I will say to the LORD, "My refuge and my fortress, my God, in whom I trust." Psalm 91.2 (ESV) I love the Bible (as you can probably guess from my insistence on writing blog posts based on it...)! But I am very aware that the Bible is often ambiguous, confusing and messy. God's interactions with messy human life probably couldn't not be messy! But it is clear - again and again - on what God cares about. God cares about what goes on here on earth, this little planet in a humongous universe. God cares about animals, and plants, and weather cycles! God cares about life. On top of that, God cares about goodness, peace, joy, love. Again and again through the Bible, we see characters whose lives are sometimes good and sometimes bad, and sometimes how they see God working in those times is questionable, but how God actually remains, is steadfast - a safe haven, a place to run to, a person to sit with, a companion to grow in the presence of.
I took the photo I used in the above illustration in the Peak District in Derbyshire. Every November, for more years than I've been here, my church has been going on a retreat here. We spend the weekend living in log cabins together, worshipping, reading the Bible, and walking in the countryside. And it is some seriously stunning countryside. And every year so far, God has been revealed to me in some new way, when I run into the refuge and fortress of God, away from all the pressures, stresses, normal, boring stuff of everyday life. I wonder if we can create some of those refuge and fortress spaces in our present habitations? Can you mark out a space and some time, where nothing else can press on you, and you can just know who God is for you, right now? Because God is definitely for you. God is your refuge and your fortress. In whom do you trust? Stay safe, and take care!
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"Then the angel showed me the river of the water of life, clear as glass, flowing from the throne of God and of the Lamb through the middle of the street of the city; also, on either side of the river, the tree of life, with its twelve kinds of fruit, yielding its fruit each month. The leaves of the tree were for the healing of the nations." (Revelation 22.1-2) "All streams flow into the sea, yet the sea is never full. To the place the streams come from, there they return again. All things are wearisome, more than one can say." (Ecclesiastes 1.7-8a) Water is ubiquitous. There is water we need to drink. Where I live, there is often water that falls from the sky, pin-pricks spiking through my clothes as I cycle and as clouds begin to let go. There is water we wash in. There is water that seeps out of the corners of our eyes when things become too sad, or too happy, or too overwhelming, or too disappointing. There is water that powers across the sea, crashing as waves against rocks, or cliffsides, or beaches. Water that wears down the land itself. There is water in streams, and lakes. There is water locked up in glaciers and ice-caps. There is water melting, tumbling, crashing. Sometimes life can be like water. Like everything is moving, cycling, yet necessary. What do you think? If all that I do goes into the world, yet the world is never full (complete, perfect, right, better), why do I bother? Ecclesiastes 1.7-8a. When all things are more wearisome than one can say, what keeps us going? Perhaps the utopian images of "something better" that we cling to, even if we are unable to say how it could become reality. And then we believe, somewhere deep inside us, that there can be life-giving water, that tears can be no more, that fruit can grow and sustain all year round, and that nations can be healed. Revelation 22.1-2. They are both here. We know the world is too broken for us to be able to fix it, but we also know that we've got to live this life as if we're trying to - or what's the point? This is metamodern. This is what a large majority of millennials and gen-z's feel. But it feels almost as if we're crashing around, tumbling and melting like ice-caps when we feel this way. We keep our heads above water, but only just. And what do we miss while we're so intent on surviving it? Sometimes, in the midst of it all, I need another lens through which to look.
There will be time again to fight the wrong things in the world. There will be time again to realise the world is beyond my power to fix. There will be time again to decide to keep trying to do good anyway.
But there needs to be time for silence, and to be still. I just got back from a week away by the sea! It's good to be home and to catch up on all the things I didn't do while on holiday, but I'm also always sad to say goodbye to the sea. And this photo pretty much sums those feelings up for me. I imagine my face with this wistful, longing look on it, gazing out, trying to know every undulation and take in all of this expanse - which I can't possibly do - while I can.
The sea has always made me think of God. How vast it is. How powerful it is. That I could never fully take it all in, but therefore, that I could never tire of endlessly exploring it. I remember a couple of years ago, sitting out on a surfboard in Cornwall waiting for a wave to come, and I kind of feel like that now. I feel like God is allowing me to glimpse something of the wonderful plans God has for me to get involved in - out there on the horizon - and I'm waiting. But it doesn't feel like it has at points in the past: like I'm aimlessly waiting, and praying desperately that God would reveal to me what I'm to do, because without that purpose explained I'm just bobbing around. And my legs are so tired from all the treading water that I know I can't keep it up. In those moments, I've needed God to save me. And God did. But this is different. This is like sitting on that surfboard. I have the feeling in my muscles from the shorter waves I caught closer in, practice spaces, trial and planning phases. I'm grateful for the rest as I sit and feel the undercurrents of God - the motions and movements, the direction they're pulling in. I'm immensely impressed at the beauty and vastness of God as I stare out at the sea all around me. I don't mind that I'm waiting this time - sure, I'm excited and looking forward to when it does come - but I'm not anxious or distressed in this waiting, because I'm spending this time delighting in who God is and all that God has done. And possibly more than anything, I am so hopeful. I'm excited. I feel elevated. There is a sense still, while I'm waiting, that something is about to happen. The waters are starting to stir in the way they do when there's going to be a big wave. And I want it. I don't know if I'll be able to ride it in all the way; there's a real possibility I might fall. But this is the sea we're talking about. This is God we're thinking of. There will be more waves. Grace comes again and again - and the more I ride on these waves, the more exceptional those rides will become. Don't get me wrong - I've experienced both of these kinds of waiting, and I probably will again. Sometimes waiting is just really hard. We all today live in a culture of immediacy, which means that waiting for something jars with us. We start to think that maybe it won't happen at all. I have struggled with this on numerous occasions. But I wanted to share this with you all because there are other kinds of waiting too, and waiting can be a positive experience. If you're in the midst of a waiting struggle - keep praying, be honest to God with your feelings, and allow God to save you from them. And if you're in the midst of a waiting like mine on the surfboard - delight in it, document it so you can remember it in the future, praise God in it. God is a God of all our different experiences and emotions. So keep God involved in them! I've been quiet on here for a little while, but still want to get a post out this month, even if only just!
The past month and a half has been really tough. And sharing why just feels a little too difficult right now, but hopefully will be something I can do at some point. So for now, I've done this instead - the photos above all point to little pockets and experiences of happiness amidst and despite the difficulty and darkness. Things that were just fun; just bright; just reminders of a world created and sustained by a God who is still good, even when I don't even care enough to want him to be. These things are:
These are by no means exhaustive as the things that have been good during this time, but they have been pockets of happiness that have brightened my world just a little at points where I felt darkness only could prevail. If you're struggling, know that God is still good, even when you can't feel it. Talk about it, and let others remind you of the truths you feel not strong enough to hold on to. God loves you, still. |
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AuthorI'm a recent Cambridge Theology graduate now studying for a Masters in Biblical Studies and blogging about all sorts of things! I'm interested in faith, Church, theology, social action, the great outdoors and being creative, and all of those things - along with many more - come through in my posts!
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