THE FALSEHOODS are so thick, the hypocrisies so outrageous, the corruption so rife, the processes so broken that you don’t know if you trust anyone anymore. The vulnerable are mocked or torn from their parents’ arms. Men in expensive suits say “Lord, Lord,” like they own air and mineral rights to the Most High. But their God, the one you thought—if but reluctantly—that you shared, is no god you recognize.
How can the pieces ever be put back together, the damage undone? What is gospel truth now?
A knot of self-righteous rage, tangled inextricably with despair, owns your gut. The accusing thought comes that you’re complicit. You’ve not done enough; you’ve saved no one. Guilt is the final straw. A voice not quite your own yet completely your own snarls: “Burn. It. Down.”
It is dangerous to play with fire, even metaphorical fire. You don’t want to hurt anyone, you just want sneering oligarchs off their thrones. (Nonviolently. Really.) You don’t want all institutions destroyed, only some, and the rest just under new management. Your anger is not inherently a bad thing (there is much to be angry about), but it tends to turn on itself and then lash out unexpectedly. A whirlwind in a wildfire.
A voice whispers: “Burn it down” means down, to the foundation. Why do you think you will be the first human to control the flames?
Revenge fantasies, however justified they may feel, are not the same as God’s righteous anger. Your fire is not God’s fire.
ADVENT. THE ENDING that is the beginning of the ending that will be the beginning. When we ponder the second coming of Jesus before we celebrate the first. The through line between “now” and “not yet” draws taut. Serious scriptural firepower is unleashed. There are worlds about to end.
The prophet Malachi rolls into town on the second Sunday of Advent. A prophet riled up by false worship, arrogance, and the exploitation of the weak.
The passage initially seems promising: “The Lord whom you seek ... in whom you take such delight—look! Here he comes.” Then it turns sharply: “Who can endure the day when he comes? Who can stand when he appears? For he will be like a refiner’s fire, like the soapmaker’s lye” (3:1-4).
Equal-opportunity fire? Even for those white-hot with righteous fury?
You look more closely at the first verse. Is that a bit of sarcasm? The Lord “in whom you take such delight.” You sense a divine eye-roll.
There will be plenty of fire to go around. The kind of burn that hurts like hell, leaving only our faithful elements purified and precious. A scrub-down to get at the stubborn grime under our nails. Everyone restored to show-room condition, that new-soul smell wafting on the breeze.
When the tumult and ash of Advent settles, we are left waiting and watching—intent on the promise that God will one day make all things new. We put down our matches and look to bear witness to God’s fire instead. We speak of God’s truth in a time of lies. We say, “I believe you.” We bind up the wounded. We throw our bodies and reputations into the oppressive cogs. We burn with righteous anger, as we should, but also with love beyond understanding. We are not consumed.
Jesus has come, gone, abides, and will come again, as an infant, as ruler of all. The Holy Spirit’s flames are shut up in our bones. In the “now” and the “not yet,” coals glow, sometimes flaring, sometimes almost spent and cold. But fire endures.
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