Hey Bruce!
Bring it!!
There is something unsettling about fire. It flickers with unpredictability. It consumes whatever lies in its path. It refuses to be tamed. Fire does not apologize for being what it is. It simply reveals, purifies, and redefines whatever it touches. And that is what makes it holy. Not because fire is inherently moral, but because God has chosen to reveal His nature through it.
From the opening pages of Scripture to the final revelations of heaven, fire appears again and again as a symbol of divine presence. When God first spoke to Moses, He did not appear in cloud or wind, but in a bush that burned with fire and yet was not consumed. When He led Israel through the wilderness, it was a pillar of fire that lit their path by night. When the glory of the Lord filled the temple, fire came down from heaven. When the prophets spoke of judgment or renewal, they spoke of fire. And when the Holy Spirit descended at Pentecost, it was with tongues of fire resting on those gathered. Fire is not a footnote in God’s story. It is part of His self-revelation.
This is why we must begin here. Before we talk about trials, calling, surrender, or renewal, we must understand the nature of fire itself. Not just as a natural element, but as a theological truth. God does not use fire randomly. He uses it consistently, deliberately, and redemptively. Fire is a mirror for the divine. It is wild, pure, powerful, and illuminating. It refines what is valuable and consumes what is not. It does not leave anything unchanged.
But fire also offends our comfort. We do not like to be burned, even metaphorically. We prefer water to soothe, air to refresh, or earth to steady. Fire, however, scorches. It tests. It exposes. And yet, this is why it is necessary. Because we have built our lives around things that need to be consumed. We have constructed identities, routines, habits, and beliefs that will not survive the presence of God. Not because God is cruel, but because He is holy. And His holiness purifies what it touches.
The fire of God is not for entertainment. It is for transformation. In a culture that often treats spirituality as something to be observed, admired, or discussed, fire does something different. It invites us in, only to undo us. It does not ask for polite engagement. It demands surrender. It burns away illusions and leaves behind only what can survive eternal light.
There is a danger in approaching fire without reverence. The sons of Aaron, Nadab and Abihu, discovered this when they offered unauthorized fire before the Lord and were consumed. Their story is not meant to scare us away from fire, but to remind us that fire cannot be handled casually. Holiness is not ornamental. It is not decorative. It is blazing and weighty and real. The fire of God is not a metaphor we control. It is a presence that changes us.
And yet, in all of its intensity, fire is not the enemy. It is not the villain of your story. In the hands of God, fire is mercy.
