Fire of Compassion
Thursday, 26 September 2024
| James Cross
After the tides come high and low.
After the shadows crash in pain.
After the darkness breaks thru the light.
When the hope holds the fear away.
When the faith grips tight in the spin.
When the peace stands out like a hurricane eye.
Forgetting the aching that called out to be heard.
Forgetting the shaking
demanding old bones not grow.
Forgetting the sweating
that begged the fire to slow.
Love remains
Long after all the rubble is cleared away.
Long after all the dreams are repaired.
Long after all the future has come to be
Perfect love does not sink or blow away.
Perfect love cannot hide in the dark
Perfect love has no fear of the past.
Journal Entry: The Sacred Fire of Healing
You sit tethered to the IV drip, feeling the chemotherapy course through your veins. It's a fire, isn't it? A relentless blaze sweeping through the forest of your body. As the chemicals seep into every crevice, you close your eyes and think: Our hearts seek the divine, where the abyss within us can only be crossed by grace.
We, the initiated, know this fire intimately. It's a paradoxical inferno — meant to heal, yet it burns with such ferocity that we wonder if anything will remain. What can we gain by reaching for the stars if we haven't found the peace dwelling within our souls?
The clear liquid drips steadily into your arm. How can something so innocuous be so potent? But we know better, don't we? We've felt its power, scorching through us, leaving no cell untouched. It's as if we're standing before the Almighty, His love piercing every layer of our being.
In the quiet between machine beeps and hushed conversations, you ponder the forest of your body. Once lush and vibrant, now under siege. The undergrowth of hope feels brittle, ready to ignite. You recall Irenaeus' words: the knowledge of God is life itself. Without this knowledge, no achievement can save us from the inner darkness.
We've all been there — when hope feels like a luxury we can't afford. When the fire of treatment seems to consume not just the cancer, but our very will to fight. It's then we must remember: forests need fire to renew. Why do we strive to be something we're not meant to be? Origen said our true self is found in God alone.
You visualise the battle within. The chemo, a controlled burn, sweeps indiscriminately through your system. There's purpose in this destruction, isn't there? We chase shadows, believing them to be substance, yet we know not what we want, having not sought the illuminating truth.
We cling to this thought: the fire may be brutal, but it's cleansing. It reduces the tangled undergrowth of disease to ash, creating space for new growth. How can others see the integrity of our actions if they're not rooted in divine truth? Truth, Irenaeus taught, is Christ's light in us.
Opening your eyes, you gaze out the window. Life marches on while you sit here, a human forest fire. Do they know what it's like to burn from within? What do we gain by seeking fleeting pleasures? Origen reminds us they're not of the eternal, but the transient.
We're the secret fire-keepers, carrying this burning hidden from the world. Our skin doesn't show the flames, but we feel them flickering, relentless and all-consuming. We speak of love, but how often do we seek it where it can't be found? Origen points to God's love as our heart's true destination.
Nausea hits you — a reminder of the destruction within. Your body recoils from its saviour. But we know this will pass. The nausea, like the fire, is temporary. What profit are worldly riches if our souls remain barren, devoid of God's peace and joy?
You reach for the basin, prepared for rebellion. It's a strange dance, this healing through harm. Faith must penetrate our core, transforming us into living testimonies. Knowledge without love is empty; they must unite.
Exhaustion seeps into your bones. The fire seems to consume not just the cancer, but your very energy. We know this weariness of cellular warfare. For what good is knowing God if we don't love Him wholly? Love and knowledge must be one.
You wonder what will remain when the fire burns out. Will you recognise yourself? Why seek happiness externally when it's within, a gift of the Spirit waiting to be awakened? Origen teaches that eternal life's hope resides in the hidden depths where God abides.
We fear emerging as strangers to ourselves. But remember your poem: ‘After the flames, new growth may come, fragile green shoots rising from scorched earth’. It's not just hope, but a promise. We'll never find true meaning trapped in self-centeredness. Irenaeus speaks of self-giving love as the path to understanding.
You trace the path of your veins. Amidst the burning, healing seeds are planted. It's hard to believe when everything feels like ash, but we must trust the process. How can we be free if we rest in illusions? God's truth is our freedom, giving strength to walk in light.
We're not passive landscapes ravaged by fire. We're active participants, choosing life with each return to the infusion center. We choose renewal over unchecked growth. In silence and solitude, we confront the divine truth we often avoid.
Shifting uncomfortably, you've grown accustomed to discomfort. It's the price of survival. Imagine standing before the Almighty, His love piercing every layer. It's not abstract, but intensely personal and transformative.
The nurse checks your vitals. Her cool touch is a brief respite. We're grateful for these reminders that we're not alone in our fiery ordeal. This journey to God's embrace is like a consuming fire sweeping through our soul, burning away falsehoods.
You smile at her — a small defiance against fatigue and nausea. We find strength in these tiny rebellions, showing that the fire hasn't consumed everything. A spark of our old selves flickers beneath the ashes. As we stand before Him, all pretense melts away.
Alone again, you focus on the steady drip. Each drop is another moment survived, another step towards renewal. How can a burning fire liberate? The divine fire purifies, transforming our scorched hearts. In this transformation, we're freed to become our true selves.
We mark time differently now — in treatment cycles, good days and bad, moments of despair and hope. This fire of renewal consumes life's dross, leaving only the pure gold of our true nature.
You trace the words in your journal. ‘Chemotherapy is a fire.’ Yes, but fires eventually burn out. What's left is not just destruction, but possibility. We meet God in our inner selves, stripped bare before truth, finding our authentic being.
Closing your eyes, you envision your future self. It's hazy, but there's resilience there — strength forged in flames. This pain is healing, reclaiming the gold within. Divine love is an intense, purifying force seeking to heal, not harm. Through this painful truth, we find liberation.
The infusion ends. Relief mixes with apprehension for the days ahead. We know the pattern — effects building, peaking days later. It's a love challenging us to grow, to die to our old selves and be reborn.
As you unhook and gather your things, you ponder purgatory — not punishment, but purification. It's God's love working within, preparing us for divine vision. The fire that burns and saves is Christ Himself, Judge and Saviour.
Standing feels like victory. We always rise, don't we? No matter how much the fire takes, we face another day. This purifying encounter transforms us into who we're meant to be.
Leaving the center, you nod to other patients. There's a silent understanding among us fire-keepers. We ponder how suffering can be love. God's love, both just and merciful, desires our ultimate good.
Sunlight warms your face — a different, life-giving fire. We turn to it, reminded that not all heat brings pain. This purification, though painful, liberates us from falsehood, preparing us for life's fullness in God.
Each step home is a small victory. The world seems brighter, louder — your senses heightened by internal fire. We notice things we never did before, seeing with new clarity through smoke-stung eyes.
At home, you sink into your chair. Another treatment done, another step closer to the other side of this burning. We celebrate these small victories, these moments between flames. How does pain lead to joy? It's our salvation, reflecting God's deep, healing love.
Re-reading your poem, you hold close the promise of new growth. We are those fragile green shoots, pushing through ashes towards an unseen future. Our roots run deep, drawing strength from places the fire couldn't touch.
As the burning subsides, you rest. There's a long road ahead, more fires to endure. But for now, you dream of the forest you'll become when the burning is done. We are more than our cells, more than disease. We are forests of infinite possibility, our renewal birthright.
In this crucible of fire — both chemical and divine — we are transformed. The flames that threaten to consume us also forge us anew. As we walk through this fire together, we make a promise: to endure, to hope, to believe in the green shoots that will come. We will burn, yes, but we will also grow. And in that growth, we will find our healing, our strength, our rebirth — our true selves, illuminated by divine fire.
Journal Entry: Returning to the Flames
The fire calls me back. After weeks of fragile freedom, I find myself here again, tethered to the familiar IV drip. The waves of pain, so keenly felt before, return with a cruel regularity, rising and falling like the tide. It’s as though the sea has taken residence within me, its ebbs and flows dictating my very existence. When the pain crests, it crashes through my body with an intensity that leaves me gasping, reminding me of Balthasar’s notion that suffering, though brutal, is a necessary part of our participation in the divine drama.
I’ve come to know this pain intimately — the way it demands acknowledgment, refusing to be ignored. It’s a pain that doesn’t just ask for your attention; it seizes it, demanding that you bow before it. The fire within me, kindled once more by the chemicals seeping into my veins, is relentless. Balthasar would say that this is the purifying fire of divine love, a fire that seeks not to destroy but to cleanse, to prepare us for something greater.
In the midst of this internal storm, I find moments of stillness, as if I’ve been transported to the eye of a hurricane. It’s a strange calm, almost surreal, surrounded by the chaos of my own body’s battle. I remember Balthasar’s writings on the constancy of Christ — a rock in the tempest, an unchanging presence amidst the turmoil. It’s in these moments of calm that I feel closest to Him, as though He’s holding me in the eye of the storm, offering a brief respite before the next wave hits.
The shaking starts soon after. My body, reacting to the fire within, trembles uncontrollably. It’s as if the very marrow in my bones is trying to grow, to rebuild itself in the face of this onslaught, but the treatment makes it nearly impossible. I can feel the struggle deep within me, a battle between life and the chemical fire that seeks to cleanse me. The sweat follows, pouring from me as though trying to extinguish the flames. But this fire is not so easily quenched.
I think of Balthasar’s kenosis, the self-emptying of Christ, and wonder if this shaking, this sweating, is my own form of kenosis — a shedding of the old, a painful release of what must be let go for something new to take its place. The fire burns so intensely that I find myself pleading, silently, for it to slow, for the flames to abate even for a moment. But this is not a fire that listens to pleas; it has its own purpose, one that I am only beginning to understand.
Through it all, love remains. It’s strange how, even in the midst of such intense suffering, love persists, like an ember that refuses to be extinguished. Balthasar speaks of love as the ultimate force in the divine drama, a love that endures beyond all pain, beyond all suffering. It’s this love that keeps me returning to this necessary purgatory, this place of fire and renewal. It’s this love that I cling to, even as the waves crash over me, even as the fire threatens to consume me.
The physical manifestations of this battle are undeniable — shaking, sweating, the sensation of my bones struggling to grow amidst the flames. But it’s the internal fire, the one that burns without visible smoke or flame, that demands the most attention. It’s a fire that both terrifies and fascinates me, a paradoxical blaze that Balthasar might describe as both a consuming fire of judgment and a purifying fire of love. I can’t help but wonder what will be left when the fire finally burns itself out. Will I be the same? Or will I emerge from this crucible as someone new, someone refined by the flames?
The infusion ends, but the fire doesn’t. I leave the clinic, walking into a world that seems almost unaware of the inferno raging inside me. The sun beats down, its warmth a gentle reminder that not all fires burn with the same intensity. Balthasar’s Trinitarian love comes to mind — a love that flows between the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, a love that both consumes and heals. This love is the fire that sustains me, even when the pain seems unbearable.
As I walk, I think about the enduring presence of love throughout this ordeal. It’s easy to feel consumed by the pain, by the fire, but love remains, a constant flame that never flickers. Balthasar would remind me that this love is not merely a passive feeling but an active force, a participation in the divine life. It’s a love that calls me to endure, to hope, to believe that this fire, though painful, is part of a greater plan — a plan that will ultimately lead to my healing, my renewal.
I return home, my body weary but my spirit strangely calm. The waves of pain will continue, the fire will burn, but I am not alone in this. I am part of a divine drama, one that is playing out not just within me but in the world around me. The shaking, the sweating, the struggle of my bones — these are all part of the process, part of the purgation that will lead to something new, something better.
In the quiet of my home, I open my journal and begin to write. The words come slowly at first, but soon they flow, a testament to the fire within me. I write about the waves of pain, about the crashing intensity of the fire, about the moments of calm in the eye of the storm. I write about the shaking, the sweating, the struggle to grow amidst the flames. And I write about love — the love that endures, the love that sustains, the love that is both the fire and the promise of new life.
The fire may burn, the pain may come in waves, but I know now that this is not the end. The divine drama continues, and I am not alone in my role. There is more to come, more to endure, but also more to hope for. I close my journal, the words still echoing in my mind, and I offer a silent prayer — not for the fire to end, but for the strength to endure it, for the grace to see it through, for the hope that, in the end, love will have the final word.
And so, I return to the fire, not with fear, but with the knowledge that this too is part of the journey, part of the divine drama that will lead me to where I am meant to be — a place of healing, of renewal, of love.
James Cross trained in philosophy and economics in the Catholic University system. His knowledge as an indigenous man was formed by his mother from the Stolen Generation and the worldview of his Tiwi Island mentor. James is a writer and an artist.
Artwork: James Cross. Caption: ‘She is consumed with holy fire and purified from every imperfection.’ – Saint Catherine of Siena, The Dialogue (Chapter/Section X).