A Fire of Roses

All manner of thing shall be well
When the tongues of flames are in-folded
Into the crowned knot of fire
And the fire and the rose are one.

—T.S. Eliot, ​“Little Gidding,” The Four Quartets

North Star

There are books we read once and never re-visit. Perhaps we have gleaned all we needed from the first read, or maybe the content was forgettable. There are books we rely upon as useful references — a quick flip through will remind us what we came for. 

But there are some books that become friends. They strike a note of truth or provide encouragement at just the right time. In much the same way as the North Star aids those who are wayfinding at night, such books serve to re-orient us when we’ve lost our way — reminding us of the truest, deepest things, giving us the courage to open our eyes again and behold the world with fresh curiosity and gentleness. 

In my wayfinding with God over the past five years, The Princess and Curdie by George MacDonald has been a North Star for me. I first encountered the work of George MacDonald in a spiritually bleak season — a several-year span in which I experienced deep depression along with the keen sense that I had lost my way. I felt unable to do much of anything besides wonder who had turned off the lights. Yet for reasons I still cannot explain, the one thing I could do with ease throughout that season was devour copious amounts of children’s literature. As I read through George MacDonald’s fairytales, each story offered its own luminous truths, sparking like stirred embers, guiding me through the night. 

One scene from The Princess and Curdie stands out as a glimmering gem among the treasures of MacDonald’s work. In it, the central character Curdie is baptized into a new identity through an encounter with an ancient and powerful princess, who appears as both wise grandmother and youthful maiden to those who believe in her existence. Like a prophet or a priest commissioned by God, Curdie is commissioned by the princess to bring healing to the kingdom that has fallen into disrepair. The good King is being slowly poisoned to death by one of his trusted advisors, and the future of the once-glorious kingdom appears grim indeed. But there is still hope. 

One night, the princess summons Curdie to her upper room to give him a mysterious gift — one that will help Curdie rescue the kingdom and remove the thick veil of greed, deception, and apathy that has settled over the land. Upon entering the princess’ cavernous chamber, Curdie sees her sitting by a large fire on a throne composed of precious jewels at its base, with a thick layer of moss and daisies adorning the rest of her chair. A silver moon hangs from high ceilings that are strung with lush fruits and even more gleaming jewels, giving the reader a sense of the intimate vastness and wonder of the cosmos contained in a single room, signifying a greater reality over which the princess reigns. 

Holding Pain

Up to this point, the princess has given Curdie small tests of faith: will he deny her existence, even when everyone else in the kingdom mocks him for believing that she is more than just an old wives’ tale? Will Curdie recognize the princess no matter what form she takes, even if she appears as a haggard beggar woman asking for coins? It strikes me that these are tests of faith we experience early on in our faith journey, as well. Will we deny God in the presence of those who mock Him? Will we behold the face of Christ in the stranger, in the unlovable? Curdie passes these tests in preparation for the final test which will transform him from one degree of glory to the next.

As the princess beckons Curdie closer to the hearth, he finds the source of the fragrance permeating the room: a conflagration of roses which burn but are not consumed. The princess then reveals the final test to Curdie:

“‘It needs only trust and obedience,’ answered the lady.

‘I dare not say anything, ma’am. If you think me fit, command me.’

‘It will hurt you terribly, Curdie, but that will be all; no real hurt but much good will come to you from it.’

Curdie made no answer but stood gazing with parted lips in the lady’s face.

‘Go and thrust both your hands into that fire,’ she said quickly, almost hurriedly.”

Curdie obeys, rushing with arms outstretched towards the fire before fear and doubt can triumph over trust and obedience. My favorite line happens on the next page, while Curdie endures the fire:

“He held the pain as if it were a thing that would kill him if he let it go — as indeed it would have done. He was in terrible fear lest it should conquer him.”

He held the pain as if it were a thing that would kill him if he let it go. Without knowing what would happen next, Curdie held the pain, holding out for the greater glory promised to him if he endured. Am I willing to hold my own pain as one who believes that the real harm is not in suffering, but in shrinking back from the trials that would lead me to fullness of life? 

Come to Me

Gradually, Curdie’s pain subsides, and he looks up from the rose-fire to see the princess gazing upon him with tears streaming down her face:

“‘Come to me,” she said. He obeyed and saw, to his surprise, that her face looked as if she had been weeping.

‘Oh, Princess! What is the matter?’ he cried. ​‘Did I make a noise and vex you?’

‘No, Curdie,’ she answered; ​‘but it was very bad.’

‘Did you feel it too then?’

‘Of course I did. But now it is over, and all is well.’”

The scene opens a window into the heart of God, the heart of the Gospel. We serve, love, and obey our great and beautiful God who not only suffered upon the cross, but suffers with us—here and now — feeling our pain, weeping with our tears. There is no neutrality in pain. Any suffering we experience in this life will either push us farther from God or draw us closer to Him. The princess echoes God’s constant invitation to those bruised and bleeding ones, weary from holding the pain: Come to me.

When Curdie removes his hands from the fire, they are tender and new — sensitive, soft, and discerning, just like the Princess’ hands. Yet the softness does not indicate weakness; it is the gift of wisdom and spiritual sensitivity, a gift that will enable him to discern the true character of anyone’s hand he touches on his forthcoming journey to save the kingdom. With his new hands, Curdie’s task is to uncover the shrouded beauty of the kingdom and to partner with those who seek the same — until the kingdom is delivered and restored to its former glory. What might have seemed a cruel or arbitrary test of loyalty was actually an empowering encounter of purification and preparation.

As harbingers of the Kingdom of God, we are to go and do likewise — to run excitedly like children towards eternal truths and treasures glimmering just beneath the surface of things, pulling back the veil until Heaven is revealed on earth.

Beauty and Sacrifice

Thrust your hands in the fire, the Princess tells Curdie — her heart burning with love even as her eyes brim with tears. 

Be holy, for I am holy, God commands the Israelites — his chosen people, dearly loved. 

Take up your cross, and follow me, Jesus instructs his beloved friends. 

All of these are variations upon the invitation to be with God by becoming like God. Why do you suppose MacDonald chose to depict a fire made of roses, in which both the fire and the roses are distinct yet one? My best guess and greatest hope is that this rose-fire is a picture of the transforming power of beauty and sacrifice. Through rose-fire, Curdie has become like the Princess. Through the beauty of sacrifice, we become like Jesus. 

It is this image of fire and rose — beauty and pain, suffering and glory — that serves as my North Star whenever clouds of doubt and despair threaten to obscure my vision. After all, the most beautiful act of Love the world has ever known came through sacrifice — new life blossoming from the ashes of death. 

In a season of disorientation and depression, I sank my roots deep into the soil of George MacDonald’s far-away kingdom, only to re-discover the Kingdom that is available here and now, right under my feet. This is the gift of such stories — transporting us far and away, they wake us up to where we are, giving us re-enchanted eyes to behold the wondrous and often unseen realities around and within us. 

I will return to these stories for the rest of my life to find messages as simple as children’s fables yet rich and old as eternity. Among many things, one of the sweetest gifts George MacDonald has given me is re-enchantment. He taught me to see with my hands, just like Curdie — to know the truth with my heart as much as with my head. The Princess and Curdie reminds me of what I already know, yet often forget: that incredible beauty can come from unspeakable pain, giving us glimpses of the eternal ecstasy we will know when death yields to life and the fire and the rose are one.