Amen. Power is alluring but our impacts as disciples are so personal and individual. A senator could choose to harm or do good for broader groups than single individuals. Judgment is not mine. I am responsible for my own accountability in serving and stumbling in serving God. I will be struggling with that full time until my last breath.
It beckons the everlasting question, “Who do people say that I am? … Who do you say that I am? … Who am I?” May I have enough humility and faith to endure the responses. Thank you for keeping the flame, Cameron. Peace…
Loved this powerful, well-written, and wise reflection. Also have never thought about the two fires before - a compassionate invitation for all of us to respond as we can to the question that matters.
Thank you, Rev. Trimble! So true, sometimes the fire meant to warm us ends up burning us. We need to respect its potential. I am a poet, and about a month ago, I wrote a poem about that very image of the charcoal fire in John's gospel. Not sure I can print it here, but here it goes!
Amen. Power is alluring but our impacts as disciples are so personal and individual. A senator could choose to harm or do good for broader groups than single individuals. Judgment is not mine. I am responsible for my own accountability in serving and stumbling in serving God. I will be struggling with that full time until my last breath.
It beckons the everlasting question, “Who do people say that I am? … Who do you say that I am? … Who am I?” May I have enough humility and faith to endure the responses. Thank you for keeping the flame, Cameron. Peace…
Loved this powerful, well-written, and wise reflection. Also have never thought about the two fires before - a compassionate invitation for all of us to respond as we can to the question that matters.
Thank you, Rev. Trimble! So true, sometimes the fire meant to warm us ends up burning us. We need to respect its potential. I am a poet, and about a month ago, I wrote a poem about that very image of the charcoal fire in John's gospel. Not sure I can print it here, but here it goes!
Charcoal Fire
John’s Gospel, chapter 21
He knew.
He knew that after a night at sea,
rowing, wet, fighting the waves,
fighting our sadness,
we’d be hungry.
Is there anything better than a hot breakfast?
Fish sizzling in a skillet,
lightly salted,
just baked bread to sop up the grease,
to sop up the sadness?
We didn’t know it was him,
but somehow we did.
Didn’t we see him feed the 5,000?
He asked for our fish and kept cooking
over a charcoal fire,
sliding the savory deliciousness
into our thankful hands.
It wasn’t until later that he asked me
if I loved him – three times –
and before each “yes” I closed my eyes
and remembered that cold night, the fear,
and the denial over that other charcoal fire.
“Yes, Lord, you know I do.”
He knew.