26/7/26: “God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble.” (traduction en dessous)

The words are ancient, first written down more than two and a half millennia ago. Yet unlike so many ancient words, these words were remembered. From generation to generation, they have been passed down. They have been spoken. They have been prayed. And they have given hope. So we speak them again this morning:
“God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble.”


This promise has sustained generations of people who, like us, lived ordinary lives with the ordinary responsibilities each day brings—until a day came bringing something not only unexpected, but threatening. For many in our communities, that threat revealed itself in recent weeks in pillars of smoke that darkened the sky, fouled the air and laid waste to countryside we love. It was a threat so unpredictable that people waited on the edge of evacuation orders, suitcases packed and loaded into cars, making urgent calls to family, friends and neighbours who might offer refuge. And then, for some, threat became reality as fire destroyed not only forests and meadows, but homes and businesses. And well-ordered lives were thrown painfully out of order. In such a time, the words of Isaiah are not difficult to understand:
“The Lord has forsaken me; my Lord has forgotten me.”


Faith does not require us to deny that all too human response to tragedy. Scripture does not ask us to pretend that fear is not fear, that loss is not loss, or that devastation can be made acceptable by a few pious words. Nor does the Psalm say that trouble will never come. It says that God is present in the midst of it: “God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble.”


Sometimes that refuge will be a private shelter, whether literal, emotional or spiritual. It is a place of safety into which we retreat, where we seek protection from what threatens us and can rest in the presence of God. Yet the refuge God provides is far more expansive than that. The refuge of God is not only a place. It is also a people. Again and again in Scripture, God’s answer to fear is to gather people together. A people gathered into covenant with God and with one another. That covenant is founded on God’s call to us to not only to love God, but to love our neighbour as ourselves. And even more than that, to Love one another as God has loved us.”


That call to love is not an abstract spiritual ideal. It is the form God’s refuge takes among us.
God’s refuge becomes visible when one neighbour opens a door to another. It becomes visible when someone makes a telephone call and asks, “Are you safe? Do you need somewhere to go?”
It becomes visible when firefighters enter danger so that others may safely flee from it; when civic leaders coordinate protection and relief; when homes are opened, meals are prepared, animals are sheltered and strangers are received as neighbours.


It becomes visible even when people who do not share the same first language yet nevertheless discover ways to understand one another through kindness, courage and practical care. The refuge is God’s. But God entrusts that refuge to human hands. God does not simply say to those in danger, “Find safety.” God calls the rest of us to become a community in which safety, courage and consolation may be found. This is one of the deepest truths of the Christian faith. God does not save humanity from a distance. God comes among us. God’s love takes human form in Jesus Christ: a voice that speaks, hands that touch, feet that walk beside the suffering, and a table at which all are welcomed.


The love of God is therefore never intended to end with us. It comes to us so that it may move through us. The consolation we receive becomes the consolation we offer. The mercy shown to us becomes the mercy we extend. The refuge we find in God becomes the refuge we help create for another. God consoles us so that we may console others. God strengthens us so that we may strengthen others. God gathers us so that no one need face fear, loss or uncertainty alone.
Consolation is not simply finding the right words for someone who suffers. Often there are no right words. Consolation is drawing near. It is remaining. It is refusing to abandon another person to grief or fear or the tragedy that has come upon them. It is saying, by our presence, “You have not been forgotten.”


That is also God’s answer through the prophet Isaiah. Isaiah frames God’s answer as a question and with an unequivocal answer” “Can a woman forget her nursing child? Even these may forget, yet I will not forget you.” And then comes the promise: “Your builders outdo your destroyers.”


That promise does not erase what has happened. It does not restore in an instant what has been lost. It does not make grief smaller or the work of recovery easier. It says something far more modest and far more courageous: Destruction will not be given the final word.


The builders are already among us. They are those who fought the fires. They are those who protected homes and communities. They are those who will repair, restore, replant and rebuild.
But builders are also those who rebuild trust, courage and hope. They are those who remain with a neighbour after the emergency vehicles have gone and public attention has moved elsewhere. You see, a community is not formed only by living near one another. A community is formed when we accept responsibility for one another.


For most of us here, becoming neighbours has required crossing more than a road or a village square on the way to the market. We have come from other countries, carrying another language, another culture and another way of understanding the world. We have made our homes among communities whose roots reach back through generations, while we are still learning how to speak, how to listen, how to understand, and how to belong.


We have all experiences that language can make even a simple conversation difficult. Cultural differences can also leave us uncertain of what to say or how to offer help. Yet neighbourliness does not begin with perfect fluency. It begins with attention. It begins with humility. It begins with the willingness to step across the distance between us and say, however imperfectly, “I am here. You matter to me.” “Je suis là. Vous comptez pour moi.”


We become neighbours when another person’s fear matters to us. We become neighbours when another person’s loss becomes part of our concern. We become neighbours when we refuse to ask only, “Am I safe?” and begin also to ask, “Who is still not safe?” “Who still needs refuge? Who still needs help? Who still needs someone to remain beside them?” This is where hope and solidarity meet.


Jesus points us to the birds of the air and the lilies of the field and asks us to see in them the signs of God’s unrelenting care. The God who feeds the birds and clothes the grass has not overlooked those whose lives have been threatened or overturned by fire. We are known.
We are remembered. We are cherished. And when neighbour watches over neighbour, when communities shelter the vulnerable, and when generosity answers fear, that divine care becomes visible among us. God becomes visible among us.


We gather today while one fire lies behind us. Other fires still burn and the season of danger is not over. We therefore gather neither in the reassuring illusion that the danger has passed, nor beneath the paralyzing shadow of despair. We gather instead as a community—a people drawn from different places, histories and languages, whose lives have become intertwined and who are stronger because of it.


May our prayers take flesh in acts of love, and our hope become a faithful and steadfast presence alongside our neighbours.


May we become builders of refuge; and by God’s grace, may what we build surpass all that destroys.


And may the ancient words become living truth among us once again:
“God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble.”
​
Rev Roy Cole, 26/7/26