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A weekly sermon podcast from Ojai, California. Grounded in scripture and open to the world, these reflections invite you to listen, wonder, and live the story.
The Word That Burns
Texts: Jeremiah 23:23–29; Psalm 82; Hebrews 11:29–12:2; Luke 12:49–56
In Southern California, we know fire.
Not just from years past, but from this week. The Canyon Fire has been burning not far from us. In January, the Palisades Fire burned from the ridges down to the Pacific Coast Highway, closing it for months. The Eaton Fire in Arcadia tore through neighborhoods, destroying homes and churches. And here in Ojai, we carry the scars and stories of the 2017 Thomas Fire—when the air turned orange, ash fell like snow, and friends and neighbors fled their homes.
Living here, we know fire’s power to change a landscape in hours. Jeremiah knew that power too, and he dared to use it as an image for the Word of God — not just words on a page, but God’s living presence and purpose breaking into the world — fire that changes not only land, but lives: “Is not my word like fire,” says the Lord, “and like a hammer that breaks a rock in pieces?”
It’s a reminder that God’s living Word is not always gentle. It is not a scented candle to make the room more pleasant. Sometimes it works like a crucible—holding us in the heat long enough for the impurities to rise and be removed. Sometimes it is a hammer—breaking open what is shut tight.
Jeremiah spoke into a time when people were being reassured by prophets who told them exactly what they wanted to hear: “Don’t worry—everything’s fine.”
But everything was not fine. Injustice was entrenched, the poor were neglected, and the people had turned from God’s covenant.
God’s response was not to offer more soothing words, but to awaken them: I am not far off. I see what is happening. My living Word will burn and shatter if that’s what it takes to break the spell of false peace.
If you’ve returned to a neighborhood after a fire, you know that “peace” is not the right word for the moment when you see what the flames have taken. The presence of God sometimes exposes the landscape of our hearts and our world with that same stark clarity.
Psalm 82 shows us where this fire is aimed. God calls the rulers and powers into the divine council and brings charges:
“How long will you judge unjustly and show favor to the wicked? Give justice to the weak and the orphan; maintain the right of the lowly and the destitute.”
In other words: God’s judgment is not random destruction. It is a moral fire, aimed at what exploits or neglects the vulnerable.
In nature, fire burns without discrimination — chaparral and oak, old growth and tender shoots alike. But the fire of God’s living presence is not like that. It is purposeful. It burns away injustice so that life can be restored.
In Luke’s Gospel, Jesus steps directly into that prophetic tradition: “I came to bring fire to the earth, and how I wish it were already kindled!”
He’s not talking about the kind of fire that sweeps through our hillsides in dry Santa Ana winds. He’s talking about the purifying fire of God’s reign — the reign of God’s love, justice, and mercy — that will not leave things as they are.
And that fire will bring division. Not because Jesus loves conflict, but because when God’s presence is active and moving, we are forced to choose. And those choices will not always unite people—sometimes even families will fracture over them.
We know in this parish what it is to see the landscape change overnight. Jesus is saying: the coming of God’s reign changes the moral landscape just as dramatically.
Hebrews gives us the call to live in this refining fire with perseverance. The writer points to the “great cloud of witnesses”—men and women who faced hardship, exile, persecution, and still trusted God.
And then comes the challenge: “Lay aside every weight… run with perseverance the race set before us, looking to Jesus, the pioneer and perfecter of our faith.”
When a wildfire threatens, you can’t carry everything. You take what you need to live, and you leave the rest. The presence of God in our lives calls us to do the same spiritually. Let go of the burdens that keep you from running the race.
Here in our hills, we know that fire doesn’t only end life—it can also prepare the ground for new life. Chaparral seeds split open in the heat. Nutrients locked in dead brush are returned to the soil. In time, green shoots appear where everything once looked dead.
This is how God’s living Word works when it burns in us. It clears away what chokes life. It makes space for the new thing God is planting. The heat can be painful, even frightening—but without it, some things would never grow.
So where is God’s presence and purpose burning in our own time, our own place?
• It burns where immigrants are treated as disposable—detained in unsafe conditions, separated from family, or made political pawns.
• It burns where corruption in government undermines the common good, erodes trust, and enriches the powerful at the expense of the vulnerable.
• It burns where our healthcare system leaves people bankrupt or untreated because they are poor, underinsured, or simply in the wrong zip code.
• It burns where violence—whether on the streets, in schools, or in homes—is met with indifference instead of action.
• It burns where creation itself is exploited for short-term gain, and the cost is borne by those with the least power to respond.
• And it burns within the Church when we protect our own comfort instead of the vulnerable, when we cling to institutional survival instead of following Jesus into costly, transforming love.
The fire of God’s living Word is not meant to destroy us. It is meant to free us—from the false peace that accepts these things as inevitable, from the illusions that keep us from naming them, from the habits that make us look away.
If you’ve walked the hillsides after a fire, you’ve seen what comes next. At first, it looks like ruin—blackened earth, ash underfoot. But after the winter rains, green shoots emerge. Plants that needed heat to germinate begin to grow.
That’s what God’s living Word does when it burns in us. It clears space for new life. It makes room for the kingdom.
The Word that burns is also the Word that renews. It is the Word that saves.
So, do not be afraid of the heat. If God’s presence feels like it is pressing on you—challenging you—burning in you—trust that this is the fire that leads to life.
In God’s hands, fire is not just destruction. It is transformation. The hammer is not just for breaking; it is for shaping.
Let God’s living Word — God’s own presence at work in us — burn and break until the only thing left is what is true, and just, and rooted in love. And when the green shoots appear, we will know: this is the life God was making room for all along.
Amen.