“Why Not Become All Flame”

This morning, as I watched the fire consume the logs upon the hearth, I thought of Abba Lot coming to Abba Joseph and saying, “Abba, as far as I can, I keep my little rule. I fast, I pray, I keep silence, and I strive to purify my thoughts. What else should I do?” And the old man stood up, stretched out his hands toward heaven, and his fingers became like ten lamps of fire. He said to him, “If you will, you can become all flame.”

That story has haunted me for years, but this morning it came alive. The fire before me was not gentle. It crackled and devoured the wood until it was unrecognizable, and yet, it gave light and warmth. I realized that to “become all flame” is not a poetic metaphor; it is the truth of discipleship. It is the invitation to let the Spirit consume everything within that cannot bear the fire of divine love.

The desert fathers did not speak in abstractions. They knew this fire intimately. They had felt the Spirit burn away pride, self-love, fear, and judgment until all that remained was humility and mercy. To become flame is to become prayer itself: not merely one who prays, but one whose very being burns in love for God and for the world.

I find myself like Abba Lot, striving, keeping my small rule, fasting, watching, praying, but too often seeking safety in moderation. There is still calculation in my surrender. I want to be consumed, but not entirely. I want the warmth of divine love without its total annihilation of the self. Yet the old man’s words leave no room for half-measures: If you will, you can become all flame.

The will, not as self-assertion, but as consent, is the door through which the Spirit enters. God never forces the flame; He waits for the offering of the heart. To will to become flame is to lay oneself upon the altar each day, without condition, without demand, trusting that the fire will not destroy but transfigure.

When I look at the hearth, I see what this means: the logs do not resist. They yield completely, and in yielding, they become what they could never be on their own: light, warmth, radiance. This is the mystery of holiness: the creature becoming luminous by participation in the Creator’s fire.

O Lord, make me willing to be consumed. Burn away all that is cold and self-protective. Let every prayer, every breath, every sorrow become fuel for the flame of Your love. Teach me to desire not mere virtue, but transformation.

May my heart, too, one day burn with the uncreated fire, until nothing remains but love: love that prays without ceasing, forgives without limit, and shines quietly in the world’s darkness.

Why not become all flame? There is no other way to live.