Mercy and Fire

A Reflection on the First Reading for Sunday, March 10th, 2024:
Fourth Sunday of Lent

---

2 Chronicles
​36.14-17a, 19-23

All the leading priests and the people were exceedingly unfaithful, following all the abominations of the nations; and they polluted the house of the Lord that he had consecrated in Jerusalem.

The Lord, the God of their ancestors, persistently sent his messengers to them, because he had compassion on his people and on his dwelling place; but they kept mocking the messengers of God, despising his words, and scoffing at his Prophets, until the wrath of the Lord against his people became so great that there was no remedy.

Therefore the Lord brought up against them the king of the Chaldeans, who burned the house of God, broke down the wall of Jerusalem, burned all its palaces with fire, and destroyed all its precious vessels. The king took into exile in Babylon those who had escaped from the sword, and they became servants to him and to his sons until the establishment of the kingdom of Persia, to fulfill the word of the Lord by the mouth of Jeremiah, until the land had made up for its Sabbaths. All the days that it lay desolate it kept Sabbath, to fulfill seventy years.

In the first year of King Cyrus of Persia, in fulfillment of the word of the Lord spoken by Jeremiah, the Lord stirred up the spirit of King Cyrus of Persia so that he sent a herald throughout all his kingdom and also declared in a written edict: “Thus says King Cyrus of Persia: The Lord, the God of heaven, has given me all the kingdoms of the earth, and he has charged me to build him a house at Jerusalem, which is in Judah. Whoever is among you of all his people, may the Lord his God be with him! Let him go up.”

Pause. Pray. Reflect.

When I went to drop my kids off at school in the morning, I decided to do so by leaving them at the dog park so I could kill two birds with one stone (a terrible saying). I would get them to school on time and give the dog a bit of exercise. But as I let the dog out of the car, I turned and saw the shimmer of the silver thaw on the trees and a nearby walking park. In that moment, I felt the invitation to a different sort of “win-win“ scenario. I could walk the dog and receive a little peace for myself—a time I could dedicate to God, a beautiful mercy. And as I was walking, I thought about this shimmer on the trees and the way it invited me into something more.

In me, God’s invitation is rarely received. So when I read this passage from Second Chronicles, this is where I found myself: wrestling with the consequences imposed upon the people of Jerusalem when they failed to accept the invitation God extended to them. It’s like spoiled meat sandwiched between the merciful bread I associate with God. I spent hours unpacking this with holy women, unwilling to accept any of their rationales for the horrors God imposed on these people—a life sentence—by the sword and through their imprisonment. And now, sitting in a small, rural church, though there is beauty in it, my eyes are drawn to its state of disrepair. There are cracks in its walls, paint chipped and peeling, stains where the water has seeped in, even large chunks of the concrete have completely fallen away. This is where I find myself, or rather, now, it is where God finds me. I am in a state of disrepair, much like the rogue priests of Jerusalem. I have allowed my interior world to be adorned with unholy attachments, false idols, and the avoidance of God’s truth, which is, in essence, Goodness. These intruders occupy the sacred space that is meant to be taken up by Him.

His invitation now is this: Will you, my child, enter willingly into the fiery furnace with an unrelenting trust in Me, so that all the trappings of this world are burned to dust? 

Will I?

If I am to be like God, I must shimmer like the trees after a silver thaw. Dressed in prayer, the way the soft white snow dresses the trees after a snowfall. It softens the sharp edges of the woods, like a favourite blanket. It both invites and warms, comforts and protects. It is the beautiful picture of His mercy. This Beauty comes with a cost, though—the hard work of repentance, recognizing the weight of my sinfulness and reconciling it to God and to others. It requires the blood, sweat, and tears of restoration that comes about only by sitting with Him long enough to feel the discomfort of His conviction, allowing the burning of my unholy desires. In the end, both are necessary in the process of restoration—His gentle mercies and His refining fire. While His mercy covers all manner of sin, His fire refines me from within.

​

​Lori MacDonald

---