As the weather cools and people begin stacking firewood for winter, I have been thinking about how rare it is to gather around a real fire. Fewer homes are heated by woodstoves. Most outdoor recreation now happens under the glow of LED lanterns and propane burners. Even in new homes, fireplaces are often just electric screens with orange light that flickers on command.
It made me wonder what happens to us when we no longer gather around real fire.
I read an article recently by an outdoor recreation company that explained that because of wildfire risk, campfires are being phased out of many outdoor experiences. There are all sorts of substitutes now: electric fireplaces, propane fire pits, gas logs, and digital flames that mimic the look of fire without the mess or danger. But I cannot help but ask: Are these really adequate replacements, or are we losing something profound?
Fire is one of the most consequential tools ever discovered by man. It gave us warmth, light, cooked food, protection, and community. It changed the shape of humanity.
Anthropologists tell us that cooking with fire made our food more digestible and nutrient-dense, which may have contributed to the growth of our brains. Fire allowed us to stay awake after dark, gather together, and develop language, art, and story. According to this view, fire shaped civilization itself.
But for those of us who believe in creation, fire’s story runs even deeper. The Bible presents fire not as a human invention but as a divine element, something that belongs to God and reveals His presence. In Exodus, God appears to Moses in a bush that burns but is not consumed. In the wilderness, He leads His people by a pillar of fire at night. In the New Testament, fire descends at Pentecost as tongues of flame upon the disciples, symbolizing the Holy Spirit.
Fire, from a biblical perspective, is not merely practical. It is sacred. It purifies, illuminates, and signifies divine power. It is both warmth and warning, both comfort and awe.
And perhaps that is why we are drawn to it still.
When we gather around fire, we connect to not only our ancestors, but also to creation itself. There is something about flame that quiets the mind and settles the heart. Modern science is beginning to confirm what ancient people instinctively knew.
Whether you believe that this instinct evolved over millennia or that it was designed by the Creator Himself, the outcome is the same. We were made for fire.
In our home, the main part of the house is heated by a large fireplace and a wood cookstove. We also bake bread and pizza in a wood-fired oven. This is not just a charming aesthetic. It is how we live. We spend the summer months stacking and seasoning wood, and when winter comes, we spend our evenings gathered around the fire.
When my family gathers around the fireplace or the woodstove, everything slows down. The firelight dances across the faces of my children. The smell of woodsmoke lingers in our hair. The crackle fills the air with a rhythm that feels older than time itself. We often cook our meals there: coffee in the morning, soup that simmers on the stove, or bread baked in the oven’s gentle heat.
Last year, in January, when fires were burning in Los Angeles, I posted a video on Instagram of my children lighting the morning fire in our wood cookstove from the coals of the night before. Many people were upset.
“How could you let your children play with fire, especially while the city is burning?” they asked.
I understood their fear. Wildfires are devastating. We have lived through one ourselves. In California, our farm once caught fire, and we lost every tool, tractor, and golf cart we owned.
But as terrible as uncontrolled fire can be, we cannot afford to villainize fire itself. Fire is not our enemy. It is one of our oldest teachers, and it deserves reverence, not fear.
There is a difference between reckless fire and sacred fire. Reckless fire destroys. Sacred fire gives life, light, warmth, and community.
I sometimes wonder if our growing discomfort with fire mirrors a deeper cultural unease with anything raw or unpredictable. We have tamed so much of the natural world that even the sight of smoke or ash feels threatening. But I believe that fire still has a place in our everyday lives, not just as a nostalgic tradition but as something deeply beneficial to our bodies and spirits.
We know that early morning sunlight has a specific spectrum that supports our circadian rhythm and energizes our mitochondria. Is it possible that firelight, with its warm red and orange spectrum, offers similar benefits in the evening, helping our bodies wind down and align with the natural rhythms of rest? There is not yet definitive research on this, but it would not surprise me. Just as we need the morning sun, maybe we also need the night fire.
Fire invites us to slow down. It requires patience. You cannot rush a wood fire. You must feed it, watch it, and tend it. The act of gathering around one brings people together in a way screens never can. Conversation deepens. Time expands. The smell of woodsmoke clings to your hair and clothes, reminding you that you were part of something real.
So are fires outdated, dangerous, or unnecessary? Perhaps some will say yes. But I believe the opposite. I believe that fire, in its controlled and reverent form, still belongs in our lives. It is not simply for nostalgia or ambiance. It is for grounding, for connection, for remembering who we are.
When my family gathers around our woodstove on a cold Texas night, when the children are drowsy and the room is lit only by flame, I am reminded of the unbroken chain of humans who did the same. Fire gave us everything we have, and it still gives.
Maybe the question is not whether we need fire anymore. Maybe the question is whether we can afford to live without it.
