As many of you know from my previous posts, my family and I live in a very rural area on a beautiful tract of land.  And, as I’ve also mentioned before, we’re not alone on the property.  This is especially true in the back acreage, which is on the other side of our creek from our house and borders a largely undisturbed tract of wilderness.  This section of our property offers refuge to birds, small animals, deer, and the occasional bear.  Sometimes, at night, we’ve even heard the scream of a hunting mountain lion, prowling along the ridgeline, or the hair-raising cries of a wolf pack on the run.  

To clear this land—smoothing hills, chopping trees, “landscaping” it into an artificial façade—would be to destroy its benefit as a refuge for the wildlife we love.  However, although we aren’t seeking a “golf course” look, there is still a daunting amount of maintenance to be done, including bush hogging to keep the meadow areas open and removing invasive species such as the ever-persistent mock orange trees.  And there is one chore that never seems to end.  That is the building—and burning—of brush piles.

On a property covered in trees, it seems that a single gust of wind can send a shower of dead branches to the ground.  If we allowed these to remain where they fall, the land would not only look unkempt; it would eventually be unable to be maintained.  Thus, it’s necessary to collect all of these fallen limbs in a central location and then dispose of them.

I’m not sure if it’s the sense of accomplishment, the opportunity to be alone in the woods, or simply the hypnotizing catharsis of watching a fire burn.  Whatever the reason, though, I dearly enjoy this chore and volunteer for it as often as I can.

On a cold winter afternoon, there’s no better activity from my point of view than pulling on my coat and boots and driving our RTV—its roomy bed can accommodate ample brush—across the creek, my beloved dog Mercy hitching a ride.  Once I arrive in the area to be cleared, I attack it with gusto, dragging brush back and forth and filling the bed many times over.  As dusk begins to fall, it’s time for the best part yet.

In the midst of the trees, nestled at the foot of the mountain with the old railroad bed not far away, there is an open clearing.  The ground is a thick layer of ash, several inches deep—a testament to the fires that have lived and died here.  My fingers trembling in the cold, I carefully strike a match, a tiny glow of infant fire, and hold it to a small piece of fuel…perhaps a twig, or a sliver of bark, or even a dry leaf.  Then, with the utmost care, I begin tending this tiny flame, carefully balancing more and more bits of fuel on it, bigger and bigger pieces, until the spark that was birthed at the end of the matchstick is now a healthy blaze licking eagerly at the entire brush pile.  

Up to this point, I’ve done the work, but now the fire takes over and amply repays me for my efforts.  As the sky turns purple and cobwebs of dusk wrap around the trees, I perch on the tailgate of the RTV and watch the fire.  Glistening sparks soar upward, chasing the stars themselves.  The hearty odor of pure wood smoke fills the evening air.  The warmth of the blaze radiates like a warm hug, protecting me from the chill of winter.  And once darkness completely settles, pouring itself out in the little valley where I wait, the fire is truly its most glorious.

I love to watch all the colors of the flames…dull orange melting the logs into chunks of smoky embers…brassy yellow leaping skyward…and more rarely, a shiver of golden-blue, as the very hottest flames dance in the heart of the fire and entwine themselves around each other.  

There’s something about a fire that we humans can’t resist.  It is at the same time familiar and fascinating, domestic and dangerous, a workhorse and a wild mustang.  To ancient peoples, it was not only the entity that cooked food and warmed dwellings; it was also an animate quality deserving of worship and adoration.  Even today, as we supposedly advanced people brag about our taming of fire, pointing to its numerous uses in industry and innovation, an open flame still evokes strong emotional responses—and reminds us that fire will never be under our control.  

When I watch those brush piles melting in the flames, I think about these disparities—about the apparent paradox that is this force of nature.  And my mind begins to wander to a different fire—the one that came to earth two thousand years ago.

I gaze at the flickering shadows and pretend I’m watching the scene—twelve uncertain men praying hesitantly in an upstairs room.  Their leader had left, their numbers had shrunk, and their government was displeased. Surely they tasted the sickening scent of fear.  Surely they huddled in the dark corners of Jerusalem.  Yet it was at this moment of vulnerability and terror that the flames of the Holy Spirit flooded the room with the roar of an irresistible wind.  In an instant, these people who had once seen God now housed God.  He was within them—and they could be silent no longer.  

And suddenly, these twelve timid men, cowering in a secret room, became twelve courageous men, spilling out of their hiding place, tumbling into the crowds, shouting the praises of the God Who had come to dwell in them.  Lives changed…glory revealed…the church born.  And all from a holy fire that has never gone out (Acts 2).

It doesn’t come as a surprise to me that the Holy Spirit chose to reveal Himself in the form of fire, because fire is one of the closest earthly symbols for the spiritual reality of the Holy Spirit.  Indeed, their roles mimic each other in so many ways.

First of all, fire guides.  These days, we’re surrounded with artificial light—flashlights, phone apps, night watchers and streetlights and headlamps.  However, not so long ago, it was flaming torches and fire-bearing lanterns that guided people home.  Even now, when I sit beside the fire, I admire the way the surrounding landscape seems to glow, allowing me to see into even the darkest crannies.  It was this illuminating effect that Jesus had in mind when He promised His disciples that the Holy Spirit would “guide [them] into all truth” (John 16:13 KJV).  Certainly it is the role of the Spirit to help believers recognize false doctrine and discern truth from error.  However, it is also His role to guide us literally along the path of our lives.  In a labyrinth of many choices, with innumerable futures spread before us, it is the Holy Spirit Who “directs [our] steps” (Proverbs 16:9 NASB).

In addition to guiding, fire protects.  There’s a reason I make sure that the fire is robust before darkness falls completely.  In a forest where wolves and bears and panthers prowl, there’s safety in sitting near a fire.  Wild animals are innately uneasy around flames and smoke and will usually avoid an area where a fire is burning.  Likewise, the Spirit within us is our strongest defense against Satan’s attacks.  Consider Ephesians 6, in which Paul discusses the armor of God.  While many virtues serve protective roles—the shield of faith, the breastplate of righteousness, the belt of truth—the Spirit as revealed in the Word is named as the believer’s sword, the only component of the armor that goes beyond providing defense to actually allowing us to go on the offensive against the enemy.  

Guidance and protection—valuable blessings, to be sure.  However, the Holy Spirit has yet another role.  And this is where our human strength ends, because to go deeper with the Spirit, we need a much higher level of involvement—one that not everyone is willing to contribute.  Are you ready?  

To access the full blessings of the Spirit, we’re required to stand within the fire.  

You see, when I dump a load of wood on a fire and watch it burn, I am merely a disinterested observer. Certainly, I enjoy the benefits that we’ve already discussed—guidance from its light, protection from its proximity.  These are offered to me free and do not require that I approach any nearer to the center of the blaze.  However, if I wanted to go beyond observing to actually participating, I would not be able to keep my distance.  I would have to stand within the flames.

Now obviously, I don’t recommend trying this with a physical fire.  But in a spiritual sense, it is this complete surrender—this throwing ourselves into the flames of the Spirit—that God requests from us.  At first, this may sound extreme, ridiculous, even downright terrifying.  Perhaps that’s why many Christians are satisfied with standing outside the fire and watching it burn—enjoying its light and protection, receiving its blessings with gratitude, but not allowing themselves to be united with the blaze itself.  Indeed, inviting the Holy Spirit to pour holy fire into our very selves can sound even more disturbing than stepping into a glowing inferno.

Does this sound terrifying?  Uncomfortable?  Radical?  If your answer is yes, you’re not alone.  We humans fear complete surrender as much as we fear an out-of-control wildfire—or maybe more.  But don’t miss this point—God’s fire is not for destruction but for purification.  The Holy Spirit doesn’t want to burn you—He wants to build you.

Indeed, one of the most popular Biblical metaphors for the work of God in the lives of His children presents God as a refiner—a skilled craftsman who exposes contaminated metal ore to flame in order to render it free of pollution.  Consider Malachi 3:3, which pictures God as “a refiner and purifier of silver” (ESV).  Proverbs 17:3 takes this analogy a step further, likening God’s work in our lives to the smelting of precious metals:  “The crucible is for silver, and the furnace is for gold, and the Lord tests hearts” (ESV).  It was this purification to which Job referred; lost and alone in the midst of his trials, he nonetheless cried out, “When He has tried me, I shall come out as gold” (Job 23:10 ESV).  

But just because God is a refiner doesn’t mean His purifying influence in our lives is a guarantee.  Like all other aspects of our sanctification—our growth into His likeness—the final choice is ours.  If we wish, we can stand and watch the flames, enjoying such blessings as we can receive from a distance.  Or we can throw ourselves into them—with all our pain, shame, and heartache and fear—and emerge transformed.  One choice is safe and sane, easy and convenient.  The other is difficult, dangerous, embarrassing, messy—but transformative.  

So how do we do it?  How do we tap into the purifying power of the Spirit?  There is no magic trick, no one epiphany to catapult us into a new level of growth.  Instead, there is only the quiet day-to-day humility of consistently, decision by decision, word by word, action by action, choosing His will over ours.  

This is what Paul had in mind when he urged his readers to “be filled with the Spirit” (Ephesians 5:18 ESV).  The Greek word (plerousthe) used here, denotes a continual filling, one that must be constantly renewed and replenished as we strive toward His purity—just as a fire needs to be constantly refueled in order to burn brightly.  In addition, we must “abstain from every form of evil” (1 Thessalonians 5:22 ESV) in order to not “quench,” or extinguish, His movement in our lives, in the same way that we would be careful to not smother a fire with dirt or drench it with water (1 Thessalonians 5:19 ESV).  Lastly, a fire cannot be controlled or commanded—so we give Him free rein to be continually “course-correcting” us, gently aligning our actions, desires, and motives with His.  And then, in the midst of surrender, we find ourselves dancing in the flames!

My friends, this is a sacred time of year.  We’ve just concluded our celebration of the Savior’s birth and thanked God for His gift of love.  And now today we begin not only a new year, but also a new decade.  These midwinter days are days of renewal, of growth, of commitment to transformation.  They’re also the soil in which our priorities for the upcoming seasons take root.  It’s my prayer that as we begin 2020, we stop hovering on the edges of the embers and instead fling ourselves into the flames.  Let’s commit to ruthlessly exposing ourselves to the Spirit, allowing Him to burn away our dross and shape our character into His image.  And then let’s rejoice together—for we have chosen the path of purity, and the light and the love and the letting go that have always, since that famous upper room, amazed the watching world!

Happy New Year to you! Did you enjoy this post? What are some ways you desire the Holy Spirit to work in your life in 2020? Let me know in the comments!

Also, if you haven’t yet read my short story “White Deer,” check your inbox for this exclusive download! In this inspirational tale, Susan Schuyler struggles to connect with her special-needs son, especially when he develops an obsession about an old legend. However, God has a plan…could their seeming wild-goose chase lead to an incomparable treasure? Find out now by reading “White Deer”!