Matthew 13:40–43, 47–51. Jesus said: “As the weeds are pulled up and burned in the fire, so it will be at the end of the age… They will throw them into the blazing furnace, where there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth.” And then again, in the very same chapter: “The angels will come and separate the wicked from the righteous and throw them into the blazing furnace…”
Twice. Two parables. Same warning. Same outcome. And after saying it all, Jesus asked a chilling question: “Have you understood all these things?” That is what you ask when something truly matters. Somehow, we do not like to think about God and judgment. We love to talk about heaven, but we are uncomfortable talking about hell. The moment a conversation drifts in that direction, we quickly redirect it: “God is a good God. God is loving. God doesn’t want to punish anyone.” That is true. But it is also true that Jesus spoke about hell—clearly, deliberately, and repeatedly. He did not describe it vaguely. He called it a blazing furnace. And He made sure His listeners had heard and understood. Why? Because perspective saves us. For me, the reality of judgment is strangely advantageous. It recalibrates life. It shrinks trivial things. It exposes how foolish many of our conflicts are.
How often do we fight at home over nothing? Raised voices. Short tempers. Harsh words. Long silences. Pride digging in its heels. Making peace becomes harder than winning the argument. We wait for the other person to move first. “Sorry” gets stuck in our throat. And when the Spirit nudges us, we resist—because our pride feels justified. But perspective changes everything.
I once knew someone who was overwhelmed at work—emotional, stressed, known by others as dramatic. Her partner, a paramedic, was called to what began as a simple incident. It turned into a six-vehicle crash. A police officer and the paramedic were seriously injured when an intoxicated driver ploughed into their stationary vehicles. Her partner escaped with only minor injuries. The next time she came to work, she was almost uncontrollably joyful. Nothing at work had changed. The problems were still there. But she had perspective. Suddenly, what once felt unbearable no longer mattered.
This is what the fear of God does. When we remember that there is a blazing furnace, suddenly saying “I’m sorry” becomes easy. Making the first move becomes joyful. Letting go of being right becomes wise. Like Paul said, we do not want to miss out. We can argue endlessly about who is right and who is wrong. Or we can humble ourselves, please God, and rule out—even in our own hearts—the licks of the blazing furnace.
This is not a feel-good message. But it is a necessary one. Somewhere along the way, Christians have stopped walking in fear. Yes—this fear includes love, reverence, respect, and awe. But it is also plain fear as we commonly know it. The Old Testament saints knew God as a consuming fire—and they lived accordingly. They did not trivialise obedience. They did not treat repentance casually. They did not presume on grace. Jesus himself said “But I will show you whom you should fear: Fear him who, after your body has been killed, has authority to throw you into hell. Yes, I tell you, fear him”.
Walking in the fear of the Lord does not make us miserable. It makes us wise. It keeps us soft-hearted. It keeps eternity in view and it helps us live today like tomorrow really matters.
Prayer
Holy God, forgive us for growing casual with things You take seriously. Forgive us for trivialising sin, postponing repentance, and resisting humility. Restore in us the fear of the Lord—not a fear that drives us away, but a fear that anchors us in truth. Give us eternal perspective so that pride loses its grip and obedience becomes our joy. Teach us to walk carefully, love deeply, forgive quickly, and live wisely—knowing that You are holy, just, and worthy of our awe. In Jesus’ name, Amen.
Quote: The fear of the Lord narrows the path but widens eternity.