Let the Fire Be a Net

by Sarah Skinner and the Holy One who speaks to her poet heart

Our fire does not need to be loud.
Our fire can be a whisper of heat.
A coded knock. A flickering porchlight.
The flame of hope curled beneath the roots of a mountain.

Let our fire be not a flare—but a lantern
lit in ten houses at once.
Let it burn in coordination.
In unmarked maps. In routes walked twice.

Let it be written in action:
we will not abandon each other.

Let it be written—
when someone warns their neighbor,
when someone drives the long way home to avoid being followed,
when a pastor leaves the back door unlocked without saying why—
that’s the fire that burns without being seen.

We do not give them escalation.
We give our people a net of presence.
A glowing web they can’t catch.

The hearth is not in one place—
it’s woven between hearts.

The nave, like Navy,
where the congregation is gathered—
Navy, like a ship, the Ark—
is where two or three or twelve or one hundred gather.

Don’t call the building a refuge.
Call the network the sanctuary.

The old hymnals.
The folding chairs.
Someone’s garage where food is sorted and shared—
each one is part of the fire.

When we take sanctuary beyond four walls—
into food pantries and picket lines,
into vigils and voter vans—
we move the Holy One’s fleet.
We become the Ark.