Through Flood and Fire (Isaiah 43:1-7)

 I went to Maui, six years ago. I went with my family, my sisters, and my sisters’ families. Both of my parents had died in the year prior, and they didn’t leave us a whole lot of money, but Dad did leave us some, enough for us to take this trip: a trip that all his children and grandchildren could take, together… 

One morning on that trip, Tristan and I woke up early while everyone else slept in. It was Sunday, and we wanted to go to church.

We went to Waiola Church in Lahaina, the oldest church in Maui. This church was founded in 1823—over 200 years ago—by the sacred high chiefess Keopūolani. A number of Hawaiian royalty were members of the congregation back in the days when Hawaii was an independent kingdom, and they have been laid to rest in the graveyard next to the church sanctuary. 

Yet for all that, Waiola Church is a small, humble church. We parked on the road in front of the church, along a low wall made of lava rock. A friendly dog greeted us as we got out of the car, but we soon found friendly people as well; not a huge crowd, but about 40 people in worship that day.

I don’t remember what songs we sang in worship. Some of them were familiar. Some were in Hawaiian… I do remember that there was a man playing guitar, and a woman playing the piano; and I remember that, before each song, they needed to take a moment to make sure they were on the same page, literally and figuratively.

But that was OK. Throughout it all, there was an incredible feeling of love and welcome - a genuine spirit of aloha. We were worshiping with people we had never met, and yet, it felt like we were with family. And that is what made it memorable and meaningful. 

Worship doesn’t have to be big, monumental; sometimes, a small, simple worship service is the most meaningful.

The love from that congregation followed me home. For several years, I kept their worship bulletin pinned to my bulletin board, as a reminder of that day.

As I said, that was six years ago. Since then, there has been a fire, a terrible fire, that burned Waiola church to the ground. In fact, that fire burned the entire town of Lahaina. All the tourist shops and restaurants along Front Street; historical buildings; libraries; schools; countless homes—even the magnificent banyan tree in the heart of town—were all destroyed in the catastrophic fire of 2023.

This week, of course, there have been terrible wildfires in southern California. Entire neighborhoods there have burned to the ground. As in Lahaina, the fires have burned churches, schools, restaurants, and countless homes; and they have scorched some of my favorite southern California hiking trails.

Several friends and relatives of mine were evacuated from their homes, although I don’t know anyone personally who has lost any property because of the fires. 

The other day, even before these fires in California began, I was thinking about Waiola Church, and wondering if it was somehow carrying on after the tragedy it endured. I looked online, to see what I could find. Most of what I read spoke of the church in past tense. Google told me that the church had permanently closed. 

But then I saw a link to an online “Blue Christmas” service on youtube, that happened a few weeks ago, led by the Waiola pastor. And I found out that Waiola church had partnered up with another church to hold worship services, and that there are, in fact, plans to rebuild Waiola church. 

Of course, there are many challenges, but this isn’t the first time Waiola has faced challenges. Strong winds once ripped off half the roof, a smallpox epidemic took many church members as victims, and not one but several previous fires have all ravaged the church. Yet each time, the church has persevered, and, God willing, they will persevere once again.

It seems rather fitting that, this week, the lectionary presents us with Isaiah 43:

When you walk through the fire, you shall not be burned, and the flames will not consume you.

In Isaiah 43, the people of Israel had seen the downfall of their once great nation. Not only was the kingdom gone; but the people had been taken off into captivity, in Babylon, far from their home. Yet the prophet offers this word of hope: God has not forgotten you. Just as God was with your ancestors, so God is with you.

Elsewhere in the book of Isaiah, it talks about a shoot growing out of the stump of Jesse. The image is of a great tree, symbolizing the great nation of Israel, cut down to a stump; destroyed. God’s people could not imagine such a terrible tragedy, and yet they were forced to endure it. 

All hope had seemed lost. The mighty tree had been cut down. All that was left was a stump.

And yet, from that stump, a shoot grew, symbolizing the hope that all was not lost, and that God’s people would rise up once again.

A similar thing happened with Lahaina’s own banyan tree. I said that it was destroyed, and at the time of the fire, many believed that that was the case. Damage from the fire was so extensive, that many thought the tree could not have survived. 

But later, close inspection revealed that some sections of the tree were still showing signs of life. There was hope.

Dead sections of the tree were pruned and cut out, and the tree has been carefully cared for, over the past year and a half, with special compost, and irrigation, and other measures.

The tree is healing. It is coming back to life. Slowly, but surely. It has been through the fire. But it is still alive. And a whole team of people—and, really, a whole community—is caring for it, to ensure that it has a long, vibrant, thriving future.

God’s promise in Isaiah isn’t just about the future. It draws on the past. Passing through the floodwaters and the fire isn’t just about the downfall of the kingdom, and their current captivity in Babylon. It’s also a reference to how God has been with God’s people in times past; how God was with Noah and his family on the ark; and, even more so, how God led God’s people out of slavery, escaping Pharaoh by passing through the waters of the Red Sea, with a wall of water on their right, and a wall of water on their left. Through every tragedy and challenge, God was with them; and God is with them now, and God will be with them in all the days to come.

I’m guessing that the people who put the lectionary together chose this scripture for this day because of its water and fire imagery. Especially its water imagery. Because today, the Sunday after Epiphany, is a day that focuses on baptism. 

Every year, on this day, the lectionary focuses on baptism. In churches that read all four lectionary texts every Sunday, the people are hearing what we heard from Isaiah, as well as Psalm 29, which says “The voice of the Lord is over the waters;” Acts 8, which includes a passing mention of baptism; and a section of Luke 3, where John the Baptist says, “I baptize you with water, but he will baptize you with the Holy Spirit and fire.”

And baptism is such an interesting thing. There are many layers of meaning to baptism, and what stands out to one person might not be quite the same as what stands out to another.

The act of baptism itself symbolizes death and rebirth. In the water of baptism, we are cut off from the breath that gives life. In the Bible, breath and life are always connected. Life begins when breath enters the body. Bones come to life when the breath of God fills them. In Genesis we read that God formed a human out of the dust of the ground, but that human wasn’t alive until God breathed into him the breath of life.

When we are baptized, we are, for a moment, cut off from the breath that gives life. There’s no breathable air under the water. This symbolizes our dying: our dying with Christ, our dying to ourselves. In a way, I suppose, it even symbolizes being cut off from God.

Yet we are never cut off from God. Because when we pass through the waters, God is there. When we walk through the fire, God is there.

And when we are lifted out of the waters of baptism, and we take that first breath after coming out of the water, it is like the first breath of a newborn baby. Breath flows back into our bodies, we are filled with new life. The old life, the life that we lived for ourselves, is dead. This new life, in which we live for Christ, has begun.

When Jesus was baptized—as he emerged from those baptismal waters, a voice from heaven was heard: “This is my son, my beloved son…”

We hear that same voice speak similar words, to the people of Israel, and to us, in Isaiah 43: “I have redeemed you. I have called you by name. You are precious in my sight. I love you. I am with you.”

And that voice of God is with us. It is with us when we pass through the waters. It is with us when we walk through the fire. 

God is not in the fire itself. The fire is powerful, but the fire is not God, or God’s doing. God is not in the flood, or the earthquake, or the windstorm. 

But God is there, with God’s people, in the midst of it. God is there, with those who suffer, those who have watched their homes and their churches burn.

And God is there, with those reaching out, offering assistance, working to alleviate suffering, acting with compassion, and showing love.

One of the ways God shows up is through the prayers and support the church offers in times of tragedy. Our denomination has a ministry called Week of Compassion, which responds to disasters around the world; this week, Week of Compassion is working with Disciples church members in Southern California who have lost their homes. Week of Compassion is providing support and assistance, and letting those affected know that they are not alone, that the church stands with them. 

And because our congregation supports and participates in the Week of Compassion ministry, that means that God is working through YOU, to be with those who walk through the fire… It’s not just a symbolic or hypothetical thing. Because of you, people in southern California—and anywhere tragedy strikes—know that God is with them in the midst of tragedy, through the support, assistance, and prayers they are receiving from the church.

Being baptized doesn’t mean we won’t experience life’s fires and floods. But because we have been baptized, we know—we have the assurance—that God will be with us, through everything we are made to endure. And as we walk with each other, and pray for each other, and support each other, we ARE the presence of God…We ARE the body of Christ… showing the world that, through it all, hope will endure, and a new day will dawn. 

This is God’s promise to us, to every person. There will always be a way forward, and God will be there with us, guiding us and leading us, as we make our way.

Perpetual Fire (Leviticus 6:8-13)

 This may not be the scripture you were expecting to hear this morning. Usually, on or around Epiphany (which is tomorrow), we hear the story of the magi, following the star to Bethlehem, then presenting to Jesus their gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh.

Most of you are familiar with the story of the magi (sometimes called “the three wise men”), and I want you to keep that story in the back of your mind. 

But I’m inspired today to begin not with a lectionary reading, and not with the story of the magi… but with Leviticus.

We… don’t pay a lot of attention to Leviticus. It almost never appears in the lectionary. The first section of Leviticus, from which today’s scripture comes, is mostly filled with instructions on how to offer sacrifices: What types of sacrifices there are, when the sacrifices are to be made, what animals are to be sacrificed, how they are to be prepared. It does this for burnt offerings, grain offerings, offerings of well-being, sin offerings, and guilt offerings.

It’s not the most exciting part of the Bible to read.

But today’s passage, about the perpetual fire, caught my attention, because just before Christmas I read an essay by Noach Dzmura in the book Torah Queeries that focused on this passage and made it very interesting.

Dzmura, a Jewish community leader, teacher, and writer, points out that, in this passage from Leviticus, the command is given that the fire shall not go out, but that it shall be kept burning. 

It says this not once, not twice, but multiple times. “The fire shall be kept burning. The fire shall be kept burning. The fire shall not go out. A perpetual fire shall be kept burning; it shall not go out.”

When something is repeated multiple times like this, you know it’s important. Ancient scripture writers didn’t underline things, or write in italics, or use bold print or ALL CAPS to emphasize their point. Instead, they used repetition. 

Dzmura’s essay pointed out that this command, to keep the fire burning, is why Jewish synagogues today have an eternal light burning in their place of worship: a light that symbolizes God's eternal presence and covenant with the Jewish people.

However, Dzmura lamented how that small light—often electric—is a much diminished version of the fire described in Leviticus, which was big and bright and alive; a real bonfire.

The fire by the altar described in Leviticus—the fire that symbolizes God’s eternal presence—is itself reminiscent of an even bigger fire: the pillar of fire and cloud that led the Israelites out of Egypt…

And while the endless instructions given in Leviticus may not exactly be the most interesting things to read, the story of the pillar of fire and cloud leading the Israelites sure did capture my imagination as a child; and it still does…

Imagine that giant pillar of fire at night… It's like Burning Man, but it never goes out; it requires no fuel, and it moves to lead and guide the people! A blazing column, reaching from the ground to the sky!

That pillar of fire was entirely God’s doing; but the perpetual fire beside the altar requires human action to keep going. Priests have to make sure that fire doesn’t go out, by constantly providing fuel for the fire, to keep it burning.

That fire may symbolize the presence of God, but it requires tending. That fire needs people to care for it and nurture it.

Fire continues to serve as a symbol of God’s presence. Every Sunday, we light candles here in our sanctuary. We don’t light them for warmth. We don't light them for illumination. We light them because the flames remind us that God is present, in this place.

I’ve always been fascinated by flames. Not in a “let’s burn everything down” sort of way; but I often find myself mesmerized by the sight of a flame. 

When I was in boy scouts and we’d go on week-long backpacking trips in the Sierra Nevada, we’d often end the day by lighting a small campfire, if the conditions allowed. We couldn’t always have a fire. When you’re above 10,000 feet in elevation, there aren’t enough trees, which means there’s very little wood for firebuilding. But lower down, in the forests below 10,000 feet, the ground was covered with plenty of fallen sticks and branches that could be gathered for firewood.

And as the sun set, and the stars came out, and the temperature dropped, we’d stand around the fire, bask in the warmth, and view the glowing reflections on each other’s faces as we told jokes and stories. 

But most of the time, our eyes were on the fire. The colors of the flames, usually a shade of orange, but sometimes with sparks of blue or green or violet, it all gradually turning deep red as the wood was consumed and turned to coals...

It’s so mysterious. That red glow looks almost liquid, or like a mist, a vapor, alive and ghostly, flowing and floating between the pieces of wood, except that it’s not a liquid, nor a gas, nor a solid. It’s just pure energy.

And it’s beautiful. And mesmerizing.

No wonder the ancients saw fire as a sign of God’s presence. So they kept it burning, beside the altar in the tabernacle, in the temple, in the synagogue… and in the hearts of the people.

Jewish scholars and rabbis over the centuries liked to emphasize this last point. The fire that is kept burning beside the altar is also to be kept burning in the hearts of the people. God’s presence resides within us just as much as it resides anywhere else—perhaps even more so, since we are made in God’s own image.

Which leads me to ask:

• How do you keep the fire burning within you? 

• How do you tend the flame of your own heart? 

• How do you recognize, and honor, the presence of God that is in you?

There are forces in this world—people—who act to quench the fire within you. People who try to snuff out the flame burning within you. People who make you question your own worth. People who make you doubt your own ability or purpose. 

You're told you’re not good enough. You’re told you’re always doing things wrong. You’re told, or made to feel, that the world would be better off without you.

And the light within you begins to fade.

Sometimes, it’s hard work, tending the flame, and keeping it going. 

The magi followed a star. The star led them to the child in whom God’s presence dwelt more fully than in any other human.

And what is a star, but a bright light, a burning fire, in the sky?

But even our view of the stars must be tended, cared for.

Because city lights make it hard to see the stars.

A few years ago, Ginger, Ethan and I visited several southwestern national Parks: Zion, Bryce, and Grand Canyon. And those parks are designated dark sky zones.

And, as it turned out, they were having a big astronomy and stargazing festival while we were there. 

So we got to look up at the stars not only with our naked eyes, but also through various telescopes. 

Yet even with the naked eye, the stars are so much more bright and vivid when you’re far, far away from any sources of artificial light.

It’s ironic, isn’t it, that to better see the light, we need to preserve the darkness. That, too, may provide a hint as to how we tend to the light within us: tend to the light, but honor the darkness as well.

Anyway, these thoughts bring me now to the stars we have for each of you. 

For the past six years, I have given out stars on the Sunday closest to Epiphany— stars with words on them—because I realized that we all could use a little help when it comes to navigating through life. Another way to say that is that I hope the words on these stars will help you tend the fire within you, so that it can shine a little more brightly in the year to come.

Today, we have a basket full of stars, and you are invited to take one. You can take it when you come up for communion, or you can come up after worship and grab it then.

If you are worshiping with us online, you can wait until the next time you are here in person to get your star… or, we have set up an alternative way for you to get a star-word, which you can find on our Facebook page…

Each star has a different word. The hope is that the word on your star will, in some way, help guide you on your faith journey in the coming year.

Maybe your star (and the word on your star) is a reminder to give thanks for how God guides you. 

Maybe your star is encouraging you to focus more on whatever word appears on it. 

I’m not telling you how your star or your word should guide you. That’s for you to figure out.

But if you ever have trouble praying, maybe the word on your star is a good word to focus on as you pray.

And if you’re not sure where your faith journey is leading you - if, on some days you aren’t sure what to believe anymore, or you aren’t even sure that you do believe anymore - maybe the word on your star can help.

If your heart is filled with fear, or anxiety, or doubt - perhaps your star can help with that.

Your star word may be a challenge, it may be an affirmation, it may be a comfort. That’s for you to figure out.

But hopefully, it helps guide you in some way, as you journey through the coming year.

And, hopefully, it will help you tend to that sacred, holy fire within, and keep it burning, casting God’s light into the world.