The Gift of Fire

Cultivating Calling and Pilgrimage is a meandering column documenting the pilgrimage of faith. It’s an occasional letter arriving in the mail from that shabby, wandering uncle you only see a few times year, describing the odd bits and bobs of books, songs, stories, people and places that have struck his fancy, put a lump in his throat, or kept him putting one foot in front of the other toward the Face of Jesus, that Joy set before us all.

On the wrong side of the door

Us kids were all squeals and moans Christmas morning, groaning on one side of the long wooden accordion door that separated our bedrooms from the den, with its great fireplace, where our Christmas gifts waited, invisible and out of reach.

It was the same every year; Dad loved to take his sweet time building the fire before we were allowed to open the door and see what Santa had brought us. Now, I don’t know that I’ve ever seen my dad get in a hurry about anything, really. It’s one of the things I have come to appreciate about him most: his contentedness toward time. But at Christmas, I suspect Dad took special relish in slowly setting each piece of kindling in its place, positioning the midsize sticks atop that, then strolling out to the firewood ring in the cold of early morning to get a few bigger split-oak logs one at a time. Of course, I never witnessed this ritual, but it’s easy to imagine him, as our laments persisted, pausing to read some comics or a random month-old headline before wadding up the newsprint, selecting the perfect match from the box, and finally lighting his Christmas morning fire.

As tortuous as the wait was, it meant that, thanks to Dad, I never entered that den a single Christmas morning of my life without being greeted by the bright crackle of oak logs and the scent of pine rising from the great brick hearth as the fire warmed the toes of our newly-stuffed stockings. The warmth that many men of my dad’s generation struggle to extend in words shone out from that hearth as Dad gathered wood and, with a match, let loose the fire those cold, silent timbers had kept stored within them for so long.

So, in this wintering world, I’m thinking about fire—God’s gift of light and warmth in chilling places, in bitter times.

In times of merry-making, fire is a gladdening sign of affection as it dances in the eyes of those gathered around it. Sometimes when I’ve sat around a fire—even one as small as a candle on a dinner table—I can’t help but wonder whether God made human features and skin to appear most themselves when illuminated so by fire’s particular quality of light.

There’s something of fire in us. That’s a good thing when tended by the Holy Spirit, fearful when not. For a long time, I had a scar from my eighth birthday party where another boy jabbed me in the side with a burning stick from the campfire (another good one my dad had built). We might wish there were some good things God hadn’t let us get our fallen hands on. We’ve all been burned, one way or another. And yet, while in the old myths the pagan gods punished Prometheus for stealing their fire, Jesus, in stark contrast, is the God who shares His fire, calling us to scooch closer to the divine hearth. Jesus is always setting lamps on stands to light the house, stacking lakeside driftwood to cook breakfast for His boys, or doling out tongues of fire to bless the brows of His children. And why? So that they might ignite warm words of glad tidings upon the winter air for anyone with ears to hear the song.

These last several years I’ve repeated to myself many times Jesus’s lament that “in those latter days, because of the increase of wickedness, the love of many will grow cold.” [1] I pray often, “O Lord! Don’t let my heart grow cold!”

It can be hard to imagine a fire is being prepared on the other side of the door at all. It certainly is hard to wait for it to finally be lit.

Meanwhile, there’s the soul-stiffness brought on by old haunting hurt, the arms drooping like ice-laden branches under the weight of loss, the wilting cold of whatever it may be that has taught us to fear—the chill gets in, doesn’t it?

There are whole days I freeze, taut as a cable pulled in a tug-o-war between hope and despair, unable to move. There are other times when, as Rich Mullins sings, “the streams are all swollen with winter—winter unfrozen and free.” [2] Try as I might, in those colder moments, rarely does my fretting manage to solve much of anything. Even so, the scent of pine sap dissolving into chimney smoke drifts in from someplace again, and I am a child on one side of an old accordion door where a slow, unseen gift makes itself present and my heart is made limber, warm, expectant. I begin to sense, usually in simple things like smiles and embraces, jokes and meals, letters and visits, and quiet together—all kindnesses—that a house is taking shape around me, and at its center a gladdening light leaps, making every cold, pale countenance rosy with renewed childhood.

Yes, Someone keeps kindling the fallen timbers, the torn oak cloven by the sharp, heavy iron of ungodly calamity. There is an Imperishable Flame kept in the holy hearth of Almighty God—a fire that shall destroy all the brutal cold that threatens to consume God’s children. The chill that steals away our very humanity will be burned up.

A cold-burning fire

A few days ago, my brother Sam and I went home to hear my Mom sing in the new community choir’s Christmas concert. She’s told me before of the childhood choir teacher who instructed her to keep her mouth shut, assuring her she couldn’t sing. Chilling words, don’t you think? It was so good to hear her singing beautifully in this choir all these years later, her heart warmed by the invitation to lend her lovely voice to the music.

The next morning, holding hot cups of coffee, we sat chatting by that same fireplace where, as children, our stockings were hung with care. But the fire in the fireplace was missing. These days, my dad, who has always taken his time in everything, needs more time than ever. They call Parkinson’s “slow man’s disease,” and the irony is not lost on me with Dad. If he ever resembled the fast flicker of flame (as he must have when he was a high school quarterback), I’ve only ever known him to be like the steady, slow burn of low-glowing embers.

But this morning, there were no embers at all.

That empty fireplace seemed to be gaping like a dark mouth. My thoughts moved from happy childhood Christmases to the present day; who hasn’t grown up to become all-too-intimately acquainted with grief? Like every family, ours carries many sorrows. The grief of Parkinson’s, divorce, mental illness, estrangement, snuffed-out dreams, world tragedy—a thousand species of death. But we shouldn’t be surprised; after all, Christmastide includes the brutal slaughter of the Innocents—Herod tearing like an insatiable fox through hatchlings while the Christ-child flees, a refugee tucked beneath the mothering wings of Mary. [3] Christmas heralds astonishing joy right alongside harrowing evil.

Not unlike Christmas itself, talking about fire is getting complicated.

My friends out West have seen smoke rolling in over the Rockies; they know how true James’s warning in Scripture is that a small spark sets a great forest ablaze. “The tongue is also a fire,” James continues, “a world of wickedness among the parts of the body.” [4] Sadly, the fire of being that God’s Spirit lit in each of us when He called us into existence can explode from our sin-sharpened tongues and devour. Fire, good as it is, can’t just be left to cozy sentimentalism; the very gift of life within us can be directed toward blessing or cursing, life or death.

That reality is hard to navigate when we’ve been hurt. Jesus knows it, too, I imagine—where did the energy in the arms of the soldiers driving nails into His hands originate, the heat in the blood that drew His blood? If you and I are here at all, it’s because God has lent us some of His own light, sharing a fire that feeds a forge to make either swords or plowshares. How we use it proves how much of our Maker’s image we still bear, how human or inhumane we’ve become.

That misused fire is a betrayal of God’s light; it’s a “fire” that freezes. Experience enough of that on this side of the door and you may give up on the idea of warmth altogether. “O Lord, don’t let my heart grow cold!” The joy of childlikeness and the warmth of a baby in a manger can seem so far removed come the grown-up cruelty of Good Friday’s crucifixion (alongside any of a million human brutalities the cross sums up). Innocence is still slaughtered; hearts do grow cold; people go animal, braying brutality.

The manger and the cross

I removed the fire screen and saw that last year’s ashes had piled above the andirons. I emptied a big brass bucket that held newspapers, kindling, and pinecones and began filling it with ash. I walked seven or eight bucketfuls out into the woods, scattering ashes among fallen leaves and pine needles until rain, wind, and time might bury them properly, perhaps even working them, by some mysterious management, into wood once again.

I took my time sweeping the old hearth of prior fire. I laid thin limbs on newsprint, then split-logs on top of that. A little tongue of flame, delicate as a baby’s fingertip, touched the paper, lit upon the limbs, and in time released all the kept-light sleeping in the logs. Soon the resin-scented fire crackled, bearing merry witness in that room so happy to be haunted by Christmases past. We watched it and talked until we got hungry enough to do something about our growling stomachs. We scrambled eggs, toasted English muffins, and fried sausage, then sat around the breakfast table visiting till noon. Lingering around meals is another favorite legacy of growing up in my family.

“Dad, do you want me to put more logs on the fire before I leave? Or just let it go to sleep?”

“Let it go to sleep; I’m about to go to sleep myself.”

I packed up, loaded the van, and poked around a bit at what remained of the fire before setting the screen in place. Embers were settling into ash, yet still generous with heat. I felt especially thankful for times like these and the good memories they stir.

I watched the fire dying down.

But before I left it, I noticed something—wedged just behind a cast-iron pot at the mouth of the fireplace was the body of a little brown house wren. It looked alive but for the lack of light in its withered eyes. How long had it been there? Long enough, it seemed, to turn dry as a stick of kindling. I showed it to Dad, and we released it into the fire, phoenix-like, laying the tiny brown bird there like a baby in a manger to be licked up by flames.

Maybe it is significant that Christ was laid in a feeding trough—cradled in the very place inflamed animal hunger comes to feed.

Where cold passion burns, Christ’s passion warmly says, “Take and eat.”

The feeding trough was a kneading trough for Jesus, the Bread of Life from birth. Is this one more place where our Lord transfigures what was meant for evil into unimaginable good—are the meanings of the manger and the cross rhyming? Are the meal that restores brutes to humanity and the feast that makes them children again one? Has the fire that consumes the withered wren become the fire that teaches mankind to mount up once more as eagles? That little wick lit in a stable beneath a star burns through death and death’s burning blizzard. These are the tidings of comfort and joy; this must be something of what merriment means.

At this Christmas feast, candled in the midst of mankind’s winter, ash is stirred again and rises to feather the air with birdsong. Here, any dim-eyed brute who would bow his head to graze at this manger shall raise it again “redeemed from fire by fire,” [5] bearing an imperishable glory in his eyes and an ever-spreading warmth in his heart. Though we fidget and groan this side of the door, our Heavenly Father, in His own time, tends the fire. We long to feel our bones thawing as we are gathered fully to that flame, our faces aglow. Still, the merry song of its crackling canto fermo reaches us with its warmth even here. Even on this side of the door.

Notes
[1] Matthew 24:12
[2] Rich Mullins, “The Color Green.”
[3] If you haven’t already, check out Malcolm Guite’s poem “Refugee” here. 
[4] James 3:5
[5] T.S. Eliot, The Four Quartets. From “Little Gidding.” Line 206.

The featured image is courtesy of Lancia E. Smith and is used with her glad permission for Cultivating.

Matthew Clark

Matthew Clark is a singer/songwriter and storyteller from Mississippi. He has recorded several full length albums, including a Bible walk-through called “Bright Came the Word from His Mouth” and “Beautiful Secret Life.” Matthew’s current project, “The Well Trilogy,” consists of 3 full-length album/book combos releasing over 3 years. Each installment is made up of 11 songs and a companion book of 13 essays written by a variety of contributors exploring themes around encountering Jesus, faith-keeping, and the return of Christ. Part One, “Only the Lover Sings” is available both as an album and as a companion book. 

Matthew also hosts a weekly podcast, “One Thousand Words – Stories on the Way,” featuring essays reflecting on faith-keeping. A touring musician and speaker, Matthew travels sharing songs and stories in a van called Vandalf.

www.matthewclark.net/