Tag Archives: Fire of God

Holy Spirit

Holy Fire of God

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There is a fire that the world cannot ignite, a flame that does not consume but purifies. It is not found in the noise of religion or in the pretense of performance. It is born in the sanctuary of surrender, in the stillness where the soul waits for God. It is the Holy Fire of God, and it is calling.

Beloved, let your heart be drawn back to the altar. Before revival ever sweeps the nations, it begins in the secret place. The altar must be rebuilt—not in stone, but in spirit. The sacrifices God seeks are not the burnt offerings of old, but the yielded life: the heart that says, “Not my will, but Yours be done.” There, in that place of humility, the fire descends.

Self-reflection: Have I given God access to every part of my life today—my plans, my schedule, my reactions? What would it look like to lay those on the altar this morning?

The Holy Fire of God is not a passing feeling. It is not a momentary excitement in the soul. It is the Spirit of the living God resting upon a life wholly surrendered. “He must increase, but I must decrease” (John 3:30, NASB). These are not the words of one reaching for greatness, but of one already consumed by glory. The lesser we become, the more He fills. The more He fills, the more the fire spreads.

There is no fire without thirst. “As the deer pants for the water brooks, so my soul pants for You, God. My soul thirsts for God, for the living God” (Psalm 42:1–2, NASB). This divine thirst is not satisfied by knowledge, nor quenched by tradition. It presses beyond comfort, past ritual, to the living waters promised by Yeshua: “The one who believes in Me, as the Scripture said, ‘From his innermost being will flow rivers of living water’”(John 7:38, NASB). This He spoke of the Spirit, who was to come.

Self-reflection: Am I spiritually thirsty—or have I learned to live dry? When I wake up, what am I hungering for more: God’s voice, or the noise of the world?

To thirst is to pursue. The Holy Fire of God rests where there is holy desperation. The one who hungers and thirsts for righteousness shall be filled—not with mere words, but with power. Not with empty motions, but with the presence of El Shaddai, the all-sufficient One.

And yet, the fire is not given to decorate a heart still cluttered with idols. “Behold, I stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears My voice and opens the door, I will come in to him and will dine with him, and he with Me” (Revelation 3:20, NASB). He knocks on the door of the Church. He knocks on the door of the heart. But He will not enter without invitation. He waits for the room to be cleared—for burdens to be laid down, for crowns to be surrendered, for distractions to be cast aside. When the heart makes room, the fire falls.

Self-reflection: What am I holding onto that is crowding out God’s presence? Have I created space in my day for Him to speak, or is He still knocking, waiting to be welcomed in?

The fire also burns in the sacred place. It does not always roar; sometimes it glows in quiet glory. “Be still, and know that I am God” (Psalm 46:10, NASB). There is a fire in stillness, in reverent silence, in the place where the soul is stilled before the majesty of El Elyon, the Most High. Here, the fire does not shout—it speaks in the whisper. It consumes not with noise, but with nearness.

Self-reflection: Do I ever sit quietly in God’s presence, with no agenda? When is the last time I was still and simply listened for His voice?

And in that sacred place, He draws us to the table. “Is the cup of blessing which we bless not a sharing in the blood of Christ? Is the bread which we break not a sharing in the body of Christ?” (1 Corinthians 10:16, NASB). To partake of communion is not to remember only—it is to participate, to enter into the mystery of covenant. The table is more than remembrance. It is a meeting place. The Holy Fire of God is in the covenant, for the blood that was shed still speaks, still calls, still covers.

Self-reflection: How do I honor the covenant of Christ in my daily life? When I eat and drink, do I remember Him only in ritual—or do I live like His blood has changed everything?

But this fire, Beloved, is not meant to stay within. It must break out. It must leap from soul to soul, from gathering to gathering, until the Church becomes a flame in the night. Walls must fall. Ceilings must break. Traditions must tremble before the power of the Spirit. The wind that once rushed through the upper room has not ceased. The tongues of fire that rested on the early disciples have not faded. Heaven still longs to come down.

Self-reflection: Does the fire of God in me spill over into others? Who have I prayed for today? When have I let the Spirit lead me to act, speak, or give beyond myself?

The fire sanctifies. It cleanses. It compels. It says, “Enough with apathy. Enough with passivity. Enough with compromise.” It is not content with weekend religion. It does not abide lukewarm hearts. It seeks the altar of total devotion.

Yeshua does not send His Spirit to comfort the unshaken, but to awaken the slumbering. “Do not quench the Spirit,” Paul writes (1 Thessalonians 5:19, NASB). But how often has the Church traded fire for form, power for politeness, glory for entertainment? The Holy Fire of God does not abide where it is tolerated. It burns where it is welcomed.

So awaken, soul. Fan the flame again. Let your heart become the altar. Let your worship rise like incense, your obedience like kindling. Let every song be a prayer, every breath a surrender, every act of love a spark. For the fire of God is not far. It waits to descend. It waits to consume. It waits to inhabit.

And when it does—when the altar is rebuilt, when the fire falls again—the world will not be able to deny it. They may not understand it. They may not explain it. But they will see it. A Church ablaze cannot be hidden. A people on fire cannot be ignored.

Self-reflection: Am I willing to look foolish to be faithful? Do I still care more about approval or more about fire?

Beloved, return to the fire. Return to the place where your heart first burned with love for God. Let the embers be stirred. Let the Spirit fall afresh. Lay down the distractions. Open the door. Make room. Be still. Partake of the cup. And let the fire burn again.

Prayer

Lord, I lay my heart on the altar. I offer every part of me—my thoughts, my will, my desires—as a living sacrifice. Come and set a fire in my soul that cannot be quenched. Cleanse me with Your holy flame. Burn away every impurity and draw me deeper into Your presence. I thirst for You, O God. I hunger for more. Let Your Spirit rest on me, and let Your fire break out through me, for the sake of Your name and Your glory. In Yeshua’s name, Amen.

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Visions

المذبح والنار

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اختيار العهد بدلًا من التهاون

رأيت مشهدًا مهيبًا يملأه الرهبة والمجد. السماء اهتزت، والأرض تشققت عطشى، تتوق إلى مطر البرّ. جموع قلقة ملأت السهل تحتي، وقلوبهم منقسمة بين لذات هذا العالم ونداء القدير.

وأنت، أيها القارئ، هل شعرت بالعطش في أعماق روحك؟ هل وقفت بين مذبح الذات ومذبح التسليم؟

في وسط هذا التوتر، ظهر إيليا، مرتديًا لباسًا من شعر خشن وممتلئًا بغيرة متقدة. صوته دوّى كصوت مياه كثيرة:

“إلى متى أنتم مترددون بين رأيين؟ إن كان الرب هو الله، فاتبعوه، وإن كان البعل، فاتبعوه.”

(1 ملوك 18:21، الترجمة الموسعة)

الكلمة العبرية “פָּסַח” (pasach) تخترق النفس. تعني أن تترنح، أن تقفز جيئة وذهابًا بدون التزام. إنها نفس الكلمة التي وردت في سفر الخروج عندما عبر الرب فوق البيوت الملطخة بالدم، فأنقذ شعب العهد. كان من المفترض أن ترقص إسرائيل فرحًا بالعهد، لكنها كانت تتعثر في ترددها وانقسامها. تحدي إيليا كشف ليس فقط أصنامهم، بل ترددهم الداخلي أيضًا.

بدأ أنبياء البعل أولًا. أربعمئة وخمسون رجلاً رقصوا حول مذبحهم وهم يصرخون: “يا بعل، أجبنا!” ولكن عبادتهم تحوّلت إلى هستيريا. جرحوا أجسادهم، واندفعت منهم الدماء، ولكن لم يكن هناك صوت، ولا من يجيب. البعل طلب ألمًا، لكنه لم يُرسل نارًا. السماء بقيت صامتة.

ثم اقترب إيليا وأصلح مذبح الرب المُهدم باستخدام اثني عشر حجرًا—حجرًا لكل سبط من أسباط إسرائيل المرتبطة بالعهد. بلّل الذبيحة والخشب والساحة المحيطة بالماء. ثم صلّى:

“أيها الرب، إله إبراهيم وإسحاق وإسرائيل، ليُعلَم اليوم أنك أنت الله في إسرائيل”

(1 ملوك 18:36، الترجمة الموسعة)

وسقطت النار من السماء.

التهمت الذبيحة.

والحجارة.

والتراب.

والماء.

وسقط الشعب على وجوههم وصرخوا:

“الرب هو الله! الرب هو الله!”

(الآية 39)

لقد شُفي التردد بالنار المقدسة. وعادت رقصة العهد إلى مكانها الصحيح.

نفس الخيار يواجهنا اليوم

مثل إسرائيل القديمة، يتردد جيلنا. نتلاعب مع أصنام العصر—الذات، القوة، اللذة، المال—بينما ندّعي أننا في عهد مع إل شداي. مذبح الإيمان القومي مكسور. والمطر انقطع. ومع ذلك، نتساءل لماذا لا تسقط النار بعد الآن.

إن الرب يسأل من جديد:

إلى متى ستتردد؟

إلى متى ستمسك يدك بالبعل وأخرى في السماء؟

إلى متى ستنتظر نارًا، بينما مذبحك ما زال مهدمًا؟

حقيقة الله ثابتة:

“اختاروا اليوم من تعبدون”

(يشوع 24:15، الترجمة الموسعة)

لا يوجد ملاذ في الحياد. رقصة الفصح تقدم حرية وحياة. أما تردد الأصنام، فيقود إلى عبودية وموت.

تمسك بالإيمان – وابنِ المذبح

كلمة pasach تعود لتواجهنا. هل سنبقى نترنح بين الولاءات؟ أم سندخل بالكامل في عهد الرب؟

إن الإله الذي يجيب بالنار لا يزال يجيب.

لكن فقط عندما يكون المذبح كاملاً.

فقط عندما تكون التقدمة مبللة بالتسليم.

فقط عندما يكون القلب مكشوفًا أمامه.

صلِّ مع داود:

“قلبًا نقيًا اخلق فيّ يا الله، وروحًا مستقيمًا جدد في داخلي.”

(مزمور 51:10، الترجمة الموسعة)

دع التوبة تزيل الأنقاض.

دع الطاعة تضع الحجارة من جديد.

دع الشفاعة تبلل الذبيحة.

وحينها ستسقط النار مرة أخرى.

صلاة من أجل التجديد

يا أبانا،

نعترف بقلوبنا المترددة.

لقد رقصنا مع الأصنام بينما دعوتنا للسير معك.

اغفر ترددنا.

طهر ميولنا.

رمم المذبح المحطم في داخلنا.

أسكب مطر البرّ على أرضنا العطشى.

دع نار روحك تحرق كل عبادة زائفة.

أحيينا في حقك.

واجعلنا، مثل إيليا، نعلن بثقة مقدسة:

الرب هو الله!

نصلي هذا باسم يشوعا، فصحنا المذبوح. آمين.

لا تنتظر النار لتسقط على مذبح غيرك.

ابنِ مذبحك.

اليوم.

في هذه اللحظة.

عد إلى الرقصة. ابنِ المذبح. ودع النار تسقط.

fasting, Holy Spirit, Prayers, Visions

The Day the Fire Fell

A First-Hand Pentecost Vision

I saw it in a vision.

The Lord opened my eyes, and I stood among them, unseen yet present. I could feel the weight of the room—the thick air, the groaning of souls. It was as if I had been carried back through time, placed within the trembling walls of the upper room, where one hundred and twenty waited. Their faces were worn, desperate. Their knees pressed into the cold stone, and the air crackled with a hunger words could not express.

The walls, ancient and heavy with the dust of centuries, seemed to lean in with the prayers. I watched as lips moved without sound, tears ran unashamed, and hands gripped the hem of heaven itself. The Lord had told them: “Stay in the city until you are clothed with power from on high” (Luke 24:49, NASB). And so they waited—not with passivity, but with a fervent, breaking cry.

The sun climbed higher, pouring light through small windows, illuminating swirling motes of dust. The scent of sweat and worn garments filled the air. Yet no one moved for food, no one reached for water. Their thirst was for God alone. I watched a woman collapse against the floor, her face pressed into the stone, whispering one word over and over: “Abba.”

It was not a gathering of the strong. It was an altar of the broken.

Believers gathered in deep intercessory prayer, lifting silent groanings before God, surrounded by symbols of His covenant promises.

Time passed. Hours. The desperation deepened until it was almost a sound itself—a low hum of hunger in the spirit. Peter knelt with his face buried in his hands, his shoulders shaking. I could hear his low plea, “Lord, we have nothing left but You.”

That’s when it came.

A sound—first distant, like a storm gathering beyond the hills—then rushing inward, swift and mighty. It was not the wind of earth but the breath of heaven (Acts 2:2). The stones underfoot trembled. Garments fluttered as if caught in a gale, though the air was still.

The roar filled every corner.

God in the Fire

And then, fire.

It appeared, bright as the sun, fierce and holy. Tongues of flame, living and alive, danced above each head (Acts 2:3). Yet it did not burn. It filled. I saw it—how it sank into them, how their faces lifted, eyes wide, mouths opening with sounds no man had taught them.

The Spirit Himself had come.

They spoke in languages of men and angels. Words of praise, of glory, of the mighty deeds of God poured from their lips. Some wept, undone. Others lifted their hands, faces shining. Some laughed with a joy deeper than any suffering they had known (Nehemiah 8:10). The fire had not only touched them—it claimed them.

I watched as the Spirit pressed them outward, stumbling into the streets. The city gathered quickly, drawn by the uproar. Men from every nation under heaven stared in wonder as these simple, broken vessels proclaimed the glory of God in languages not their own. Parthians, Medes, Egyptians, Romans—all heard the wonders of God in their own tongue.

And then Peter—bold, blazing—stepped forward. I heard his voice, strong and certain, rise above the clamor:

“Repent, and each of you be baptized in the name of Jesus Christ for the forgiveness of your sins; and you will receive the gift of the Holy Spirit” (Acts 2:38, NASB).

The fire leapt from heart to heart.

Three thousand souls were swept into the kingdom that day.

And still, as I stood there, unseen but seeing, I knew: this was not the end. The fire was not meant for one day, one room. It was a beginning. A first spark of a blaze that would run to the ends of the earth.

I could feel it even as the vision faded—the fire has never gone out. It burns still. And for those who dare to wait, who dare to hunger, the Spirit will fall again.

Prayer:

O Lord God, El Shaddai, let us be among those who hunger for You with all our hearts. Pour out Your Spirit anew, ignite the fire within us. May we lay down every burden, every pride, every sin, until only You remain. Come, Holy Spirit, breathe on us. Let the sound of heaven once again fill our hearts and homes. In the mighty name of Yeshua, we pray. Amen.

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See Also

Visions

The Whisper and the Fire 

I was in the Spirit on the day of despair, and behold—a wilderness wrapped in silence. It was reminiscent of Elijah’s Revelation on Mount Horeb, where the air blistered with heat, and the sky hung heavy, as if mourning. Dust clung to my skin like judgment, and the ground cracked beneath every step. There was no water. No shade. No voice.

Then I saw him—Elijah, the prophet of fire—yet now bent low, trembling beneath a broom tree. His eyes, once full of flame, were now hollow with sorrow. His lips moved, but the words carried the weight of death: “It is enough now, O Lord. Take my life.”

The earth did not open. Thunder did not strike. Instead, bread began to bake on coals, and the scent of fresh fire met my nose—sweet, smoky, and holy. A jar of water glistened in the morning light like dew from heaven. An angel, luminous and stern, stirred the prophet and said, “Arise and eat.”

I watched as Elijah, with shaking hands, tasted the bread of heaven. Strength returned—not the strength of man, but of mission. He walked—forty days into the night of God, each step crunching over dry rock, each breath drawing in the weight of divine silence.

Then I saw the mountain—Horeb, the terror and glory of Sinai. Its cliffs scraped the sky like fingers reaching for judgment. Elijah entered the cave, and I entered with him. The dark swallowed us whole, and the air was thick—thick with the weight of the Almighty.

Suddenly—a wind howled, shrieking down the mountain like ten thousand spirits loosed at once. It tore rocks loose and sent dust slashing at the skin. My ears rang. But God was not in the wind.

Then the earth heaved beneath my feet. Stones cracked and the cave roared like a dying beast. I clung to the wall, heart pounding. But God was not in the earthquake.

Then came fire, licking across the stone in ribbons of gold and red. It roared like a furnace, burned with white heat, and the smell of ash filled the cave. But God was not in the fire.

Then—a sound. No louder than breath. A whisper that wrapped around the soul and pulled it forward. Every nerve stilled. Every sense stretched. I felt it more than heard it. It pierced through flesh and soul and divided spirit and bone.

And Elijah stepped out, wrapped in his mantle, eyes wide. The Voice spoke—not to condemn, but to commission.

“What are you doing here, Elijah?”

Then the LORD thundered in a whisper:

“You are not alone. Seven thousand remain. Go—anoint Hazael king. Anoint Jehu. Call forth Elisha. I am not done. I am not finished. The fire is still falling, and My voice still speaks.”

I looked—and behind the prophet, far off in the veil of glory, a chariot of fire waited, its wheels spinning with the names of the faithful, its horses snorting with the breath of God. It burned, yet did not consume. It stood ready.

And I say to you now, reader of this vision:

You who sit beneath your own broom tree—rise.

Eat. Listen. Go.

The same God who whispered to Elijah is whispering now. Not in the storm of spectacle, but in the secret place. The cave is calling. The commission is upon you.

He who has ears to hear, let him hear what the Spirit says to the weary prophets.

See Also

Holy Spirit

The Everlasting Pentecost

“When the day of Pentecost came, they were all together in one place.” — Acts 2:1, NASB

I cry out to you as one crying in the wilderness: awaken your heart, for the Holy Spirit has not left us. He has not retreated to history’s quiet corners. He has not faded into the shadows of theology. Pentecost was not a moment to be remembered; it is a reality to be lived. The fire that fell in that upper room did not burn out—it spread. And it waits even now to consume you with power from on high. Embrace the Everlasting Pentecost in your life.

Pentecost came—and it stayed. This is the essence of The Everlasting Pentecost.

You who feel distant, who have known the Holy Spirit only as a name in a creed or a whisper in a worship song, listen! He is here. Not in concept or ritual, but in power and presence. “Do you not know that you are a temple of God and that the Spirit of God dwells in you?” (1 Corinthians 3:16, NASB). This is not poetic suggestion. It is truth that shatters complacency. The God who shook the upper room dwells in you.

The early disciples did not seek a passing experience. They waited in obedience and hunger, their hearts united. And suddenly, like a mighty rushing wind, God Himself came to dwell in men. That wind still blows. That fire still burns. The presence of the Spirit has not diminished—we have simply ceased to press in. In embracing The Everlasting Pentecost, we must press in continually.

We have grieved Him by replacing intimacy with activity. We have traded awe for entertainment. Our insensibility to the Spirit is not due to His absence but to our distraction. Yet, He waits. The dove of Heaven still descends upon the hearts that make room.

O child of God, you were not meant to live powerless. You were not called to survive off past revivals or secondhand stories. You were called to live Pentecost daily. “Jesus Christ is the same yesterday and today, and forever.” (Hebrews 13:8, NASB) And so is His Spirit.

If He is God, then He is always now. If He is God, then He is always here. There is no Elsewhere with El Shaddai. The Spirit is not bound by yesterday’s failures or tomorrow’s fears. He is the living power of God breaking into the present moment with eternal purpose.

You must not settle. Stir yourself. Let the cry of your heart rise: “Holy Spirit, come afresh! Fall on me again! I will not be content with the memory of Your presence—I must know You now and experience The Everlasting Pentecost.”

You must believe that Pentecost is your portion, not because of your strength, but because of Yeshua’s promise. “But you will receive power when the Holy Spirit has come upon you…”(Acts 1:8, NASB). This is not suggestion. It is a summons. It is time to rise, to repent of apathy, and to seek the fire that never dies.

God has not changed. The Spirit has not withdrawn. Pentecost is not past—it is present. Live in the reality of The Everlasting Pentecost.

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Prayer

Father, in the mighty name of Yeshua, I repent of my unbelief and distraction. I have known of Your Spirit, but I long to know Him. Send Your fire again. Fill me with power from on high. Let me live in the fullness of Pentecost—not as history, but as my daily reality. Open my eyes to see Your presence, open my heart to receive Your power. Let me walk in obedience and boldness as the early disciples did. Let this day—this very moment—be the upper room of my soul. Come, Ruach HaKodesh. I make room for You. Amen.

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The Fire of His Presence

O Lord, who rides upon the storm, whose breath ignites the flame,
You stir the dust to rise and dance, and call Your children’s name.
In wind and fire, You still appear, as on that holy day,
Let every heart become Your throne, and never drift away.

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See Also

Faith, Faith & Courage

People of the Fire

Beloved, do you not know that God still walks in the fire?

There is a holy summons today—a call echoing from the pages of Daniel to the depths of your spirit. You are not called to a lukewarm life or a faith of comfort. You were made to be among the People of the Fire. These are the ones who stand when the world demands they bow. These are the ones who refuse the golden idols of culture and comfort and, in doing so, awaken the very presence of El Shaddai in their midst.

Recall the moment in Babylon—when Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego stood before Nebuchadnezzar, refusing to worship the statue he set up. They declared without hesitation, “Our God whom we serve is able to rescue us from the furnace of blazing fire… but even if He does not… we are not going to serve your gods” (Daniel 3:17-18, NASB). This was not bravado. It was breathless adoration—the kind of worship that has counted the cost and chosen God above life itself.

They were bound and thrown into the fire. But the fire meant to destroy them became where Yeshua walked among them. The king himself saw and cried out, “Look! I see four men untied and walking about in the middle of the fire unharmed, and the appearance of the fourth is like a son of the gods!” (Daniel 3:25, NASB).

This is what it means to be People of the Fire—to live a life where God’s presence is not theoretical but tangible in the crucible.

Restore Breathless Adoration

Have you settled into a rhythm of religion but lost the breathless wonder of being near to God? Have you traded the fire for the flicker of convenience?

There is more. There is always more of Him. The Lord is not found in safe places. He meets us in surrender, in sacrifice, and yes—in the flames.

Moses saw the bush ablaze, yet not consumed, and turned aside to look. That holy turning became the beginning of divine commission (Exodus 3:2-4). Elijah called down fire to reveal that God alone is Lord (1 Kings 18:36-39). Isaiah beheld the burning ones—the seraphim—crying out, “Holy, Holy, Holy is the Lord of armies, the whole earth is full of His glory” (Isaiah 6:3, NASB). He too was touched by fire and sent forth.

Even now, Yeshua speaks: “I have come to cast fire upon the earth; and how I wish it were already kindled!” (Luke 12:49, NASB). He longs for your heart to burn with holy affection again.

Called to Walk in the Fire

Being People of the Fire means you must embrace the furnace. Not because you love pain—but because you love the One who stands in it with you. It is in the fire that chains are loosed. It is in the fire that spectators see the Son. It is in the fire that intimacy with God is made visible.

The early Church burned with this fire. Their love was so consuming that they rejoiced when counted worthy to suffer for His name (Acts 5:41). They turned the world upside down not by power, but by passion—a holy obsession with the living Christ.

You, beloved, are called to this same burning. You are not called to blend in but to blaze. You are a torch in a darkened age, and the oil of your lamp must not run dry. Stir the embers. Feed the flame. Seek His face until your heart is undone.

Breathe Again, Burn Again

The Church needs fire again—not noise, programs, or performances. Fire. Heaven’s fire. The kind that fell at Pentecost filled the Upper Room with tongues of flame (Acts 2:1-4). The type that set men and women ablaze to preach the gospel without fear, fueled by breathless adoration for Yeshua.

Let this be your cry: More of You, Lord. Less of me. Set me on fire again.

Return to the place of wonder. Return to the altar. Lay your life down—not in part, but whole—and let the fire of God consume you in holy love.

Prayer

Abba, we have grown too comfortable. We have built walls where You sought altars. Forgive us. We no longer want a safe religion—we want the fire. We want the flame that purifies, the presence that walks with us in the furnace. Lord Yeshua, walk with us again. Ignite every cold corner of our hearts. Restore breathless adoration in Your Bride. Make us a people who burn for You and You alone. We are Yours, El Shaddai. Kindle the fire. Amen.

Let the world see it. Let Babylon tremble again. You are People of the Fire.

See Also

Revival

FIRE OF REVIVAL

Beloved, the altar of your heart stands ready. The kindling of God’s Word has been carefully laid. The sacrifice of your life awaits the spark of the Fire of Revival.

Are you merely holding truth, or are you allowing truth to set you ablaze and ignite a revival fire within you?

Listen closely! In that upper room, believers didn’t simply discuss theology—they PRAYED until heaven responded! “After they prayed, the place where they were meeting was SHAKEN. And they were all filled with the Holy Spirit” (Acts 4:31).

Many churches today possess the fuel of biblical knowledge but lack the flame of the Spirit’s power, which kindles the Fire of Revival. They recite creeds but remain unmoved, unchanged, unburning.

The Holy Spirit doesn’t descend upon emptiness—He ignites the prepared heart that treasures God’s Word and yearns for revival fire.

What is God waiting for? YOU! Your complete surrender. Your desperate prayer. Your living sacrifice that welcomes a revival fire.

The kindling of your knowledge waits to become a blazing testimony that will light the darkness around you. Will you be content with smoldering embers when God offers consuming fire?

“Therefore I urge you, brothers and sisters, by the mercies of God, to present your bodies as a living and holy sacrifice, acceptable to God, which is your spiritual act of worship” (Romans 12:1).

The altar is set. The time is now. Your devotion can be the match that ignites revival—first in your heart, then in your home, then in your community. Don’t let this moment pass; seek the Fire of Revival!

Surrender all and be consumed by His holy fire, a true fire of revival!

Revival, Visions

Holy Longing and Divine Encounter

At an unexpected time, a vision appeared before me, vivid and overwhelming, as if reality itself had given way to the unseen realm. I stood in a vast assembly, surrounded by believers who had gathered with one purpose—to seek the face of God. The air was thick with anticipation, a fragrance of sweet incense rising from the altar, mingling with the aroma of fresh anointing oil that began to flow freely, golden and fragrant, a symbol of the Spirit’s unrestrained presence.

As I breathed in, the scent of oil and incense filled my lungs, and I could feel the warmth of the fire burning deep within my chest. The atmosphere was alive with the sound of many voices, lifted in worship, but not the familiar songs of routine. These were new songs, birthed in the moment, raw and unfiltered, as if each word was being drawn directly from the wells of living water within their souls (John 7:38). The melodies intertwined with the wind that began to stir—soft at first, like a whisper through the trees, then building into a mighty rushing force that caused the very walls to tremble (Acts 2:2).

The ground beneath my feet shook, and I could feel the vibrations moving up through my legs, reverberating in my bones. It was as though the earth itself was responding to the presence of the Almighty. Suddenly, the wind became a torrent, swirling around the assembly, and with it came a fire—holy and fierce, yet not consuming. It descended from above, resting upon each head like tongues of flame, and with the fire came a heat that penetrated to the very core, igniting hearts with a passion that could not be quenched (Acts 2:3).

In the midst of this encounter with the Lord, I looked and saw those who had lived their entire Christian lives in the familiarity of routine, their eyes opening wide in astonishment. They had come expecting the usual—a service they could sleep through, a sermon they could predict, a worship they could endure. But now, they were confronted with the reality of a God who could not be contained by their expectations. The air around them shimmered with the weight of glory, so thick it felt like the very breath of God was filling their lungs.

As I continued to behold the scene, I saw twenty-four elders seated on thrones, clothed in white robes, with crowns of gold upon their heads. Their faces were filled with awe and reverence as they cast their crowns before the throne, crying out, “Worthy are You, our Lord and God, to receive glory and honor and power, for You created all things, and by Your will they existed and were created” (Revelation 4:10–11). Their voices joined with the sound of the cherubim and seraphim, who flew back and forth with wings covering their faces, crying out with voices that shook the heavens, “Holy, holy, holy is the Lord God Almighty, who was, and is, and is to come” (Revelation 4:8).

The presence of the elders added to the solemnity of the moment, their worship serving as an example to the gathered assembly. The ground continued to tremble beneath their feet, and the room filled with a thick, fragrant smoke—like the smoke of incense rising before the throne of God. It obscured my vision, yet I could feel the nearness of the Lord, so close it was as if I could reach out and touch Him. The smoke carried with it the scent of burning coals, and I saw them—glowing, fiery coals being brought forth by an angel, who touched them to the lips of the people, purifying them, setting their words on fire with the holiness of God (Isaiah 6:6–7).

The heat of the coals seared through my senses, a holy pain that was at once cleansing and empowering. I felt the fire of God settle upon my heart, burning away every impurity, every doubt, leaving only a desperate hunger for more of Him. The wind of God filled my sails, propelling me forward into the depths of His presence, where time and space no longer mattered, only the reality of the living God who was making Himself known.

And then the Lord spoke, His voice like the sound of many waters, filling the place with a reverberation that shook the very foundations. “Behold, I am coming soon. Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they shall be filled” (Matthew 5:6). The words were a promise, a call to awaken from the slumber of routine, to taste and see that the Lord is good (Psalm 34:8).

As the vision faded, I was left with an insatiable longing—a longing for the real Jesus, the One who cannot be confined by tradition or expectation, the One whose glory fills the temple, whose fire consumes every heart, whose wind carries us into the uncharted territories of His presence. And I knew, with a certainty that could not be shaken, that I needed this God more today than I did yesterday, and I would need Him even more tomorrow. For in this holy encounter, I had tasted the goodness of the Lord, and nothing else would ever satisfy.

A Call to the Lord

Oh, Lord God Almighty, who was, and is, and is to come, I call upon Your name. We stand before You, longing to see Your face, to experience Your unrestrained presence. Shake us from the slumber of routine, break through the walls of our expectations, and let Your glory fill our lives like never before. Let Your holy fire rest upon us, purifying our hearts, and let Your wind propel us into the depths of Your love and truth. We hunger and thirst for righteousness, knowing that only You can satisfy the longing of our souls.

Father, I pray that Your Spirit would flow freely among us, that the oil of Your anointing would pour over us, and that we would not settle for anything less than the fullness of Your presence. Fill us with the unexplainable glory of Your majesty, and let the cry of the seraphim and the worship of the elders be the cry of our hearts: “Holy, holy, holy is the Lord God Almighty.” We need You, Lord, more today than we did yesterday, and we will need You even more tomorrow. Draw us closer to You, and let our lives be a testimony of Your unfathomable goodness.

In the name of Jesus Christ, our Savior and King, we pray. Amen.

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