There are things Jesus says, and not just once, that don’t exactly comfort or inspire us, because we don’t know how to take what he says.  For example, “I have come to bring fire on the earth, and how I wish it were already kindled!” (12:49).  I guess how we feel about what he says there depends a lot on what he means by fire, or what we think he means.  “Bring fire on the earth.” Okay.  But slow down.  Is it like a wildfire?  We’re not crazy about those, just consuming everything in their path.  But wildfires are also a natural part of an ecosystem.  Without them, an ecosystem’s health declines, becomes unhealthy.  We often think of fire as something that destroys—a housefire, a car that catches on fire, a building.  A horrible accident, a disaster: rush in and put it out!

Though we don’t have much occasion to use them, around here, some of us have fireplaces.  They come in handy when the power goes out in the winter, like for that week a few years ago.  So, there are times when we want a fire, when a fire is just what we’d like—warmth, light, comfort; maybe, along with the firewood, we can burn some old papers we don’t need but don’t want to put in the trash.  The family gathers ‘round, the kids clamoring for cocoa.  Everybody seems happy; the kids vie with the cat and the dog for who gets to stretch out closest to the fire.  Closest—to the accident, the disaster?  Well, a fire in a fireplace is no accident or disaster.  It’s a blessing.  If you’ve done camping, like the real deal, you’ve cooked over a campfire, with better or worse success.  The campfire is welcome and helps to keep the critters at bay.

Fire is a transformative force.  I think it was in some physics class I took where I was told (as near as I can remember) that the fire releases the energy in the wood.  Fire unlocks energy, makes it available for work.  Energy that isn’t put to work, good work, useful work, helpful work . . . well, where does it go?  Frustrated, thwarted energy will have its outlet . . .

Jesus seems to lament that the fire he has come to bring has not yet been kindled.  I hope there has been a time in your life when you have felt on fire for the Lord.  I think I did, maybe, when I first came back to church—you know, wanting to get involved in everything, help however I could, show up, be present, useful, make a difference.  Jesus was wanting people to catch fire for the kingdom, for God.  Well, some did, apostles and others, but this was a small group.  Mark shares how Jesus could not do any miracles and only a few healings in his hometown, and how Jesus was astounded at the lack of faith he found, there.  The absence of kindling, beloved—the material and conditions necessary for a fire.  We’re very good at making sure properly to dispose of whatever might be fuel for a fire, as we know fire is dangerous and the last thing any of us should want . . . especially in church, right?  Dangerous church, dangerous worship (dangerous to whom? to what?) is the last thing Presbyterians want, Frozen Chosen as we are.  Everybody be cool!

Jesus goes on to say that he has “a baptism to undergo, and what constraint I am under until it is completed!” (12:50).  And the opposite of constraint is what?  So, before that fire can be kindled, before the flames, there must come this baptism.  And we say, well, John handled that in the Jordan.  But the baptism Jesus means isn’t the one he insisted John perform for Jesus.  The Greek from which we get baptism has the sense of a full immersion.  I don’t say that grudgingly.  Though Acts leads us to believe that water baptism probably took different forms, the Baptists are right about John’s and the common form in the early church: full immersion.  Why it is, then, that we don’t dunk in the Presbyterian tradition I’ll have to save for another time.  It’s our old friend, William Barclay, who tells us that the same Greek verb, which implies full immersion, fully submerged, was also a way of referring to “a grim and terrible experience.”[1]  Plunged deep.  Remember, beloved, as Paul tells us, the baptism of Jesus was also a sign of his impending, necessary death—the grim, terrible experience he voluntarily, knowingly underwent, for us.  No rebirth without a death.  If something is to be born, something else has to go.  A change.  We don’t make it go.  God who causes our rebirth is the same God who sanctifies us, in Christ.  Especially today, with this table and these elements before us, we’ve got to keep that part in clear view: in and only in Christ.

“[W]hat constraint I am under until it is completed,” Jesus says.  What could he mean?  It seems as if the fire, which had not yet been properly, fully kindled, could not be kindled, until this baptism to which Jesus is referring: his suffering, and death.  No rebirth, without death.  No Church in the power of the Spirit, without a resurrection.  It sounds as if Jesus is saying that, until that baptism, there is a certain limitation on what he is able to do.  He is not speaking from the perspective of his divine nature but of his human nature.  As the ancient rabbis pointed out, one thing God does not have is limitation.  Limitation is a strange concept, to God.  Jesus is eager for the full implication, the full benefit, the full power, of his suffering death to be set loose, broken open, catch fire.  Now, in the flesh, he must operate under certain limitations, restrictions.  He’s bound, in a real sense: constrained.

Then, after this baptism, he shall be free to work according to all his power, all his ability, without restriction or limitation.  And he means to put that power to work, for us, his faithful ones.  Beloved, painful as it is and ought to be to contemplate Christ on the cross—and we cannot celebrate Communion without remembering, without visualizing, without at least a little feeling his suffering death, the tearing of his body, the shedding of his blood—painful as it is and ought to be to contemplate, this is also an occasion of sacred joy for us: set free, by the power of God, for the power of God.

Our God is a God of peace.  He is a God of love.  He is a God of justice, righteousness.  To sum all of this, He is a holy God.  On this earth, holiness always looks and feels a bit foreign, it doesn’t fit so well.  If you have to be holy, please do it somewhere else.  There is peace, God’s own peace, the peace Christ gives, in holiness, receiving and dwelling in God’s holiness.  Receiving and giving Christ’s peace will make some waves, around you.  People are going to respond, react.  So, it’s no wonder that Jesus goes on to say, “Do you think I came to bring peace on earth?  No, I tell you, but division” (12:51).  He tells us this division will run straight through society, classes, skin color, language, sex, right down to the basic building block: the family.

Consider your own family.  Better, for today’s purposes, let me tell you about mine.  My parents came from households where Christianity was held in greater and less esteem: my mother’s parents held faith in high esteem and did their best to pass that along to their four children.  My father’s mother held faith in rather high esteem, and made sure her five children were raised in the church—a Presbyterian church, as it happened.  My grandfather, an overworked lawyer with many side hustles, who died at forty-five, was not remembered for his faith.  My father’s older brother became Buddhist-ish in stretches when he felt like it.  My father’s sister, upon her first marriage, became Unitarian-ish, as her husband and his family were.  My father had two younger brothers: the one was not known for any particular religious commitment, and my father’s youngest brother, like his father, was Catholic.  In that case, Catholicism was the path of least resistance when he married a Catholic and her family insisted.  In each instance, the fervor of Reformed Christianity appeared to be notably lacking.  But why let faith get in the way of love?  And yes, I realize we have mixed marriages here, too.  We make sacrifices, and God receives these in the spirit in which they have been offered.

As for my own parents, there was never a doubt for my sister and me, growing up, as to what role faith played in our family life.  Though for most of their adult lives regular church attendance was not a priority for my parents, faith was truly a pillar of our family life.  I praise God for this.  So far as I know, among my many cousins, with whom I have tried to keep up over the years, I and now recently my sister are the only ones making an active Christian faith of core importance in our lives.  Most show zero interest; a few are outright hostile.  And why?  Oh, the usual reasons: contrary to science, just rank bigotry, contrary to the most advanced morality, just a bunch of fear and superstition to control people—thought control.  Bunch of knuckle-dragging haters.  They don’t want to be told how to live their lives, thank you very much.  They don’t want to be judged, thank you very much.  They don’t want their preferred values questioned, challenged, or even lightly, conversationally probed.  Naturally, they will not tolerate the possibility that they might just be wrong about some things.  In other words, they are in active revolt against holiness.  They aren’t the only ones.

Jesus told us this would be so.  Where Jesus is present, there will be division because where holiness goes, there must be division, even in the closest relations.  Parent and child.  How many of you came from families where Jesus wasn’t really a thing?  Husband and wife.  It isn’t every couple for whom Jesus is equally important, equally valuable.  When you aren’t on the same page, regarding faith, that can be a sore, sore spot.  And I pray for you, if that is your situation.

It’s the old question, old as the Bible, old as the garden: who do you love more?  Who do you love most?  And, that being once answered, we then also know what are we prepared to sacrifice for the one we love most.  We sacrifice in proportion to our love.  Loving myself as I do, I’m not willing really to give up most anything about me.  If I truly loved myself, though, I would be more than willing to sacrifice, many things.  True love for oneself is found fully in love for God.  God will show us what we must sacrifice for the sake of this love, for the sake of holiness, for the sake of true life.  We’ve endured some criticism for our faith, I don’t doubt.  Perhaps even rejection, by former friends, even by family members.  I hope none of us have suffered the loss of a job because of our core love.  We read of some who have.  Teachers and students can and do face real penalties for expressing their religious convictions.[2]  Even pastors and theologians find themselves under censure for sharing their historical, orthodox faith.[3]  I hope we have not been put in prison for the sake of our core love.  We know of those who have been imprisoned and of others who are likely to be, if new laws are enforced.  In Scotland, the home of Presbyterianism, a member of parliament, who is also the author of a “buffer zone” law, contends “that the crime of praying within a home ‘depends on who’s passing the window’.”[4]  Praying in my own home is offensive, that is, if someone outside feels like being offended, has someone convenient and harmless to take it out on, and has political force behind her.  And some, beloved, some have been just foolish enough to be willing to die for the sake of their core love for God.  Heaven forbid!

[1] William Barclay, Gospel of Luke.  1953.  Daily Study Bible.  Philadelphia: Westminster P, 1975.  169.

[2] https://www.premierchristianity.com/opinion/kristie-higgs-was-sacked-for-questioning-sex-education-her-legal-victory-is-good-news-for-all-christians/18925.article

[3] https://www.premierchristianity.com/opinion/i-was-fired-for-my-sermon-on-lgbt-issues-but-i-will-not-apologise-for-speaking-the-truth/17142.article

[4] https://www.premierchristianity.com/opinion/christianity-is-being-attacked-in-the-west-why-wont-our-church-leaders-admit-it/19026.article