Fire
We all need to burn off some invasive species.
With the possible exception of water, there is no metaphor more powerful for humans than fire. The Bible, of course, is rife with it:
The burning bush, through which the Lord spoke to Moses
The pillar of fire that the Israelites followed through the wilderness
The tongues of fire that hovered over the Apostles’ heads on Pentecost
The lake of fire that awaits the unrighteous in Revelation
In the Qu’ran, the Prophet speaks often of fire, usually in keeping with the Revelation/Last Judgment motif. And in another ancient religion that was an early competitor to Christianity, Zoroastrianism, fire is sacred — the very manifestation of asha (divine truth), and thus, in their temples a fire is always burning.
Last weekend, with the help of some friends (most notably, longtime firefighter and smokejumper Timo Rova), I set a really big fire. Three acres, more or less.
Timo wrote us a burn plan, which I submitted to the Minnesota Department of Natural Resources. Then, on the day of, seeing that the conditions were within the parameters of our plan, I called the DNR and activated the permit.
The reason for the burn was twofold: to regenerate the forest floor, and to attack the invasive buckthorn that has crowded out many native fauna. The latter will require burns over several years, but the time to start is now.
Holding a can that’s full of 1/3 gasoline, 2/3 diesel, then lighting it on fire, is, I’ll admit, frightening. It’s the very thing our parents told us never to do. But I learned that a drip torch is an ingenious contraption that drops flaming fuel out in squirts.
The forest floor in that part of the property was covered with dry oak leaves and pine needles, and it didn’t take much to get the fire going. It burned fast and hot. I watched with amazement as Timo walked right through the middle, lighting more fire, pulling the edges of the fire into the center, he told me later.
When it was all over, in under and hour, the land was charred and black. The next morning, a couple hot spots were still burning. I doused them.
After the burn, I thought about our primeval ancestors and their relationship to fire. Their fear of it, and their use of it. What a powerful force, when kept under control. And how devastating when it’s out of control.
I remembered this conversation between two Desert Fathers in the fifth century:
Abba Lot went to see Abba Joseph and said to him, “Abba, as far as I can I say my little office, I fast a little, I pray and meditate, I live in peace and as far as I can, I purify my thoughts. What else can I do?”
Then the old man stood up and stretched his hands toward heaven. His fingers became like ten lamps of fire and he said to him, “If you will, you can become all flame.”
Fire is cleansing, purifying — a powerful metaphor for the spiritual life.
I’ve been thinking a lot about the spiritual life because I’m teaching a class on the topic. And one thing I’ve noticed is how much easier it is for me to be quiet than it used to be, when I first taught this class in 2012.
To quiet my mind these days is not so much of a struggle. For instance, I used to have ongoing bouts of insomnia — waking in the middle of the night, my mind would churn through worries and anxieties until I finally acquiesced and got up. That doesn’t happen to me anymore. My sleep — such a barometer of mental and spiritual health — is far better these days.
In general, I have a lot less anxiety than I used to. The kids are gone, successfully launched into adulthood, which is a big part of it. But other factors in my life that on paper should vex me, don’t. Aging, for example, or my book not selling very well, or not making much money. These do not bother me.
Surely the refining fire in my life was the decade of the divorce/custody struggle (about which I wrote in The God of Wild Places). Most everything I’d cared about in my 20s and 30s — fame, book sales, wealth — were burned away in a white-hot inferno. My dream of being the pastor of a big church, incinerated.
What I was left with: Courtney and the kids, a home we love, my family and cabin, and buddies to hunt with. The freedom to write, which is among the greatest gifts, survived the fire.
I suppose more fires may be in my future. More likely — if you’ll allow me to over-extend the metaphor — some hot spots still burn inside me, remnants of the fire that have not yet been extinguished. But most of the fuel has been consumed. The chaff is gone; only refined gold remains.
Or so I hope.
And I hope that you survive your fires.
Thanks for reading. Want some more? Here’s an essay I wrote about my first fly fishing trip, and my mentor and teacher, Brian McLaren.
I loved this. You really need to write more, I'm sorry in advance for saying that, I know your busy, but honestly how you weave some really interesting and maybe a little different topic and turn it into a mini sermon is incredible. Thank you. Please tell Courtney her photos are killer.