Sixty and the Sound of the Rooster, Part III

When the Fire Becomes One

“When thou art converted, strengthen thy brethren.”

Luke 22:32

The rooster does not crow forever.

At some point the sound either hardens a man — or breaks him.

I have stood between fires long enough.

There is the fire of recognition.

The fire of usefulness.

The fire of conversation, teaching, output, being needed.

And then there is the other fire.

The one that burned before Moses and did not consume the bush.

The one that descended at Pentecost and did not flatter the ego.

The one that is not kindled by men.

The Fire that is God.

For months — perhaps years — I have lived in the echo of the rooster’s cry. Not condemned. Not destroyed. But exposed. The old identity cracked. The scaffolding fallen. The warmth of other fires no longer sufficient.

The question has been simple and merciless:

Do you love Me?

Not the ministry.

Not the teaching.

Not the silence as aesthetic.

Not the idea of being hidden.

Me.

There is only one way to answer that question.

Turn.

Not emotionally.

Not dramatically.

Radically.

Repentance is not feeling sorry for warming myself elsewhere.

Repentance is stepping away from the coals.

It is allowing the silence to do what words never could.

The ego does not die because it is criticized.

It dies because it is no longer fed.

It starves in silence.

And in that starvation something else awakens.

The mind of Christ is not adopted like a theological framework. It is given when self-reference begins to dissolve. When the need to be seen loosens its grip. When identity is no longer constructed but received.

At sixty, this is not about reinvention.

It is about surrender.

There are fewer decades ahead than behind. Less patience for self-deception. Less appetite for performing spirituality. The body tires more quickly. The soul longs more purely.

And I see it now.

The rooster’s cry was mercy.

It was the interruption of illusion.

It was Christ preventing me from building another life around myself.

Holy Silence is not withdrawal. It is alignment.

It is turning fully toward the Face I have spoken about for forty years.

It is letting the Fire of His Spirit consume every lesser flame — ambition, recognition, output, even the subtle intoxication of being spiritually helpful.

There can only be one fire.

If His love burns, the others fade.

If His presence fills the cell, no other warmth is required.

Identity ceases to be negotiated.

It is simply this:

Beloved.

Follower.

Nothing more.

And strangely — this does not diminish what is given to others. It purifies it. “When thou art converted, strengthen thy brethren.” Strength does not come from activity. It comes from having wept, from having turned, from having stood in the fire that strips and does not destroy.

The rooster is silenced not by denial — but by repentance.

And repentance is not loud.

It is quiet.

It is a man no longer warming himself elsewhere.

It is a heart that no longer flinches from silence.

It is Christ alone becoming enough.

Let the Spirit consume what remains of self-construction.

Let the mind of Christ displace my own.

Let my name fade into His.

Let there be one Fire.

And let it be His.