Stirring the Ashes

The Morning After the Fire

There’s a hush that settles over the woods in the early morning. Before the birds start their chatter, before the sun cuts through the mist hanging low over the lake, there’s a stillness—like the whole world is waiting for something.

And if you’ve been out on a campout, you know this moment. You unzip your sleeping bag, stretch stiff arms, and step outside the tent. You walk toward the fire pit—the same one that just hours ago was crackling with energy, throwing sparks into the dark, casting faces in orange glow while stories and songs passed between friends like flint and steel.

But now? The fire is out. The glow is gone. Only ash and a few stubborn embers remain—quiet reminders of what once burned. Maybe, if you dig beneath the gray with a stick, you’ll find a glowing ember or two hiding in the bed of coals. But the warmth is gone. The light is gone.

And you can’t help but feel a little sad. Not because it’s cold—but because something beautiful was burning… and now it isn’t. That’s where we find the people of Israel in the book of Haggai.

They had come back to Jerusalem after years in exile. They were the survivors, the remnant, the ones who had waited and wept and dreamed of the day they could return. And when they finally did, they brought with them the fire of hope. They laid the altar. They shouted praises. They even started rebuilding the temple.

But then… it faded. The fire went out. Not all at once. Just slowly. Silently. A little delay here. A little fear there. The kind of thing you don’t even notice until the coals are cold and the passion is gone.

This is not just their story. It’s ours, too. We know what it’s like to feel the fire start strong—to have that camp high, that spiritual awakening, that moment when everything feels aligned with God’s call. But then comes the drag of normal life. The resistance. The reasons. And without realizing it, we stop building.

But let me say this—if you’re here today, you haven’t given up. You’ve stayed. You’ve prayed. You’ve kept showing up. Maybe you’ve carried more than you expected to. Maybe some of you have had to step into roles you didn’t feel ready for. Two and a half years is a long time without a pastor—and yet here you are, still tending the fire. That matters.

This isn’t a word of condemnation. It’s a word of alignment. A divine reminder that even the faithful can drift, not because we’re rebellious, but because we’re human. We start strong. We lay the altar. We mean to finish. But life wears on us. Priorities shift. And little by little, our passion for God’s work can cool—not because we don’t care, but because we’re tired. Busy. Distracted.

And maybe that’s where you are right now. Not burned out. Just… quiet. Overwhelmed. Maybe even numb. But what if this morning is a turning point? What if God is calling you—not to do more, but to return? To come back to the purpose, the priority, the Presence.

This morning, that’s what we’re going to do together. As individuals. As families. As a church. Not out of guilt, but out of grace. Not to tear down—but to rebuild. Because the fire isn’t gone—it’s just waiting to be stirred. That’s where we begin.

From Exile to Apathy

Before we can understand the weight of Haggai’s message, we need to rewind the story. Not just a few pages, but a few generations.

The people of God had been through it. For years, the prophets had warned them—Jeremiah chief among them—that their idolatry, injustice, and stubborn hearts would lead to destruction. And then it happened. In 586 BC, Jerusalem fell. The city was burned. The temple—Solomon’s temple, the dwelling place of God—was reduced to rubble. Can you imagine what that felt like?

The temple wasn’t just a church building. It was the center of their identity. It was where heaven touched earth. Where sacrifices were made. Where God’s presence was known. Losing it wasn’t just a physical loss—it was a spiritual trauma.

They were taken into exile—marched off to Babylon. Everything familiar was gone. The land, the rhythms of worship, the sense of home. And for 70 years, they lived in a foreign land, trying to hold onto their faith in a place that didn’t understand it. But even in that exile, God spoke.

Jeremiah had said:

“When seventy years are completed… I will bring you back to this place. For I know the plans I have for you… plans to prosper you, not to harm you, plans to give you a future and a hope.”
—Jeremiah 29:10–11

That wasn’t a coffee mug verse back then. That was a lifeline. A promise that this darkness wouldn’t last forever.

And then the unthinkable happened. In 538 BC, Cyrus—king of Persia—issued a decree: the Jews were free to return. Just like Isaiah had prophesied, generations earlier (Isaiah 45). The exiles packed up what little they had and made the long, dusty trek back to Jerusalem.

And for a moment… it felt like resurrection.

Under the leadership of Zerubbabel (the governor) and Jeshua (the high priest), they laid the altar again. They wept and shouted for joy as the foundation of the new temple was set (Ezra 3:10–13). Old men who had seen Solomon’s temple cried as they looked on. It was small. Humble. But it was a beginning.

But then, opposition came. The surrounding peoples didn’t want Jerusalem rebuilt. They discouraged the workers, bribed officials, and eventually convinced the Persian king to shut the project down (Ezra 4:4–5). And just like that, the work stopped.

Not because they were lazy. Not because they didn’t care. But because fear crept in. Because when resistance shows up, even good intentions start to waver.

And days turned into months. Months into years. Eventually… sixteen years passed. The altar stood. The foundation stood. But the temple? Still a pile of stone. Still untouched. Still waiting.

In the meantime, the people did what people do: they built lives. They planted gardens. Raised families. Paneled their houses. Found rhythms. Settled. And that’s when God speaks through Haggai. Not to a nation in rebellion. But to a people who used to be passionate… who meant to obey… who got discouraged and then got distracted. Not wicked. Just weary.

And I think that resonates with us—especially here, in this part of the world. Let’s be honest: being a Bible-believing, Christ-centered, conservative Christian in New York isn’t exactly trending. You don’t have to look far to find opposition. It might not be outright persecution, but it’s resistance. Pressure. Policies. Cultural headwinds. Whether it’s in the classroom, the boardroom, or even your own extended family—sometimes it feels like we’re swimming upstream, trying to hold the line on truth while the tide just keeps rising.

We’re not in Babylon. But sometimes it feels like we’re not quite home either. Especially here in Upstate—where communities are spread out, churches are aging, and it can feel like you’re part of a faithful few just trying to keep the fire burning. You feel the weight of wanting to raise your kids in the truth, wanting your church to stand strong, wanting to see revival—but wondering if anyone’s listening.

That’s exactly where Haggai’s people were. They weren’t atheists. They weren’t immoral. They were just… overwhelmed. The culture didn’t support the temple project. The politics didn’t protect it. And after a while, it was easier to just keep your head down and build your own house than keep facing down opposition.

And yet—into that place—God speaks.

“Consider your ways.”

Not to condemn. But to reawaken. To remind them that the opposition might be real, but the calling is stronger. That the work might be unfinished, but the story’s not over.

That God is still building something—and He hasn’t forgotten who He called to build it.

A Wake-Up Call

There’s something jarring about plainspoken truth. No fluff. No warm-up. Just a message that lands like a stone skipping across a still pond. That’s Haggai. He doesn’t open with a story. No sweeping poetry. He just walks into the quiet of Jerusalem and says, in effect:

“You say the time hasn’t come to rebuild the Lord’s house—but you’ve found time to rebuild your own.”

That’s the heartbeat of Haggai 1:2–4. And it’s not whispered. It’s not sugar-coated. It’s a holy confrontation.

“Is it a time for you yourselves to dwell in your paneled houses, while this house lies in ruins?”
—Haggai 1:4

Paneled houses. That phrase stings a bit. These weren’t emergency shelters thrown together after the return from exile. This was craftsmanship. Detail. Effort. Comfort. The people had poured time and resources into making their homes beautiful—meanwhile, the temple, the visible center of worship, remained untouched.

And here’s what makes it sobering: this wasn’t rebellion. This was rationalization. They weren’t running from God. They just… put Him on hold.

“The time hasn’t come yet,” they said. Not never. Just not now.

That’s what makes Haggai so relevant—not just for ancient Israel, but for every church, every man, every family who’s ever let divine priorities slide beneath the weight of lesser ones.

Nobody wakes up one day and decides to stop honoring the Lord. It happens gradually. Quietly. Life gets complicated. Budgets tighten. Kids need attention. Work pulls harder. Opposition grows. And so we delay.

“We’ll get to it once things settle down.”
“We’ll be generous again once the mortgage is lighter.”
“I’ll disciple my son once this busy stretch passes.”
“I’ll serve again once I feel more spiritually healthy.”
“I’ll rebuild the temple… later.”

But “later” has a way of turning into never. And that’s when God breaks in—not with thunder, but with clarity.

“Consider your ways.”
—Haggai 1:5

It’s not a threat. It’s a mirror. The Hebrew here is literally: “Set your heart upon your path.” Pause. Look at where your feet are actually going. Is your life aligning with what you say you believe? Are you becoming the man, the woman, the church you set out to be?

Because here’s the twist: the people were working hard. This wasn’t idleness. Haggai describes it:

“You have sown much, and harvested little. You eat, but you never have enough. You drink, but you never have your fill. You clothe yourselves, but no one is warm. And he who earns wages does so to put them in a bag with holes.”
—Haggai 1:6

That’s what it feels like to live out of step with God’s priorities. It’s not always disaster—it’s diminishment. You do all the right things, and yet it doesn’t satisfy. The more you pour out, the more it leaks. You feel like you’re trying to fill a canoe with water while it’s still got a hole in the bottom. Busy, but not blessed. Surviving, but not thriving. And God doesn’t stay silent about it.

“You looked for much, and behold, it came to little. And when you brought it home, I blew it away. Why? Because of my house that lies in ruins, while each of you busies himself with his own house.”
—Haggai 1:9

It’s a wake-up call, not a guilt trip. God isn’t being cruel—He’s being corrective. He’s letting them feel the consequences of disordered living—not to crush them, but to invite them back to alignment. Because His desire is not that they settle for survival, but that they flourish under His hand. And that begins when the temple rises again. When worship is restored. When obedience regains its seat at the table.

Let’s be clear: God doesn’t need the temple for Himself. He commands it because His people need to remember—visibly, tangibly—who they belong to.

We know that feeling, don’t we? Especially in a place like this. You plant seeds in your family. You show up to work. You try to live faithfully, even when the climate doesn’t make it easy. But still it feels like there’s a gap between the effort and the outcome.

Like you’re pouring yourself out, and it just… isn’t quite enough. Could it be, not always, but sometimes, that we’ve grown so good at maintaining life that we’ve neglected to build what God originally called us to? Could it be that we’ve mistaken motion for mission?

The beauty of Haggai’s message is that it doesn’t stop at critique. It always points toward course correction. Grace is never far.

The Danger of Misplaced Priorities

When you read Haggai, it might seem, at first glance, like God is obsessed with buildings. He’s not. This was never about stone and cedar. It was about what the temple represented—and what its absence revealed. The temple wasn’t just a construction project; it was the visible, public acknowledgment that God is at the center. It reminded the people daily: We are not our own. We belong to Him.

So when the people prioritized their own homes while God’s house lay in ruins, it wasn’t just poor time management. It was a spiritual statement. A silent one—but loud in meaning:

“My life is mine. My needs come first. I’ll serve God… when I get around to it.”

And here’s what we often miss: they weren’t saying those things out loud. They weren’t shaking fists at heaven. They were probably praying. Probably observing some feasts. Probably keeping a few commandments. But the order of their priorities told the real story. And that’s where the danger lives—not in open rebellion, but in subtle rearrangement. Because once God becomes an accessory rather than the anchor, we’ve already drifted.

That’s why Haggai’s message matters so deeply. He’s not just calling them to build a building. He’s calling them to rebuild their center—to return God to the core of their national, spiritual, and personal lives. And it’s the same call for us. Because here’s the deeper theological truth: whatever we build our lives around will ultimately shape us.

• If your career is the priority, you’ll become performance-driven.
• If comfort is the priority, you’ll avoid anything that costs.
• If reputation is the priority, you’ll become afraid to tell the truth.
• But if Christ is the priority—His presence, His kingdom, His glory—then everything else falls into its right place.

Jesus echoed this centuries later in His own words:

“Seek first the kingdom of God and His righteousness, and all these things will be added to you.”
—Matthew 6:33

Not “seek only,” but “seek first.” Put God at the center—and let everything else orbit around Him. It’s not that homes, jobs, or plans don’t matter. It’s that they were never meant to come first. And here’s where it ties back to the earlier verse, “You eat, but you’re not full… you earn wages, but they fall through the bag.”

When we prioritize our own work without God, we get just enough to feel tired, but never enough to feel fulfilled. It’s like a man trying to use a compass without calibrating it first. Every step he takes might feel right, but he’ll never arrive where he’s meant to go. The people of Judah were putting in the effort. They weren’t lazy. They were just disordered. And in God’s economy, order matters. Not because He’s demanding or needy, but because He designed us to run on worship.

We thrive when He’s in His rightful place. We function as we were meant to when our hearts are tuned toward Him. And when they’re not—we fray. Even if everything else looks fine on the outside. So when God calls them to rebuild the temple, He’s not after stone walls. He’s after reorientation. After communion. After revival.

It’s His way of saying: “Come back to Me. Let Me take the lead again. Watch what happens when you do.”

Reflecting on Our Own Lives

So what about us? We’re not standing in Jerusalem with stones at our feet and temple plans in our hands. But make no mistake: every one of us is building something. Maybe it’s a career. A family. A platform. A ministry. A name. The question isn’t whether you’re building. The question is: what’s at the center of it?

God’s people in Haggai’s day weren’t doing bad things—they were doing good things. But even good things, when they take the central place, can lead us off course. We don’t always feel that drift in the moment.

• It shows up quietly.
• When your calendar fills up, and somehow there’s no space for Scripture.
• When you’re quick to respond to emails, but slow to respond to the Spirit.
• When your house is in order, but your heart is restless.
• When you feel like you’re doing everything right, and still—something’s missing.

“Consider your ways.”

That’s not a slap on the wrist. It’s a hand on the shoulder. A fatherly voice saying: “Let’s pause. Let’s look again. Let’s make sure we’re building the kind of life that actually lasts.”

So take a breath.

• Ask yourself:
• What’s the first thing I think about when I wake up?
• Where do my energies go?
• What’s getting my best—and what’s getting my leftovers?
• Where am I saying, “Later,” when God is saying, “Now”?

For some of us, this may land on family life. You’re trying to lead your kids well—but the days slip by, and you realize it’s been a while since you prayed with them, read the Word with them, really looked them in the eyes and pointed them to Christ. Not out of negligence. Just… distraction.

For some, it might be marriage. You’re committed. Loyal. You share a life. But something’s gone quiet. Spiritual leadership has taken a backseat. You’re waiting for the perfect moment to step up—and “later” has become the norm.

For others, it’s ministry. Maybe you’ve served faithfully in the past. You’ve poured out. And then you got tired. Discouraged. You meant to jump back in. But now months have passed. Even years. And the place where God once used you now feels distant.

Or maybe… it’s the church itself. You love it. You believe in it. But you’ve been waiting for someone else to take initiative. Someone else to stir the coals. Someone else to carry the weight.

But what if it’s you? What if the temple won’t rise unless you pick up the next stone?

And here’s the beauty of it: God doesn’t shame the people for the delay. He simply says, “Let’s begin again.” He calls them to action. Not grand gestures. Just obedience.

“Go up to the hills and bring wood and build the house, that I may take pleasure in it and that I may be glorified.”
—Haggai 1:8

It starts small. Just gather the wood. Not “build it all today.” Not “fix everything overnight.” Just start.

• That’s what He asks of you and me, too.
• Open the Word again.
• Kneel beside your son’s bed and pray with him.
• Say “yes” to that place of service you’ve been afraid to commit to.
• Take the first step toward reconciliation. Toward obedience. Toward rebuilding.

Because the work doesn’t begin with hammers and nails. It begins with hearts that say: “God, I’m ready again.”

God’s Presence and Promise

Sometimes, the hardest part of returning to God’s call is the quiet shame we carry. We want to say yes. We want to obey. But there’s a voice inside whispering: “It’s too late. You missed your chance. The moment passed, and you weren’t faithful.”

But that’s not how God works. That’s not the God of Haggai. Because right after He calls the people to “consider their ways”… they listen. They respond. And what happens next is stunning.

“Then Zerubbabel… and all the remnant of the people obeyed the voice of the Lord their God… and the people feared the Lord.”
—Haggai 1:12

They could’ve hardened their hearts. Could’ve justified their delay. Could’ve done nothing. But instead, they obeyed. They picked up tools again. Cleared the weeds. Dusted off the plans. Started hauling stone. And here’s what I love: the very next words out of God’s mouth aren’t judgment… they’re comfort.

“I am with you, declares the Lord.”
—Haggai 1:13

That’s the heart of it, isn’t it? That’s what we need more than anything. Not easier circumstances. Not even immediate results. Just this: God is with us. Because if He’s with us, then we can rebuild. We can begin again. We can face opposition, push through fear, and stay faithful when it’s hard. We don’t need all the answers—we need His presence. And that’s exactly what He promises. Now watch what happens next, don’t miss this.

“And the Lord stirred up the spirit of Zerubbabel… and the spirit of Joshua… and the spirit of all the remnant of the people. And they came and worked on the house of the Lord.”
—Haggai 1:14

They didn’t stir themselves up. God did it. All they did was say “yes.” All they did was obey—even just a little—and the Spirit of God began to move again. In their leaders. In their homes. In the whole community. And the work began. Not because the opposition vanished. Not because it got easier. But because they were no longer working alone.

And that’s the hope for us. If God could stir their hearts after sixteen years of delay, He can stir ours again too. If He didn’t abandon them in their distraction, He won’t abandon us in ours. The moment we move toward Him, He moves toward us.

You might be sitting here thinking, “I want that. I want to be stirred up again. But I don’t feel it yet.”

That’s okay. Obedience often comes before emotion. The Spirit stirs after the first step—not before. So take that step. Pick up the next stone. Open your Bible tomorrow morning. Lead your family in prayer, even if it’s awkward. Step back into community. Serve again. Risk again.

You don’t have to feel “on fire” to be faithful. You just have to show up—and let God do the stirring. Because He’s still the same today. Still calling. Still near. Still building. And He hasn’t forgotten you.

Reigniting the Flame

So here we are. We’ve stood beside the people of Jerusalem, brushing the dust off forgotten stones. We’ve heard the voice of Haggai echo through the ruins. We’ve felt the weight of delay—and the mercy of a God who says, “It’s not too late.”

Now it’s our turn. No, we’re not called to rebuild a physical temple. Not like they were. But we are called to rebuild something just as sacred: Our devotion. Our obedience. Our place in the story God is still writing. Because His kingdom is still advancing. His church is still the plan. His Spirit is still stirring people who are willing to listen. And maybe tonight, or this morning, is your moment.

Think back to that cold ring of ashes we talked about earlier. The fire that once blazed is now reduced to ember and smoke. It doesn’t take much to bring it back. You don’t need to relight the match. You just need to kneel beside it. Cup your hands. Add a little kindling. Blow gently. And suddenly, what looked dead begins to glow again. The fire comes back. That’s what obedience does. That’s what happens when you say yes—not someday, not when things settle down, but now.

Pick up the next stone. Whatever it is—whatever God’s been quietly asking of you—do it. Maybe it’s a conversation you’ve been avoiding. A confession you’ve been burying. A step of faith you’ve been delaying. A calling you’ve tried to shake off. Or maybe, it’s just opening your heart again. Saying, “God, You can have it all.”

The time isn’t coming. The time is now.

“Be strong, all you people of the land, declares the Lord. Work, for I am with you… My Spirit remains in your midst. Fear not.”
—Haggai 2:4–5

He is with you. He’s not done building. And He hasn’t forgotten how to start a fire.