I was just a boy the first time I saw a man give his life to God in ordination.
My father knelt in a small Southern Baptist church.
I don’t recall the sermon—only the silence, the stillness,
the hands resting on his shoulders.
Even as a child, I knew something holy had happened.
It was my first glimpse of God’s strange, beautiful way:
strength through surrender,
fire through faithfulness.
Years later, I knelt too—
this time with my brother deacons, clothed in white, called by name.
We lay before the altar, the Litany of the Saints pouring over us like a river.
The bishop’s hands rested on my head, steady and warm.
He placed the Book of the Gospels in my hands—
not as a relic, but as a torch.
And in my heart I heard:
“This is gift.
This is fire.
Pass it on.”
That fire reaches back further than me—back to Moses on Mount Nebo,
blessing the promise he would never enter,
laying hands on Joshua so the Spirit could rest on another.
The fire of God is not for keeping—it’s for giving away.
God’s work never ends; it changes hands.
Every vocation has its Nebo moment:
fruit we help grow but never taste,
visions we glimpse but never complete.
The call is not to cling,
but to bless,
to pass the flame.
So when I lift the chalice,
or place the Body of Christ into trembling hands,
I remember—
this fire is not mine.
It came from Moses,
from the Upper Room,
from my father’s quiet surrender.
And it will keep moving—
generation to generation—
until the Promise is all in all.
Lord Jesus,
Teach us how to kneel without holding on too tightly.
Teach us to bless even when the gift is not ours to keep.
Place in our hands the same fire You once breathed into Your Church—
a fire meant to be shared.
In the mending of hearts,
in the quiet yes of each day’s surrender,
let our lives bear witness
that Your Promise still stands,
and always will.
Amen.
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