he fire was bright once. It roared with power and heat, licking the edges of the sky, consuming everything in its path. It burned with passion-uncontainable, untamable. People gathered around it, drawn by its glow, basking in its warmth. They spoke of it. They celebrated it. They pointed to it as evidence of God's hand. But now-now all that remains is smoke and ashes.

The flames are gone. The embers that once crackled with life now sit cold and grey beneath the weight of memory. The place where fire once danced is now littered with the remains of what was. The scent of burnt offering lingers, but the warmth is gone. All that's left is the echo of the fire-smoke curling into the air, ashes clinging to the ground.

Smoke and ashes-that's what happens when the fire dies but the form remains. The structure stands, but the life is missing. The altar is still there, but the sacrifice is gone. The temple still echoes with songs, but the glory has left the building. Ichabod. The fire has gone out, and all that remains is the performance of what once was.

Saul sat on the throne long after the oil had dried. He still wore the crown, still held the scepter-but the fire was gone. He kept leading the people while heaven had already anointed David. But Saul was too proud to leave the throne, too blind to see that the glory had departed. He thought the throne was enough. But what is a throne without oil? What is a kingdom without the breath of God? Smoke and ashes.

Samson woke up one day and shook himself as before-but he did not know that the Lord had left him. He was still strong in his mind, still bold in his spirit-but the source of his strength had been severed. His hair had been cut, and with it, the covenant. He had the memory of power but not the substance of it. Smoke and ashes.

And isn't that where so many stand today? Still holding the microphone, still leading the crowd, still running the system-but the fire is gone. We know how to make it look alive. We know how to structure the program, how to manufacture the atmosphere. But deep down, we know-we've been running on the residue of yesterday's oil. We've become comfortable with the smoke because it gives the illusion that the fire is still there. But smoke is not fire. Ashes are not glory.

That's why God told Moses to move on when the cloud lifted. You don't sit where God used to be-you follow where He is. That's why David prayed, "Take not thy Holy Spirit from me." Because he knew-it's possible to keep the palace and lose the presence. It's possible to hold the title and forfeit the oil. It's possible to keep singing while heaven is silent.

Smoke and ashes are the remains of a fire that was never meant to die. But here's the hope: ashes are not the end. The same God who told Ezekiel to prophesy to the dry bones is the God who can breathe on cold embers. Isaiah said He gives "beauty for ashes." If you lay down the smoke, He can reignite the fire. If you stop rehearsing the memory and seek the glory, He will return with fresh oil.

But the question is-can you let go of the ashes? Can you walk away from the smoke and seek the fire again? Can you humble yourself enough to admit that the glow you're basking in is nothing but residue? That what you're holding onto is a shadow of what once was?

The danger is not in losing the fire - it's in getting comfortable with the smoke. The tragedy is not that the ashes remain - it's in trying to convince yourself that they're enough. Saul sat on the throne until he died-but David carried the oil. Samson shook himself until he was blind-but the fire never returned. The Pharisees held the scrolls and memorized the law-but they crucified the Glory that stood before them.

Smoke and ashes are the evidence that fire once burned-but they are not the fire itself. Don't settle for remnants when God is calling you to fresh fire. Don't cling to yesterday's glory when heaven is ready to pour out something new. Lay down the smoke. Sweep away the ashes. Seek the fire again.

Because smoke may fill the room-but only fire can consume it.