uncooked, and tasteless. My feet were in the water, the rest of my body in the world. I was your typical double-minded man.

A family member’s tragedy sparked my return to an active faith, although I was still missing something that I couldn’t seem to find. That’s when I heard about a weekend seminar called Life in the Spirit and all that it did to fire up a person’s life.

Life in the Spirit (May 2015)

I was baptized in the Spirit at a Catholic Church in Brooklyn: a weekend seminar that took too long—get on with it my mantra. The service was formal, the speakers somewhat engaging, but the main event—flat. They asked me to come forward, sit in a high-backed chair, and receive prayer. The team said some nice things and spoke a lot of gibberish, which I later found out is called tongues (an unrecognizable language prompted by the Spirit). Nothing seemed to have happened: I didn’t get to speak in my spiritual language or feel much of anything. The only thing I can remember is feeling peace, so I stood up and returned to my seat, thinking––All hype and no sizzle.

Then an African-American woman was next. They did and said the same things to her, but instead of nothing, she slithered from the chair to the floor, babbling incoherently.

Now, that’s what I’m here for!

I left my seat and went forward to help. Lifting her up from the floor, I dragged her down the main aisle and tossed her into an open pew. She wasn’t large, but she felt like dead weight, babbling like a drunk on a three-day bender.

Nothing happened to me (or so I thought), but something definitely had occurred to her. This made me hungry to find out more about the Holy Spirit. This event placed a thirst inside of me to seek the Eternal wellspring—His plan from the very beginning!

All it takes is a spark to start a brush fire.

Divine Set-Up

I returned from the weekend, seeking more from God. I asked a friend what I should do. She said, You should go to the Holy Spirit School in Boston. My search now had a purpose and a destination. Happily remarried, all I had to do now was convince my wife.

You want to go where, for what? A Holy Spirit School? with her lip curled and eyes crossed. It sounded to her like a torture session. I must admit, it might not have come off as very appealing, going to a Holy Spirit conference. The ultimatum she offered me: I’ll go if you drive and we leave on Wednesday, not Sunday. Somehow, she just cut the trip in half but made herself out to look both kind and benevolent.

Only a woman can get away with that. The rest of us get locked up!

I took what she offered and considered myself lucky.

Right on Time (July 2015)

Attending church daily, I was seeking both to draw near to God and to pray for my family member in need. The Monday before going to Boston, I took my usual seat on the wooden pew for the morning service. I thought, you can set your watch to a Catholic Mass, so I glanced down to check the punctuality of the priest, the second hand on my watch not working. That’s weird, I said, rapping the dial with my finger as the bells jingled: the start of service. I stood up as the priest entered—right on time.

Timing in the Spirit requires an occasional adjustment.

The Mass followed the protocol of the prior millennium. After my usual affirmation, I sought the Lord in prayer, bowing my head beneath a statue of the Sacred Heart at the back corner of the church. My forehead resting at the Lord’s feet, I said, Lord, if you could fix my watch, you can fix my soul—make me in synchronicity with thee. The object was to align my heart with His. The presence of God came on me so strong, I wept, tears rolling down my cheeks.

God had to stop my watch, so I could be in sync with Him.

My wife and I left early to beat the traffic out of New York, en route to the charismatic conference in Boston. Everyone else apparently had the same idea. I beat my head against the steering wheel for the next four hours, swearing never to return to this God-forsaken place. The church, located on the flight path to Logan, jutted out on a little piece of dirt in the middle of nowhere. The Cardinal of Boston apparently knows how to get rid of charismatic tongue-talking priests: send them where they can’t be found.

The message: Don’t stick your head out of the hole.

I was fit to be tied by the time we pulled up. My wife didn’t look too impressed either. The place was more like a one-room schoolhouse than a church. It was sweltering in the nineties, a heat wave for the past week. The stained-glass windows were open, flaps up, signaling no air conditioning. The torture-chamber doors were open. As we entered, we were handed an apologetic bottle of water and told, There’s only one bathroom, the line gets long, so don’t wait till the last minute. And I thought New York had problems! Taking a seat in a pew, I scanned for the nearest door, my just-in-case exit strategy. Welcome to Boston: The circus is always in town, and the ride is free.

Town Circus

The Wednesday-night session was already going strong when we entered. Being new to the move of the Spirit, I had no grid for the Pentecostal experience of worship. The worship leader, a woman, sat behind an electric keyboard and sang in the Spirit, which sounded like make it up as you go along. She would sing a short ballad, then followed in unison by the parakeets in the crowd: a nursery-rhyme singsong for adults. The singer looked like she dropped out of the sky and teleported in time from the 1940s with her Ann Landers hairdo and ankle-length dress. I was told she was a special guest from Ashland, Virginia, and the spiritual daughter of Sister Ruth Ward Heflin, a revivalist and prophetess. That explained the dress and hairstyle—must be from the same Moonie commune.

Apparently, you can’t find just anyone to sing nursery rhymes around here.

The singer’s sidekick was the priest. He looked like Chef Boyardee minus the ‘stache, a rotund fellow with a thousand-yard stare and an expressionless composure. He missed his calling; he should have played poker or been a hitman for the mob. I found out later that a severe back injury and intense pain were the reason for the stare-down. I repented to the Lord and asked for forgiveness. The cast of characters was growing with each glance around the room. They even had a Pentecostal toy box: a blue plastic 55-gallon drum, containing an arsenal of assorted instruments.

The Boston crew is the land of misfit toys.

They had tambourines, tom-tom drums, clip-clop slappers, xylophones, kazoos—every conceivable noisemaker you could imagine. A woman was sitting cross-legged on the floor, laughing and crying, incoherently clanging two