Sermon for Pentecost +12
Jesus said, "I came to bring fire to the earth, and how I wish it were already kindled!"
I have to confess, I find these words from today's Gospel to be ambiguous at best, and downright frightening at worst. This image that Jesus uses, this image of fire, has always had a double edge, it has always signified both positive and negative realities.
On the positive side, in the biblical tradition, fire has always been a sign of the presence and the power of God:
Moses saw God in the fire of a bush that burned but was not consumed.
The People of Israel were led out of bondage in Egypt by God in a pillar of flame.
The prophet Isaiah had a vision of God when he was burning incense in the Temple, and the flames on the incense altar became fire angels, seraphim, who called to each other "Holy Holy Holy is the Lord of Hosts"-- and whose song we repeat in every Eucharist.
The prophet Jeremiah said that the Word of God was like a burning fire which breaks through dreams and lies and deceit and brings the uncompromising truth of God.
John the Baptist promised that after him was coming one that was mightier than he, who would baptize with fire.
When the Holy Spirit came upon the disciples in the upper room at Pentecost, it appeared as flames of fire dancing on their heads.
And we continue to echo that biblical symbolism in our own religious practice today:
We put candles on our altars, so that the fire can remind us of God's presence with us in worship.
We keep a single candle, an eternal flame, burning above the aumbry, to signify the presence of the consecrated sacrament within.
Sometimes when I'm praying or meditating, I will light a single candle, because staring into the flame can help me to focus, to slow down, to become centered--that fire can help me to become more aware of God's presence before me and within me.
And fire can be a very positive thing in our ordinary, not-especially-religious experience, too:
When we were on vacation in Eagle Harbor, one of the things Lee and I liked to do was go out about midnight to do some stargazing. The best place to go stargazing was on the observation deck, which is built on top of a big rock which juts out from the lakeshore. In order to get to the observation deck from our cottage, we had to walk along Eagle Harbor Beach--and almost every night we went out we'd find groups of people having beachfires: Maggie and Aidan and their friends and other folks from town would gather and build up a small campfire and toast marshmallows and make s'mores and talk and laugh and occasionally set off bottle rockets--and just have fun there with a fire on the beach. And as we walked by, Lee and me, I would often think of how beautiful it was to see the dark sky and the brilliant stars and the warm glow of the fires on the beach--and the beauty of it would give me such a sense of gratitude and what the philosopher Whitehead calls a character of permanent rightness deep down in the nature of things. There wasn't anything even remotely religious about those beachfires, but they always gave me a sense of the goodness God gives in creation.
Time and time again for us, fire is a sign of the creating, inspiring, empowering presence of God.
But fire is unquestionably also a destructive force. In the Bible:
God responded to the sinfulness of Sodom and Gomorrah by raining down fire and brimstone to destroy them.
The prophet Elijah called down fire from heaven to burn up the soldiers of the king who had come to take him captive and punish him for speaking the word of God.
John the Baptist warned that the axe was laid to the roots of the trees, and every tree that did not bear good fruit would be cut down and thrown into the fire.
Jesus told his disciples that they were all branches of the one vine, and every branch that did not bear fruit would be cut off and thrown into the fire.
The seer of the Book of Revelation saw that those who rebelled against God would be ultimately confined for eternity in a lake of fire.
And we experience fire as a destructive force in the world, too:
On the radio the other day I heard that three counties in the Minnesota arrowhead, up by Lake Superior, were instituting tough new bans on fires--trash fires, brush fires, campfires even--there was no kind of open burning whatsoever to be allowed, because the drought conditions had made things tinder-dry and the risk of wildfire was just too great.
While we were in Michigan, we heard lots of news about a wildfire ripping through state forest near Munising, and how the governor was releasing special funds to assist with the firefighting, and how officials were saying their best estimate was that they would have the fire partially contained in a week--which would be right about now.
Two-and-a-half weeks ago, when the I-35W bridge collapsed, you may remember in some of the early video from the disaster, there was truck that had fallen with the bridge and caught on fire; but of course, because the bridge was collapsed, firefighters couldn't get to the truck, so they had to stand way back and shoot water onto the truck, hoping enough water would get there to douse the fire. For me that one truck, burning with no way to put it out, became a sort of emblem for the whole sense of helplessness many of us felt at the sheer magnitude of the accident.
We know very well, in religion and in life, what a destructive force fire can be.
And Jesus said, "I came to bring fire to the earth, and how I wish it were already kindled!" What frightens me about these words is my recognition of the destructive power of fire. What is ambiguous about these words is whether Jesus means to bring the fire that destroys, or the fire that creates.
Or perhaps Jesus means both. The positive and negative, the destructive and creative sides of the fire symbol come together when fire is a sign of transformation, when fire is a sign of renewal, when fire purifies and tempers and strengthens:
Job in the midst of his suffering remembers the legend of the phoenix that dies in fire and is reborn from its own ashes.
The prophet Zechariah says that God will refine the holy people as silver is refined in the fire.
St Paul says that all our life's works, all that we've built on the foundation of Christ, will be tested with fire; the hay and the straw will be burned, but the gold and silver and precious stones will be made pure.
And we see that in the world, too:
When there is a fire in the forest, new life colonizes the burned area almost at once--there are even certain plants and trees whose seeds can only open up and sprout in the heat of a fire: without fire, they don't come to life--and the new plants move into the burned area start turning the ash into usable nutrients for the next generation of forest.
Astrophysicists tell us that our very being here depends on a fire: about 10 billion years ago, there was a supernova explosion, an interstellar fire, in our neighborhood in the galaxy, which formed the heavy elements necessary for the chemistry of our earth, necessary for the biochemistry of our own bodies. We are here because of a burst of cosmic fire.
Years ago I heard the story of a church that burned down--and as the congregation rallied around rebuilding their building, they found it was also an opportunity to renew their sense of being church. As they thought about what they wanted their new building to look like, how they wanted it to function, how they wanted to use their building, that made them stop and rethink their sense of mission, the ministries they felt their congregation was called to do. As they thought about their worship space, that made them think about what kind of relationships they wanted to cultivate among worshipers. As they thought about their meeting and educational space, that made them think about wanting to spend more time studying the Bible together, dwelling in the Word together, learning about their gifts for ministry and releasing their passions for mission. As they thought about making their building feel welcoming to visitors and newcomers, that made them think about what they could do to be a more genuinely welcoming and hospitable congregation. In ways both small and large, the project rebuilding their building after the fire became a call to renew their congregation.
And there's no reason why that same fire of Christ cannot be kindled in other congregations--even our own congregation--and you don't need to wait for the building to burn down to get it started!
Because it is that kind of fire, that fire of transformation, that Jesus promises in the Gospel today. Jesus' words to us today are frightening, but they are also full of promise. Frightening, because the fire of Christ will burn us, it will hurt, as it burns away our impurities, as it gives us light to interpret the signs of this difficult present time, as it enlightens us to see things--things like our complicity in injustice, our perpetuation of racism, our environmentally unsustainable practices, our failure to commend the faith that is in us--things that, perhaps, we would be more comfortable not seeing. Jesus' words can be frightening. But Jesus' words today are also full of promise, because the fire Jesus brings is the fire of God's own love, the fire of God's transformation, kindled in our hearts, warming us and enlightening us and changing us and radiating out from us to bring new life to the world.
The Good News of this Gospel today is that, although it may be painful to burn away the obstacles that keep us from drawing closer to God, nevertheless, the pain of that fire is worth it for the joy that is set before us, the mission God inspires in us, for the passion the Spirit ignites in all our hearts.
Jesus said, "I came to bring fire to the earth, and how I wish it were already kindled!"
Let it be our prayer today that the fire of Christ may indeed be kindled now, here, today, in us. Amen.