October 7, 2007
19 Pentecost, 2 Timothy 1:1-14
Many of you have experienced the fire pit that we got as a present from Holden’s parents. A big, portable fireplace, perfect for hauling out on cool evenings for youth group gatherings, and Lenten retreats, and parish campouts. Plenty a s’more has been roasted over that fire pit. And that fire pit has sort of changed the way I think about fire.
I grew up in a house with a fireplace. My sister and I used to fight over who’d get to light the fire once Dad got the logs and the newspapers just right. We loved throwing colored wrapping paper on the fire at Christmas and watching the flames change color. And lying in front of it at night when you knew it was freezing cold outside but with the fire roaring, we were so warm and cozy and protected.
But as an adult, my only fireplace experience is our gas one at home. We push a button and the fire turns on. There are a lot of positives to a gas fireplace, don’t get me wrong. No effort finding logs, no mess to clean up, no fear of flying sparks, no dangerous pokers lying on the hearth. It’s so easy, you can light it as often as you feel like. But it just isn’t as much fun -- you can’t throw wrapping paper on it, you can’t smell it, you don’t hear the crackle of newspaper and the thud of falling logs. Maybe it’s just so easy and available that it took the magic out of the experience, like microwave popcorn.
So this fire pit that we have is the chance for me to experience again the simple pleasure of a real live fire. Sparks flying, that great smoky smell, the beauty of real embers. But I’m realizing as an adult that the process of creating and maintaining a fire is actually far more difficult and time-consuming than I’d realized. (And as I say this please understand that I am only observing the work being done – it’s generally someone else that is actually doing the creating and maintaining of the fire.) First collecting all the wood, chopping it into appropriate-sized pieces, stacking it just so with kindling and newspaper, lighting the fire, and then constantly poking and prodding it, being ever-vigilant about adding new wood on top to keep it going. I don’t remember it taking that long and requiring that much attention as a kid; only now do I realize how much there must have been going on behind the scenes to create my blissful childhood memories.
Our reading today from Second Timothy suggests that faith is a lot like a fire. And I mean a real firepit kind of fire, not a mundane gas fireplace fire. Paul writes Timothy: “I am reminded of your sincere faith, a faith that lived first in your grandmother Lois and your mother Eunice and now, I am sure, lives in you. For this reason I remind you to rekindle the gift of God that is within you …”.
Unlike the gas fireplace, we can’t just push a button and turn on faith. It’s more of a heart thing than a head thing. And it’s the result of all sorts of people and experiences working behind the scene – all those logs and kindling. We are told that Timothy’s faith is due in some immeasurable part to his mother Eunice and his grandmother Lois. It’s an interesting exercise to think about who the important people in your faith journey might be. For me, the first person who comes to mind is my grandmother. My sister and I used to go visit her in Oregon when we were fairly young. We picked blackberries, baked pies, played Canasta, heard family stories, and visited the old Rees stomping grounds. Grandma not only took us to church, but sent us to Vacation Bible School, gave us inscribed Bibles and prayer books, and made us memorize the Lord’s Prayer and the 23rd Psalm. And I’ll never forget day she cupped her hands together and told us that she wanted to give us her greatest and most meaningful gift – her faith. At the time I thought it was sort of cheesy and strange, but looking back I can see how intent and steady she was in trying to share her faith, and also how her example and her fervor made me want to have a relationship with God. There are all kinds of people that must have played a role in forming our faith. People that were intentional about it, like my grandmother, and people that served as quiet models. And people we never even knew that wrote books or poetry or music that pushed us a little further on our way. Probably half the folks that informed our faith we can’t remember, and maybe wouldn’t credit if we did.
And like that fire that needs tending and new wood added through the night, our faith doesn’t just get started and keep going endlessly. Sometimes it takes hard work and real intervention to keep it going. Even Paul’s chosen apostle Timothy is told that he needed his faith “rekindled.” I’ve certainly had my share of rekindlers. Again, I probably have no idea how many people have influenced me in this way, but one that I can easily point to was Margaret. Margaret was two years younger than me and in my sorority in college. We were both rebelling somewhat vocally against some of the Greek rush practices and it was suggested to us that if we had such a problem with the system perhaps we ought to go inactive. And so we decided to skip town and went to her parent’s cabin in the Blue Ridge Mountains. At the time I just barely knew Margaret and I remember being embarrassed when in the car ride out of town she brought up Jesus. As a cradle Episcopalian I don’t think I’d ever heard anyone talk about Jesus so familiarly. And then that night she was reading her Bible and I could see that it was marked up and underlined and dog-eared. Again, something that no self-respecting Episcopal teenager I knew would haul out in public. It was sort of a re-awakening for me, a gentle re-sparking of those embers of faith that had gone a bit dormant.
I think my favorite thing about this image of a fire as a metaphor for faith is that a fire can always be restarted. Sometimes we might let the fire die out, accidentally or not. Sometimes it might pour down torrential rain and douse the fire out at a time when we just don’t have the wherewithal to seek shelter. But even when those orange embers are gone and all that is left is grey, sodden ash, there’s still that memory of the fire. That joyful reminder of the Christmas night when I was lying on the floor watching the sparks fly blue and green and red, and feeling the heat from those flames waft over me. The comforting memory of the first heart-pounding moment when I felt with absolute certainty how much God loved me. And sometimes that memory will have to keep me going until I find two sticks to rub together and start the process over again.
Paul tells Timothy that faith is something that is alive. Like fire, faith is always changing, sometimes growing, sometimes decreasing, but never the same thing twice. And it’s always affecting us and those around us – throwing sparks, wafting smoke, leaving that tell-tale scent – in ways that we can’t predict or imagine. Faith is messy, requiring us to rethink our most entrenched positions, to treat people differently than we really want to, to sacrifice our time and our possessions.
And since I’m going down this metaphorical path comparing fire and faith, somehow it seems fitting that this church burned down and was built again from the rubble. Because the Church, at its best and most glorious, is a place for building, lighting, supporting, rekindling, and sometimes rebuilding faith. We are meant to be a community that can both support and challenge one another. To model and teach and inspire and renew one another. And the baptism that we’ll have in just a few minutes is a perfect example of that.
The Masciola family and the Godparent-to-be ?? are about to stand up and make some lofty promises. They are going to promise to be responsible for seeing that little Eloise is brought up in the Christian faith and life. They are going to promise to help her grow into the full stature of Christ by their prayers and witness. It’s a pretty tall order. They are promising to help provide the big logs that are likely to be at the heart of Eloise’s fire of faith. But they won’t be alone in building it. All of us gathered here today are part of this too. We aren’t passive observers of a sweet ceremony, but active participants at the beginning of an awesome and life-changing process. We too make a promise as part of Eloise’s baptism – a promise that we will do all in our power to support her in her life in Christ. To help kindle her faith, to fan the flames, to encourage her and challenge her along her journey. During my time here we’ve made this same promise to Luke Trumbo, to Liam Garvey, and to Bear, Barbara and Audrey Baker. But I think this same promise lies unstated at the heart of this entire community – that we will do all we can to support each other in our Christian journeys.
Of course no metaphor is completely satisfactory. So I do want to cheat a little bit and broaden my fire metaphor just a tad to include one little attribute of the gas fireplace. Theologians throughout the centuries have talked about the idea of a divine spark, or God consciousness, that is within every person, whether or not they know or accept it. Sort of a pilot light, if you will, given from God, that can never go out. A small flame from which our fire of faith can always be started, or re-started, if need be. So even when we think we have no fire, or that we’ve completely smothered those flames or ignored them for so long that they’ve died out, there is still always there available to us a way to enter (or re-enter) relationship with God. A way for us, along with Timothy, to “rekindle the gift of God that is within” us.
ER