WHY REAL CHRISTIANS RUN TOWARD THE FIRE
Occasionally, a verse grabs hold of your soul and refuses to let go. For me, that verse is Jude 23: “Rescue others by snatching them from the fire.”
Not encourage them from a distance.
Not observe them from a safe place.
Not post about them online.
Rescue them.
Snatch them.
Pull them back from destruction.
It’s active. It’s urgent. It’s messy. It’s costly.
Honestly, I think we’ve forgotten just how radical that calling really is.
That’s why we started the Smells Like Smoke podcast. Not because the world needed another podcast. The world has plenty of podcasts. What the world needs is more rescuers. More men and women willing to step into the mess, willing to move toward pain instead of away from it, willing to walk into hard places carrying the hope of Jesus.
One of the greatest temptations facing Christians today is the temptation to confuse knowledge with obedience. We know more sermons than ever.
We have more Bible studies than ever. More books, more conferences, more podcasts, more content. Yet sometimes I wonder if we’ve become experts in discussing the mission while becoming amateurs at living it.
Jesus didn’t say, “Go and analyze.” He said, “Go and make disciples.” He didn’t call us to sit back and critique the darkness. He called us to bring light into it.
Somewhere along the way, many believers became spectators instead of rescuers. We became comfortable discussing hell while becoming uncomfortable getting close to people who are headed there. We became content talking about lost people while spending very little time around them.
Jesus never operated from a safe distance. He touched lepers. He sat with sinners. He defended the broken. He pursued the outcast. He entered our darkness so we could experience His light. The mission of Jesus has always been a rescue mission, and if we’re following Jesus, ours should be too.
Years ago, I wrote a note to myself that has never left me. It simply said, “Walk to the edge of hell and pull people out. Take back Tucson.” That wasn’t a clever slogan. It wasn’t a branding statement. It was a conviction. It was a reminder of why I do what I do. At the end of the day, ministry is not about building platforms, gaining followers, filling rooms, or growing influence. It’s about people. It’s about sons and daughters made in the image of God who desperately need hope.
One of the reasons I love the imagery behind Smells Like Smoke is because everybody understands smoke. If you’ve ever sat around a campfire, you know exactly what happens. You don’t have to try to smell like smoke. You don’t have to convince people you’ve been near the fire. If you’ve been close enough long enough, the evidence follows you home. Your clothes smell like it. Your hair smells like it. Your truck smells like it. Everything carries the scent of where you’ve been. The same thing happens spiritually.
If you’ve been walking alongside people battling addiction, you’ll smell like smoke. If you’ve spent time helping someone fight through depression, you’ll smell like smoke. If you’ve sat with a couple trying to save their marriage, you’ll smell like smoke. If you’ve invested in students wrestling with identity, loneliness, anxiety, and purpose, you’ll smell like smoke.
And that’s exactly where many Christians start to pull back. We love stories of rescue. We celebrate testimonies. We applaud life change. We just don’t always want the inconvenience, sacrifice, or discomfort that comes with participating in it. The truth is, rescue requires proximity. Nobody gets rescued from a distance.
“Rescue Requires Proximity. Nobody Gets Rescued From A Distance.”
I think about the thousands of baptisms we’ve celebrated over the years at our church. Every single baptism has a story. Every story represents someone Jesus refused to give up on. A marriage restored. An addict set free. A prodigal who came home. A skeptic who found faith. A student who discovered purpose. A family that found healing.
I’ve stood in baptism waters looking into the eyes of people whose lives were completely falling apart just months earlier. People who were trapped in addiction. People who had nearly lost their marriages. People carrying shame, guilt, and hopelessness. Then I’ve watched them come up out of the water with tears streaming down their faces because Jesus changed everything. Every time I witness that, I’m reminded: this is why we do this.
This is why rescue matters.
This is why getting close to the fire matters.
Because people matter to God.
I sometimes wonder if we’ve forgotten what’s actually at stake. We celebrate attendance numbers, buildings, growth, and influence. And don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful for every life represented by those numbers. But what keeps me awake at night isn’t a metric. It’s people.
It’s the son who walked away from God.
It’s the father trapped in addiction.
It’s the marriage hanging on by a thread.
It’s the student silently contemplating whether life is worth living.
It’s the neighbor who smiles every day while quietly drowning inside.
Those are the people Jesus came for.
Those are the people we’re called to pursue.
The reality is that hell isn’t just a future destination. There are people living previews of hell every single day. Addiction feels like hell. Shame feels like hell. Isolation feels like hell. Abuse feels like hell. Anxiety feels like hell. Hopelessness feels like hell.
The enemy has become incredibly effective at convincing people they’re trapped forever. That nothing will ever change. That nobody cares. That they’re too far gone.
That’s exactly why rescue matters.
The coworker sitting across from you may be carrying more pain than anyone realizes. The teenager sleeping down the hallway may be fighting battles they don’t know how to articulate. The person checking you out at the grocery store may be one difficult day away from complete despair. And God, in His sovereignty, has strategically placed followers of Jesus all around them.
Not to condemn them.
Not to argue with them.
Not to win a political debate.
To rescue them.
The church was never meant to be a cruise ship full of consumers. The church was meant to be a battleship full of rescuers. Most people don’t need more information. They need more courage. Because rescue requires courage.
It takes courage to start the conversation. It takes courage to share your faith story. It takes courage to invite someone to church. It takes courage to ask somebody how they’re really doing and then stick around long enough to hear the answer. It takes courage to step into somebody else’s pain. It takes courage to risk rejection. It takes courage to love people who may never thank you for it.
The firefighter doesn’t stand outside the burning building conducting endless risk assessments while people perish inside. He runs toward the danger because somebody’s life is worth saving. Why should the church be any different?
“Rescue Requires Courage.”
Faith was never designed to be observed. Faith was designed to be lived. Courage is often the bridge between what we believe and what we actually do.
When I look back over my life, the people who impacted me most weren’t necessarily the most talented people I knew. They weren’t always the smartest people in the room. They weren’t always the most gifted communicators.
But they got close.
Close enough to care.
Close enough to listen.
Close enough to confront.
Close enough to encourage.
Close enough to stay.
The people who changed my life smelled like smoke because they were willing to enter difficult places and difficult conversations for the sake of someone else. And isn’t that exactly what Jesus did for us? The Gospel is the story of a God who got close.
Jesus didn’t shout instructions from heaven. He came here. He entered our suffering. He entered our pain. He entered our brokenness. He entered our fire. The cross is the ultimate rescue mission. Jesus walked into the flames we deserved so we could experience the life we could never earn. That’s not just good theology. That’s our model. As followers of Jesus, we don’t move away from brokenness. We move toward it carrying hope.
As I write this, I can’t help but wonder who God is putting on your heart right now.
Not ten people.
Not fifty people.
One person.
Who needs hope?
Who needs encouragement?
Who needs truth?
Who needs an invitation?
Who needs someone willing to step into the fire with them?
Maybe it’s a coworker. Maybe it’s a neighbor. Maybe it’s your son, your daughter, your spouse, your friend, or someone you’ve nearly given up on. Whoever it is, don’t just think about them. Move toward them. Make the call. Send the text. Have the conversation. Pray the prayer. Extend the invitation. Take the risk. Because nobody gets rescued from a distance.
One day we’re all going to stand before Jesus. I don’t think He’s going to ask how comfortable we were. I don’t think He’s going to ask how safe we played it. I don’t think He’s going to ask how well we protected our preferences. I think He’s going to ask what we did with the people He put in front of us.
Did we move toward the fire?
Did we love the forgotten?
Did we pursue the lost?
Did we point people to Him?
Let’s be known for more than our opinions. Let’s be known for our rescue missions. Let’s stop playing church and start being the Church. Let’s get close enough to the broken, hurting, and forgotten that our lives carry the unmistakable scent of God’s mission.
Let’s walk to the edge of hell and pull people out.
Let’s live within a yard of hell and point people toward heaven.
Let’s get close enough that when people look at our lives, there’s no question where we’ve been. May they look at us and say: “That person smells like smoke.”