If the winds of joy are mysterious, the fire of joy is mystical. It is the joy of friendship with Jesus—communion with his presence deep in our spirit. It is Jesus—not just theology or biblical propositions about Him. We abide in Him, and He dwells within us (see John 17).
As with all mystical truths, we reach for analogies to explain them. This relational joy warms our hearts on the darkest and coldest days. It is the joy the two followers of Jesus felt on the road to Emmaus as Jesus spoke to them: “Were not our hearts burning within us while he talked with us on the road and opened the Scriptures to us?” (Luke 24:3)
This joy is available to believers all the time because Jesus, Emmanuel, has promised to never leave us or forsake us. But like natural fires, the fire of this joy needs tending. Paul uses fire language when he exhorts Timothy: “For this reason I remind you to kindle afresh the gift of God which is in you through the laying on of my hands” (II Timothy 1:6 NASB).
I am a man of few skills, but I do know how to cut kindling and tend a fire. Years of camping along the coast of Oregon have honed the art of fire-poking. Every fire seemed to live its own life, beginning in a blaze of kindling carefully piled to burn quickly. But just at the right time, larger and heavier pieces are added. The bigger hunks of wood do not burn as brightly, but they last longer and burn steadily.
So what fuels our joy? One essential element, I have discovered, is honesty. Friendship with Jesus grows strongest when we are completely honest with him. Honesty is like the air that allows the fire to burn brightly. If the wood is piled too tightly, it doesn’t catch. If there are things we won’t allow God to speak to us about, the fire and joy of his presence sputters and smolders. We should tear down all our off-limit signs and throw them on the fire.
More of my prayer life has recently become poking the fire. I still pray for people and for needs, but I am often poking my attitudes, emotions, and thoughts so they are closer to the flame of Jesus’s presence. It is not just me letting rebellion or resistance be set ablaze; it is also pushing things toward Jesus that I didn’t know needed his touch.
The other day I was opening my heart up to Jesus. I was grieving Peter’s death. I have no bitterness or resentment toward God about his death—I simply cried out to Jesus, “But I loved Peter!” Out of nowhere and unexpectantly, there came into my mind, “I loved him first.” The words felt so tender that I knew they were spoken by Jesus. The joy of His presence burned brightly as we grieved together. And that is wonder and beauty of God’s joy, it can burn under water—in our deepest grief and greatest loss.
In my years of watching campfires, I have seen pieces of wood roll or fall away from the center of the fire. If left alone, it will burn awhile but eventually smolder and go out. I found that nudging everything to the center of fire—my work, my relationships, my leisure time, my finances, my study, my possessions—keeps the fire of burning. I taught for years at secular school where every perspective on anything seemed to exclude God. Again and again, I had to intentional bring my teaching and committee work into the presence of God and offer it as a sacrifice.
When camping with the boys, Teckla and I would sit around the dying campfire after they were all in the tent for the night. Often, we had burned through all the wood we had gathered, so we pulled our chairs closer to the fire. Sometimes I would grope around in the dark for dry spruce and fir cones to feed to the little fire. We moved closer to the fire and closer to each other. We would see the flicker of the little flame in each other’s eyes. And smile.
