Ancient Israel wanted soothing voices. If a message promised comfort, they would pay to hear it. Prophets became a profession, and when a profession depends on pleasing customers, the truth gets trimmed to fit the market. Many in that guild learned to say only what people wished to hear. Yet, in the midst of all that noise, a few refused to sell the word. Their sermons were not crowd-pleasers. They spoke of judgment and course correction. And when the kings needed an honest messenger, they searched for the one no one wanted to hire—the one whose words stung.
Not much has changed. Our age is crowded with cheerful forecasts. Buy this device and life will become effortless. Subscribe to that service and time will multiply. Even some religious voices promise a painless path and call it faith. The price tag is modest; the cost to your soul is hidden. Comfort is the commodity; truth is the casualty.
Into such a marketplace steps Jesus: “I have come to set the earth on fire, and how I wish it were already blazing!” He is not peddling relief. He is not angling for tips. He names reality. His fire is not the rage of a tyrant; it is the holy heat of love, the light that reveals what is real, the warmth that brings the dead to life. He speaks of a baptism of suffering still to come and warns that fidelity to him will cut through even the tightest bonds. Not because he enjoys conflict, but because truth always divides what is genuine from what is counterfeit.
So the question is not whether his fire will burn; it is where we will let it burn first. Let it pass over our speech, so that we stop flattering, stop dodging, and tell one another the merciful truth. Let it pass over our spending, searing away the need to purchase another layer of distraction. Let it pass over our screens, so that we are no longer sleepwalking through days meant for wonder, gratitude, and attention. Let it pass over our grudges, burning down the fences we have built to keep painful people at a safe distance.
This flame also tests our love. Real love gives without the guarantee of return. It stays when it hurts, forgives when it would be easier to move on, and chooses the good of the other even at personal cost. Some will call that foolish. Some will resist it. That resistance is the division Jesus warns about—the inevitable rift between a life lived for appearances and a life rooted in him who is life, truth, and love.
God longs to gather us as one family; unity is his gift, not our achievement. But unity without truth is only a truce with illusions. Welcome the flame. Ask Christ to ignite what is cold, to expose what is false, to refine what is still mixed. And then live as people warmed by that fire—bright, steady, and unafraid—so that even those who now resist may one day draw near to its light.