He Set Himself on Fire

He Set Himself on Fire

(A true story framed poetically)

He had ink all over him—

names, dates, wounds.

But it was the teardrop

by his eye

that stayed with me.

Not fresh.

Just… there.

Like sorrow

that no longer needs explaining.

He wasn’t in prison greys.

Not this time.

But he’d known the cells,

known the corridors,

but

too complex for group sessions

at Lighthouse.

One day—

I visited him in prison.

He said, “Hi Father, pray for me

before I set myself on fire.”

And then—

he set his t-shirt alight.

A lighter, a moment,

a spark that shouldn’t have happened.

We ran—

shouting for someone with keys.

He rolled,

bed to floor,

smothered the flames.

Walked away.

Unburnt.

But it left something in the room.

A silence that speaks

of a thousand hurts.

Another day—

another place—

he came to St George’s.

The church named for the dragon-slayer.

A bright place.

A city-centre sanctuary

with lights, guitars,

coffee, welcome,

open hands.

He came not in crisis,

just to be,

to say hello,

to ask for prayer.

Katie prayed—

or so I remember.

Could’ve been another pastor.

They were always praying.

And when they did—

he glowed.

His face lifted.

Head held high.

Dignified.

Empowered.

Like something long bowed

was finally standing.

“I feel love,”

he said.

“God’s my friend—

the only one

who never lets me down.”

Psalm 34 whispers:

Those who look to him are radiant;

their faces are never covered with shame.

And that day—

he looked.

And the shame

fell off him

like old ash.

It was transfiguration,

not on a mountain,

but in the city’s heart,

in the place named for courage,

where dragons still come near.

Still—

he stood tall.

Still—

he shone.

This is my Son.

Whom I love.

In him I am well pleased.

He set himself on fire.

Yes.

But that was not his whole story.

Not even the best part.

Because once—

he stood tall,

shining.

And Love

called him by name.

He keeps in touch.

And we keep praying—

not just for him,

but for all the scorched ones.

Until the last dragon is slain,

until Leviathan is no more,

until chaos lies still,

and the earth

is drenched

with kindness.

Beloved.

Beloved.

Beloved.

-Rev’d Jon Swales