He Took the Fire

Sometimes Scripture speaks in echoes.
Two ancient stories—one from 2 Kings, one from the Gospel of Luke—mirror each other in striking ways. In both, we meet Samaritans. A prophet enters their land. Someone longs to call down fire from heaven.

In the Old Testament reading, we see God’s justice. God does not turn a blind eye to what harms us—or to the harm we’ve done. God doesn’t shrug at injustice. That would not be good news. So the arrogant are humbled, the idolatrous confronted, the stakes made clear. Not because God is cruel, but because God is good.

And yet, even amid this fire, mercy was always within reach. One captain—unlike the others—approaches Elijah not with threats, but with humility. He pleads for his life and the lives of his men. And they are spared. The point was never condemnation. It was repentance. It was return.

Which makes what happens in the Gospel all the more striking.

Centuries later, another prophet enters Samaria—and his disciples remember the story. The Samaritans reject him. So James and John reach for a familiar script: “Lord, do you want us to command fire to come down from heaven?”

But Jesus rebukes them. Not the Samaritans. The disciples.

Because they’ve missed the point.

They think what’s missing is condemnation. They expect fire. What’s actually present is mercy.

And if we’re honest, they’re not the only ones. It’s a common mistake—to think that justice means someone must burn. That righteousness looks like vengeance.

Like the disciples, we’ve misunderstood the heart of God.

But Jesus shows us something more beautiful, and more costly. God's justice is not retribution; it is restoration. It doesn’t deny the truth of what’s been done. It doesn’t ignore pain. But it does something deeper than punishment: it bears the weight. He would rather take the fire upon himself than let it fall on us.

There’s a scene near the end of The Iron Giant, the animated film from the late ‘90s. A missile has been launched—misguided and unstoppable—and is headed straight for a town full of people. It was launched in fear. The Giant—a being made for war—chooses not to destroy, but to save. He flies into the path of the missile, arms open, eyes closed. And just before the impact, he whispers one word: “Superman.”

He takes the fire—so that others might live.

That’s what Jesus does.
That’s what the Cross is.

The disciples expected divine power to descend from above in a blaze of judgment. But Jesus shows divine power by suffering below. The God of justice becomes the one who absorbs injustice. Not because he is indifferent to sin, but because he would rather take our judgment upon himself than lose us.

This is why someone like Bono can say that “grace trumps karma.” Not because God is soft on injustice, but because he longs for our healing. He has always wanted his people to turn from what harms them, and from what harms others.

And when we would not—when we could not—he came after us anyway. He took our judgment on himself, so that we might live.

That is the audacious good news—for Samaritans, for bewildered disciples, and for you and me.¹

Station Twelve: Jesus Dies on the Cross, Jen Norton, 2019.

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Think of these midweek reflections as a preview of what’s coming on Sunday—not the sermon itself, but a glimpse of where we’re headed. I’ll share the full sermon here after it’s preached.

1. Fast-forward to Acts 8, and you’ll see: the story with the Samaritans wasn’t over. Not even close.