Baptized by Wildfires

Luke 3:15-17, 21-22

As the people were filled with expectation, and all were questioning in their hearts about John, whether he might be the Messiah, John answered all of them by saying, “I baptize you with water. One who is more powerful than I is coming. I am not worthy to untie the thong of his sandal. He will baptize you with the Holy Spirit and fire. His winnowing fork is in his hand to clear his threshing floor and to gather the wheat into his granary; but the chaff he will burn with unquenchable fire.”

After all the people were baptized and after Jesus himself was baptized and praying, the heaven opened and the spirit descended upon him in bodily form, like a dove. And a voice came from heaven, “You are my Son, the beloved. With you I am well pleased.”

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It’s hard to wonder about “unquenchable fire” this morning without being mindful of what’s been burning in California all week – the houses and habitats, the landscape and livelihood, the lives of so many people and so much of God’s beautiful creation.

And I’ve spent a fair amount of time the last few days watching those rescue workers and firefighting aircraft douse those relentless flames with gallon after gallon after gallon after gallon of water and fire retardant, as people pray for some relief and some reprieve from the destruction of those wildfires – all of which is pretty hard to fathom, here in the frozen, cold, snow and ice of our Midwestern winter.

And I saw one story, in particular, about it all, that got my attention. A guy named Miro Freed, who used to work for the Forest Service as a Firefighter in California, but doesn’t any more, was able to save his home somewhere up in the highlands, or mountains, of Sierra Madre, from burning to dust like so many of the homes and businesses of his friends, family, and neighbors along the California coast. And he told a reporter how he did it.

Over the last five years, Freed has been doing what he called “fuel reduction” and creating what he called “defensible space,” around his home. From what I gathered, this means he got rid of certain kinds of plants and trees from around his house so that, should a fire come, they wouldn’t serve as kindling and fuel that would help to burn the structures on his property. Hence what he called, “fuel reduction.”

He also described literally raising up trees and bushes – the ones that remained a distance from his house – to a higher elevation from the land and plants beneath his on the mountain, so that, as a wildfire climbed up the hillside there would be less of a chance that it could reach – or that the flames would jump – to the plants and foliage and structures on his land. I imagine this “defensible space” amounts to a significantly vacant span of emptiness, for lack of a better description.

Of course, they also showed him soaking down all of the above – the trees, bushes, and foliage around his house – with a garden hose to keep the flames at bay, too.

And all of that guy’s pro-active, pre-emptive, thoughtful preparation helped remind me to think differently about John the Baptist – and all of his words and warnings down by the river on the day of Jesus’ baptism.

See, John always sounds so angry, doesn’t he? And he often gets portrayed that way, with all of his talk about winnowing forks and threshing floors; about burning chaff and unquenchable fires, I mean. (John, why are you mad … when you could be glad?)

Well, maybe John isn’t so mad, after all. Or angry, or as fire-and-brimstone as Christians have so often made him out to be. And, even more, maybe that’s not the way we’re supposed to imagine or receive the Jesus John was promising and pointing toward, either.

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