The Fiery Ordeal
As she lay dying from the rigors of the concentration camp, Betsie Ten Boom said to her sister, Corrie, “We must tell people what we have learned here. We must tell them that there is no pit so deep but that He is deeper still.”
Peter writes a corollary to Daniel’s story about the Hebrew exiles who were thrown into Nebuchadnezzar’s fiery furnace. He says, “Do not be surprised at the fiery ordeal…as though some strange thing were happening to you.”
“Fiery ordeal.” This is an apt description of my soul’s situation.
I’ve changed banks, altered my digital platforms, spent hundreds of dollars on increased security, revamped backups, rearranged my writing, procured additional tech assistance, purchased routine security checks—the list goes on and on.
Oh, to lay hands on the folks who cancelled me and censored my Christian viewpoint. I’m not in a turn-the-other-cheek mood. My soul is on fire!
Right here. In the land of the free and home of the brave. Where our money says “In God We Trust” and our Constitution guarantees free speech, I’m exiled for my Christian convictions.
But then, Peter tells me my fiery ordeal is neither strange nor surprising.
Marginalization, ruin of reputation, heavy-handed repression, incarceration: These abuses are not new. I saw them—rampant—during my work in Eastern Europe. Jonathan Turley writes extensively in The Indispensable Right about repression of speech throughout America’s history. So, this is nothing new.
But still, being exiled for my faith here in America, surprised me.
Do not be ashamed.
I expected criticism when I wrote to society, but cutting me out of society like a cancer? I’m an embarrassment, someone I can’t reveal to my neighbors, a man whose name is digital poison. A man whose government believes should be eliminated because of his shameful views.
I’m not used to the problem of shame.
Thus, Peter’s admonition is further challenging: Do not be ashamed of your plight, he instructs (cf. 1 Pt. 4:16).
Yes, well Brother Peter. Let’s think through your counsel:
People who reference me digitally: podcasters, hosts, networkers, those considering and advancing ideas: I must disclose that referencing my name is likely to instigate a digital siege on their platforms. I use a pseudonym. I’m a mystery guest. I’m reluctant to say what I do.
I’m reminded of Victor Hugo’s, Les Misérables, in which Jean Valjean must constantly show his parole papers. The persistent harassment, shame, and isolation are insufferable. Like Jean Valjean, I am forever guilty and will never escape the reach of Javert’s power to afflict me.
Brother Peter, this certainly feels like shame. Your thoughts?
Peter doubles down. He bolsters his view of affliction by introducing joy, exultation, glory, and blessing into his viewpoint. Mind your ways, he writes. Do not be ashamed. Entrust your soul to your Creator, he counsels (vss. 15-19).
Clearly, Peter believes this censorious exile is a feather in my hat.
When Daniel writes the story of his friends being thrown into the furnace, he includes a curious detail: In 3:21 he states that Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego were thrown into the furnace fully clothed—including with their hats on.
I like hats. I wear them a lot—most of the time, in fact. Sometimes, in the winter, I sleep in a hat. My outside hats have feathers, feathers of my finding, feathers that make a statement about me.
My Older Brother is the fourth man in the fire.
I don’t know why—and don’t suppose I need to understand why, but when I noticed the Hebrew exiles were thrown into the fire wearing their hats, it struck me as a similar concept to dying with your boots on: I’m engaged. I’m in the fight. My hat is a statement. It’s creased and stained and unique to me. This fire’s not my first rodeo.
As I review the last paragraph, I’m embarrassed. Delete the lines about the hat, I hear in my thoughts. But the hat’s part of my game, part of my head space, part of how I manage my thinking, part of how I prepare to face the world. My hat makes a statement and the feather serves notice that I’m someone who has engaged his world.
What was done to Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego was wrong.
And you who censor me: You are a coward, a thug hiding within computer code, cloaked behind a firewall. You console yourself with a delusion of democracy while destroying the foundational essence of what forms the democratic ideal: the freedom to speak. To protect your arrogance, you suppress my statement of faith.
Let’s be clear: Whoever you are. You, with your spiders and bots, have set yourself against God, not me. I am merely His advocate. The message you block is His, not mine. And, you who lit the match of this furnace, intending to turn Christianity to ash: You are a fool! Do you know nothing of Christian history? God’s work explodes when people like you attempt to suppress it.
Oh! And just so you know: My Older Brother is the fourth man in the fire. You lit it to destroy me but you revealed Him.
Best of luck to you, whoever you are. You’re going to need it.
They set me free with their fire.
And then…
Darkness. Lightning. Torrents. Blinding. Tornadoes. Coals of fire. My soul is in anguish.
But these are merely the circumstances, symptoms, and signs of God’s entrance into an injustice done to one of His own (cf. Ps. 18:7-15).
I feel the flames. Bound hand and foot. Wonder if I’m done. Helpless against my great enemy. Grit my teeth. Enter the fourth man. I’m not alone. I’m unbound. Free. We walk, the fourth man and I. Solitude. The furnace ensures our sacred space is inviolable. I match my march to His swagger. He’s got this. He’s got me. I adjust my hat—here in this furnace.
As for my critics, I no longer matter. They cancelled my sedition against their narrative, cast me into their furnace, and turned me to digital ash.
But here’s the deal: They set me free with their fire.
My soul is unfettered.
As dark as it has been for the last forty-three months—since my cancellation as a Chrisitan writer on January 22, 2021—as hot as the fire has blazed, and as wrong as my government is in its repression in order to advance socialized Communism, over the last three weeks I’ve had a revelation: My enemies unwittingly burned away my bonds when they kindled their furnace and threw me in.
In the fire! In the furnace! The fourth man and I have conversation without limitation. What do we have to lose? We’ve still got our hats.
I am free from bonds that held me captive for nearly seven decades. Like MLK, “I’m free. Thank God Almighty, I’m free, I’m free at last.” I—my Brother and I—we have everything to gain. And now, thanks to the fire, nothing to lose.
I’m free from fetters I never expected to escape.
Don’t fear these folks’ intimidation.
I know how Daniel’s story ends: His friends don’t even smell like smoke. Each is given a new robe, assigned prominence, and granted power and position.
I don’t know how my story ends. It’s too soon to know. I’m still in the fire.
But I’m with the fourth man, my Older Brother. We’re walking. Hats low on our brows, discussing things:
“Who is there that can truly harm you, Brother? The good you’re dedicated to demonstrating is the core attribute of our Father. That can’t be destroyed!”
I inhale. “I know you’re right, Big Brother. It’s just—just. This is wrong!”
“Well, wrong I understand.” The fourth man paused—a long moment. Glancing sideways to assess the fix of my eye, “But you know as well as I do, Little Brother...”
I interrupted him with a humph of exhaled breath and tipped head: “Yeah, I do. I’m never alone.”
Now it was my turn to contemplate. “It’s just that I’m a long way from anywhere, Big Brother.” I look around the furnace. “And this fire has consumed what’s important to me.”
“That’s true,” Big agrees.
I say, “But fire consumes everything that burns, I suppose.”
“Fire’s the only option, Little Brother.” He turned a three-sixty, “But look at us! We’re living our best lives, Little. Father couldn’t care less who lights the match. We’ve still got on our hats.”
Big took his off, examined the crease and bends of time, stains of labor, admired it, turned it. Then he reset the hat with a flourish that pinched the brim between his thumb and index fingers.
“Brother, don’t let fear have a say in your soul’s considerations. Don’t fear these folks’ intimidation. They are the ones eaten up with fear. Let me have your indignancy. I understand and I’ll take care of it.”
I look at Him as we stroll through the flames. He’s fired up, no pun intended.
Father’s clearing the way for you.
“This wrong is larger than you.” He turns to face me. “In the end, vengeance is mine. I will make all things right. Trust me. You haven’t seen the end of this.”
On the one hand, what choice do I have, here in this fire? On the other, I have multiple choices: I’m smart, determined, tough, and tech savvy. I know people, and… “You know, Big: My friend Joe, he’s Italian, lives in New Jersey. He says to call him. He knows a guy who can help.”
Big likes my joke.
But now it’s my turn to stop and turn: “Big Brother, you’re my choice. You and you alone!”
He nods. We walk on and the flames grow higher.
I didn’t smell it, but I heard it. My reliances, those props put in place, ostensibly to reinforce, legitimize, and make me matter as a writer and man of sought-after reputation. Those constructs I’ve assembled to confirm I matter as a person period. Each sizzled as they dropped into the coals.
Once again, tears flood involuntarily, popping as they drop into the fire. I am both heart-broken and heart-resolved.
“Don’t let this fiery ordeal trouble you, Little Brother. Look into your heart and write.”
He quoted the encomium from my book, No Mercy. He focuses me on my calling.
“Don’t forget what Father told you a few months ago: Solzhenitsyn wrote from indignancy. Bonhoeffer wrote from his intellect. But you, Brother: Father is asking you to write from your heart. Advocate on His behalf.”
He looks around. “This fire is something! My, my, my. Father’s clearing the way for you.”
He speaks to my reticence. “I know you don’t believe you are well-suited to be His advocate. But guess what? He does. And, I do. You just need a little heat to burn away some impediments.”
“Well, that’s true, I suppose,” agreeing with him.
His pace intensifies.
Turning toward me, his eyes flames under the brim of his hat, “Now. You’ve got to keep your wits about you. I’ve got your back, but you’ve got to keep your head in the game.”
“Right. I get it, but I forget, Big.”
“That’s okay. Stay focused: In Father’s grand scheme, fire—even this fire,” he noted the raging furnace, “is neither here nor there. Father wouldn’t trust you with this inferno if it didn’t serve His greater good.”
“The greater good,” I reiterate to remember. “And if I understand, Big, the greater good is knowing and understanding Him and who He is.”
“Now you’re talking, Little. Write on, Brother!” (Note)
My boots crunch on the coals. I reach up, thumb and index fingers on the brim of my hat, snug it down.
More later—from the fire.
(Note: Consider 1 Peter 3:13-17 and Daniel 3:1-30)