On a bright Saturday afternoon in March 1911, New York City felt like it was rehearsing for the role of the "greatest city in the world." The streets were abuzz with life.

But a different kind of energy was at work on the eighth, ninth, and tenth floors of the Asch Building near Washington Square. Hundreds of young women—most of them immigrants, many of them too young—were bent over sewing machines, churning out shirtwaists, those high-collared fashion statements of a more "elegant" era.

These young women were ambitious. Daughters of Italian and Jewish families who'd stepped off boats at Ellis Island with stars in their eyes and just enough hope to outpace the despair. They worked for wages that couldn't get you a Big Mac combo meal in today's Manhattan but meant survival back then.

The factory was packed tight. Air thick with cotton dust. Fabric scraps all over the floor. But hey, you do what you gotta do when the American dream is sold by the piece.

But at 4:40 PM, somebody noticed smoke.

Maybe somebody tossed a cigarette aside. Maybe it was a spark from a machine. Either way, it found a feast of kindling: scraps, dust, dry fabric, and a whole building full of people with nowhere to go. The descriptions of the scene were so intense that "panic" doesn't even scratch the surface of what unfolded next.

The doors were locked ... because of course they were. The company routinely locked doors to prevent workers from taking breaks or stealing materials. Those who reached the fire escape found it buckling under the weight of desperate people trying to flee.

Down on the street, people gathered, helpless. Some watched as girls appeared in the windows—some with hair ablaze, some clutching each other, making choices no one should ever have to make about whether to jump or not. The fire department came, but their ladders only reached the sixth floor. Elevators saved a few, but in the end, 146 people died.

But let's not sanitize this. They weren't just "workers." They were daughters. Sisters. Friends. Kids. Some still new enough to this country that their names got butchered in the newspapers when the fire was reported on.

The city reeled. There were funerals. Protests. Lawsuits. Speeches with just enough righteous fury to get something done. A commission was formed. Laws were passed: exit doors unlocked, sprinkler systems mandated, inspections required. Huge reforms came out of this unnecessary tragedy.

But here's the thing: none of it happened because somebody finally read a report about working conditions. It happened because people died. And not just people … poor people. Foreign people. People who were supposed to be invisible. But the fire made them un-ignorable.

And maybe that's part of what makes the whole thing so holy and so horrible at the same time. Because, more than just legislation, what those young women gave us was a moral inventory. They exposed the lie that safety and dignity are only for those who can afford them.

The infamous Triangle Shirtwaist Fire was more than a tragedy. It was an apocalypse, not in the “end of the world” sense, but in the original Greek sense: an unveiling. It showed us who we were. And more importantly, who we still have the chance to become.

I’ve always had a healthy respect for the profound damage fire can do. Once it gets loose, nothing feels safe. Businesses. Houses. Wildlife. Human beings.

So, I’ve got to be honest, when I hear Jesus say, “I came to bring fire to the earth, and how I wish it were already kindled!” I don’t get warm fuzzies.

Right? I mean, when fire shows up in the Bible, it feels like something really bad is going down.

When I think about fire in the Bible, I automatically associate it with the apocalypse, you know, the end of the world. Second Peter describes it this way: “But the day of the Lord will come like a thief, and then the heavens will pass away with a loud noise, and the elements will be dissolved with fire, and the earth and everything that is done on it will be disclosed” (2 Peter 3:10).

But even worse than apocalyptic fire raining down from heaven is the imagery of hell—with its burning lake of fire that burns with sulphur.

Yeah, so when Jesus talks about bringing fire to the earth, maybe I’m just sensitive, but it makes me a little nervous.

But then I have to stop and remember that fire in the Bible isn’t always a harbinger of doom. Sometimes it’s just the opposite. For the Israelites escaping the Egyptians, and then wandering in the wilderness, God’s presence among them was manifested as a pillar of fire.