26/7/26: “God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble.” (traduction en dessous)7/28/2026  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
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26/7/26: Dieu est pour nous un refuge et une force, un secours toujours présent dans la détresse.7/28/2026  Ces paroles sont anciennes. Elles ont été mises par écrit pour la première fois il y a plus de deux millénaires et demi. Pourtant, à la différence de tant d’autres paroles anciennes, elles n’ont pas été oubliées. De génération en génération, elles ont été transmises. Elles ont été prononcées. Elles ont nourri la prière. Et elles ont donné de l’espérance. Alors, ce matin, nous les redisons :
« Dieu est pour nous un refuge et une force, un secours toujours présent dans la détresse. » Cette promesse a soutenu des générations d’hommes et de femmes qui, comme nous, menaient des vies ordinaires, avec les responsabilités ordinaires de chaque jour — jusqu’au jour où survint quelque chose non seulement d’inattendu, mais de menaçant. Pour beaucoup, dans nos communautés, cette menace s’est révélée ces dernières semaines sous la forme de colonnes de fumée qui ont obscurci le ciel, vicié l’air et ravagé les paysages que nous aimons. La menace était si imprévisible que des personnes sont restées dans l’attente d’un ordre d’évacuation, leurs valises faites et chargées dans les voitures, appelant d’urgence leur famille, leurs amis et leurs voisins susceptibles de leur offrir un refuge. Puis, pour certains, la menace est devenue réalité lorsque le feu a détruit non seulement des forêts et des prairies, mais aussi des maisons et des entreprises. Des vies jusque-là bien ordonnées ont été douloureusement bouleversées. En un tel moment, les paroles d’Isaïe ne sont pas difficiles à comprendre : « Le Seigneur m’a abandonnée ; mon Seigneur m’a oubliée. » La foi ne nous demande pas de nier cette réaction si profondément humaine face à la tragédie. L’Écriture ne nous demande pas de prétendre que la peur n’est pas la peur, que la perte n’est pas la perte, ou que quelques paroles pieuses peuvent rendre acceptable la dévastation. Le psaume ne dit pas non plus que l’épreuve ne viendra jamais. Il affirme que Dieu est présent au cœur même de l’épreuve : « Dieu est pour nous un refuge et une force, un secours toujours présent dans la détresse. » Parfois, ce refuge sera un abri personnel, qu’il soit matériel, affectif ou spirituel. Un lieu sûr où nous nous retirons, où nous cherchons protection contre ce qui nous menace et où nous pouvons nous reposer dans la présence de Dieu. Pourtant, le refuge que Dieu nous offre est bien plus vaste que cela. Le refuge de Dieu n’est pas seulement un lieu. Il est aussi un peuple. À maintes reprises dans l’Écriture, Dieu répond à la peur en rassemblant les êtres humains : un peuple uni par une alliance avec Dieu et les uns avec les autres. Cette alliance est fondée sur l’appel de Dieu, qui nous demande non seulement de l’aimer, mais d’aimer notre prochain comme nous-mêmes. Et plus encore : de nous aimer les uns les autres comme Dieu nous a aimés. Cet appel à aimer n’est pas un idéal spirituel abstrait. C’est la forme que prend parmi nous le refuge de Dieu. Le refuge de Dieu devient visible lorsqu’un voisin ouvre sa porte à un autre. Il devient visible lorsque quelqu’un téléphone et demande : « Êtes-vous en sécurité ? Avez-vous besoin d’un endroit où aller ? » Il devient visible lorsque les pompiers entrent dans le danger afin que d’autres puissent le fuir en sécurité ; lorsque les élus et les responsables locaux coordonnent la protection et les secours ; lorsque des maisons s’ouvrent, que des repas sont préparés, que des animaux sont mis à l’abri et que des étrangers sont accueillis comme des voisins. Il devient visible même lorsque des personnes qui n’ont pas la même langue maternelle trouvent néanmoins le moyen de se comprendre par la bonté, le courage et l’entraide concrète. Le refuge vient de Dieu. Mais Dieu le confie à des mains humaines. Dieu ne dit pas simplement à ceux qui sont en danger : « Trouvez un abri. » Dieu appelle le reste d’entre nous à devenir une communauté où l’on puisse trouver sécurité, courage et consolation. C’est l’une des vérités les plus profondes de la foi chrétienne. Dieu ne sauve pas l’humanité à distance. Dieu vient parmi nous. L’amour de Dieu prend forme humaine en Jésus-Christ : une voix qui parle, des mains qui touchent, des pas qui accompagnent ceux qui souffrent, et une table où tous sont accueillis. L’amour de Dieu ne nous est donc jamais donné pour s’arrêter à nous. Il nous rejoint afin de passer par nous. La consolation que nous recevons devient celle que nous offrons. La miséricorde qui nous est accordée devient celle que nous manifestons à autrui. Le refuge que nous trouvons en Dieu devient le refuge que nous aidons à créer pour un autre. Dieu nous console afin que nous puissions consoler à notre tour. Dieu nous fortifie afin que nous puissions fortifier les autres. Dieu nous rassemble afin que personne n’ait à affronter seul la peur, la perte ou l’incertitude. La consolation ne consiste pas simplement à trouver les mots justes pour quelqu’un qui souffre. Souvent, les mots justes n’existent pas. Consoler, c’est s’approcher. C’est demeurer. C’est refuser d’abandonner une personne à son chagrin, à sa peur ou au drame qui l’a frappée. C’est lui dire, par notre présence : « Vous n’avez pas été oublié. » Telle est aussi la réponse que Dieu donne par le prophète Isaïe. Isaïe la formule sous la forme d’une question, suivie d’une affirmation sans équivoque : « Une femme peut-elle oublier son nourrisson ? Même si elle l’oubliait, moi, je ne t’oublierai pas. » Puis vient la promesse : « Tes bâtisseurs l’emporteront sur tes destructeurs. » Cette promesse n’efface pas ce qui s’est passé. Elle ne restitue pas en un instant ce qui a été perdu. Elle ne diminue ni le chagrin ni la difficulté du travail de reconstruction. Elle affirme quelque chose de bien plus modeste et de bien plus courageux : la destruction n’aura pas le dernier mot. Les bâtisseurs sont déjà parmi nous. Ce sont ceux qui ont combattu les incendies. Ceux qui ont protégé les maisons et les communautés. Ceux qui répareront, restaureront, replanteront et reconstruiront. Mais les bâtisseurs sont aussi ceux qui reconstruisent la confiance, le courage et l’espérance. Ceux qui demeurent auprès d’un voisin après le départ des véhicules de secours et lorsque l’attention du public s’est portée ailleurs. Car une communauté ne se forme pas simplement parce que nous vivons les uns près des autres. Elle se forme lorsque nous acceptons d’être responsables les uns des autres. Pour la plupart d’entre nous ici, devenir voisins a demandé de franchir bien plus qu’une rue ou une place de village sur le chemin du marché. Nous sommes venus d’autres pays, porteurs d’une autre langue, d’une autre culture et d’une autre manière de comprendre le monde. Nous avons établi notre foyer au sein de communautés dont les racines remontent à plusieurs générations, alors même que nous apprenons encore à parler, à écouter, à comprendre et à trouver notre place. Nous savons tous combien la langue peut rendre difficile même une conversation toute simple. Les différences culturelles peuvent également nous laisser incertains, sans savoir quoi dire ni comment offrir notre aide. Pourtant, pour être de bons voisins, il n’est pas nécessaire de parler parfaitement la langue. Tout commence par l’attention. Tout commence par l’humilité. Tout commence par la volonté de franchir la distance qui nous sépare et de dire, même imparfaitement : « I am here. You matter to me. » — « Je suis là. Vous comptez pour moi. » Nous devenons voisins lorsque la peur de l’autre nous importe. Nous devenons voisins lorsque la perte subie par l’autre devient aussi notre souci. Nous devenons voisins lorsque nous cessons de demander seulement : « Suis-je en sécurité ? » et que nous commençons aussi à demander : « Qui n’est toujours pas en sécurité ? Qui a encore besoin d’un refuge ? Qui a encore besoin d’aide ? Qui a encore besoin que quelqu’un demeure à ses côtés ? » C’est ici que l’espérance et la solidarité se rejoignent. Jésus attire notre regard vers les oiseaux du ciel et les lis des champs, et nous demande d’y reconnaître les signes de la sollicitude inlassable de Dieu. Le Dieu qui nourrit les oiseaux et revêt l’herbe des champs n’a pas oublié ceux dont la vie a été menacée ou bouleversée par le feu. Il nous connaît. Il se souvient de nous. Nous lui sommes précieux. Et lorsqu’un voisin veille sur un autre, lorsque les communautés mettent les plus vulnérables à l’abri et lorsque la générosité répond à la peur, cette sollicitude divine devient visible parmi nous. Dieu lui-même devient visible parmi nous. Nous nous rassemblons aujourd’hui alors qu’un incendie est derrière nous. D’autres brûlent encore, et la saison du danger n’est pas terminée. Nous ne nous rassemblons donc ni dans l’illusion rassurante que le danger est passé, ni dans l’ombre paralysante du désespoir. Nous nous rassemblons au contraire en communauté : un peuple venu d’horizons, d’histoires et de langues différents, dont les vies se sont liées et qui en est plus fort. Que nos prières prennent chair dans des actes d’amour, et que notre espérance devienne une présence fidèle et constante auprès de nos voisins. Que nous devenions des bâtisseurs de refuge ; et que, par la grâce de Dieu, ce que nous bâtissons l’emporte sur tout ce qui détruit. Et que ces paroles anciennes deviennent une fois encore, parmi nous, une vérité vivante : « Dieu est pour nous un refuge et une force, un secours toujours présent dans la détresse. » Rev Roy Cole, 26 juillet 2026 July is a month in which three nations important to many of us remember freedom. For Americans, the 4th of July recalls independence and liberty. For the French, Bastille Day recalls revolution and liberté, égalité, fraternité. For the British, the story is less one dramatic revolution than a long and uneven growth of constitutional freedom: Magna Carta, Parliament, the Bill of Rights, and the insistence that power must be accountable and ordered toward the common good. These are different stories. Each has its own courage, contradictions, and unfinished work. But perhaps they have this much in common: freedom is never simple, never complete, and never self-sustaining. Freedom is not achieved once and then safely possessed forever. It must be received, guarded, lived, and tended. That makes today’s Gospel especially apt, because Jesus gives us a picture not of a monument, declaration, or revolution, but of a sower going out to sow. “Listen!” Jesus says. “A sower went out to sow.” The seed falls everywhere: on the path, on rocky ground, among thorns, and on good soil. Some is snatched away. Some springs up quickly but has no root. Some is choked. Some bears fruit, thirty, sixty, even a hundredfold. When Jesus explains the parable, he tells us that the seed is the word of the kingdom: the living word of God, God’s truth, mercy, justice, and call, planted in human hearts. The parable does not ask whether the sower is generous. The sower is wonderfully, almost recklessly generous. The seed is scattered everywhere. The question is: what kind of soil does the seed find? That is a question for each of us, and for communities, churches, and nations. The story of freedom in any nation is mixed. There is courage and failure, promise and contradiction. Seeds planted in one generation may only begin to bear fruit in another. Jesus tells us that not every seed bears fruit in the same way. Some ground is hard, some shallow, some crowded with thorns. The hard path is the heart, or community, that can no longer receive. The rocky ground receives gladly, but without depth. The thorny ground may be the most familiar: anxiety, comfort, resentment, distraction, the desire simply not to be disturbed. And then there is the good soil. But good soil is not perfect soil. Any gardener knows that. Good soil has to be opened, worked, watered, cleared, and tended. Good soil is soil made ready to receive life. That is where Isaiah’s words come to us with such hope. God says that as rain and snow water the earth and make it fruitful, so shall the word that goes out from his mouth be. It shall not return empty. After these weeks of canicule and the raging wildfires in France, Spain, Portugal, and Greece, we know something about dry ground. We know what it is to see the earth waiting for rain. Isaiah tells us that God’s word is like that rain. It softens, waters, and makes life possible again. Psalm 65 gives us the same image: God visits the earth and waters it, softens the ground, and blesses its increase.This is not a picture of human achievement alone. It is a picture of grace. The seed is God’s. The rain is God’s. The growth is God’s. Yet we are not passive. Soil can be tended. Thorns can be cleared. Hard ground can be broken open. Roots can go deeper. And I wonder if that may be the word for us today — not only as individuals, but as a worshipping community. For we too are looking at fields. Some are familiar: the people already here, the worship we already share, the friendships already formed, the faith already planted in this place. These fields still need tending. No congregation, however faithful, can assume that growth will simply happen. The soil of our common life must still be watered by prayer, deepened by worship, opened by hospitality, and cleared of whatever thorns might choke the word among us. But there may also be other fields: people not yet gathered, conversations not yet begun, places where the word of the kingdom has not yet been sown by us. There may be those who would welcome worship, prayer, fellowship, or simply the knowledge that the Church has not forgotten them. There may be those who do not yet know that there is a place where they can hear the Scriptures, receive the Sacrament, and be reminded that they are precious and cherished children of God. The question is not simply, “What do we want to do next?” Nor is it, “How do we preserve everything exactly as it has been?” The deeper question is: where has God already prepared the ground that God is already sowing, and how are we being invited to join in? That kind of discernment requires freedom — not merely the national freedom we all enjoy, but the freedom of the Spirit that continually beckons us forward. St. Paul writes today, “There is therefore now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus.” No condemnation. That matters for a community as much as for an individual. We do not discern God’s future from fear. We do not ask these questions because we are condemned if we get something wrong. We do not look at the fields around us in panic, as if the kingdom depended entirely on our cleverness, our energy, or our control. We look because the Spirit of life has set us free. Free to listen. Free to wonder. Free to try. Free to try again, and again. Free to be patient. Free to let some seeds grow slowly. Free even to discover that some fields are not ours to sow, while others may be closer than we imagined. Christian freedom is not the freedom to do whatever we please. It is the freedom to live by the Spirit. The freedom to become fruitful. The freedom to receive God’s word and let it take root in us, so that through us it may also be sown for others. And the fruit God seeks is not abstract. It looks like welcome, patience, courage without anxiety, truth spoken in love, and a willingness to make room. It looks like a community asking not only, “What serves our needs?” or “How do we not lose what we have already gained?” but also, “Who might God be calling us to serve?” That is why the Collect for today matters so much. We prayed: “Merciful God, you have prepared for those who love you such good things as pass our understanding: pour into our hearts such love toward you.” Pour into our hearts. That is the language of soil and rain. The love of God is poured into us so that something may grow — something more than we could produce by effort alone. So as we think about freedom this July, and as we think about our life together, let us resist both fear and haste. The sower is still sowing. God’s word is still going forth. The rain of grace still falls. The Spirit still brings life and peace. And even in ground that has been hard, shallow, or choked with thorns, God can still bring forth fruit. In a few moments we will come to the altar not because we have already borne all the fruit God desires, but because Christ feeds us, forgives us, and sends us out again. And when we leave this place, the questions will remain: What kind of soil are we becoming? What word of the kingdom is God sowing in us now? What fields may God be placing before us? And what seeds are we being called to sow — faithfully, generously, and without fear? Freedom is not only something we inherit from the past. It is the seed Christ planted in those before us and now plants in us: freedom to stand firm in grace, to grow deep in faith, and to go forward in the Spirit into ever-widening fields, trusting that God will bring the harvest. So may the word of God take root in us. May the Spirit of life make us fruitful. And may the God of our pilgrimage refresh and sustain us as we go forward on our journey. Roger was prevented from getting to St George's by the massive wildfire between here and Perpignan. We're really grateful to Frankie for stepping in to lead the service that day.
‘Hear what comfortable words our Saviour Christ saith unto all that truly turn to him. Come unto me all that travail and are heavy laden, and I will refresh you.’ No, I haven’t accidentally switched to the wrong service. Those words are from the Book of Common Prayer’s introduction to Holy Communion. They’re a slightly different translation of a sentence from the Gospel reading today. What a lovely way to put it, ‘comfortable words’. They’re words that give comfort because they speak of something that’s at the heart of the Christian faith, about the things we do that we shouldn’t do, or the things we don’t do that we should do. In other words our sins. The comforting thing is that Jesus died for us to take away those sins, to relieve us of this dreadful burden. As Paul puts it in today’s second reading, ‘I do not do the good I want, but the evil I do not want is what I do’ and so on. But, as he puts it, thanks be to God through Jesus Christ our Lord for his act of grace and love: our Old Testament reading today can be seen as a prophecy about it. Jesus dying on the Cross was a oneoff thing, but we face joys and sorrows, challenges and our burdens time and time again. I don’t need to tell you that life can be hard as well as easy. Being a Christian is like being on a journey. We’re the same people, and God’s the same too, as we progress on that journey. But we’re always having to renew our faith in Jesus as our Saviour. Just like on a long walk, things change: the scenery, the weather, the easiness or difficulty of the path, the burdens we carry, they all change constantly. Just to be different I’m going to compare the Christian life with a day walk from a village in the hills in Corsica called Quenza, a real walk that we’ve done. You might think it’s got nothing to do with our readings for today, but I think it has. We begin our walk in a mountain village, with friendly people who say “hello” to you as you pass by. You buy bread and fruit for lunch in one of the only two shops. That’s like the support you get from all sorts of people as you begin your Christian journey with baptism – parents, godparents, friends, church members. Start to climb out of the village on a little road that borders a stream. Cross the stream on a new bridge, past a disused watermill, and you start to climb through the chestnut trees on a very steep donkey trail. It’s hard and hot work and you start to wonder why you’re doing this at all. But you’re not walking alone, you’re with a very good friend. It’s important to give each other support on the Christian journey. Then you hear a cuckoo; never heard one of those in Corsica before! Excellent! By the side of the path it looks as if wild boar have been digging for roots. The spirits lift ! Eventually you cross a forest trail and a tiny metalled road and start to climb through what they call maquis and we call garigue. It’s very like a huge wild rockery garden, with shrubs, plants and herbs, and the smells are truly delicious. That climb really was worth it; and look, now you’re out in the open with views of ten or twenty miles, of beautiful mountainous countryside, covered in maquis. You can really get to some high points of revelation in the Christian life, of wonder and joy in God’s creation. Then, suddenly, the path comes out onto a dirt road. There are a couple of houses and you can hire horses to ride. And, incongruously, here are three people riding horses, dressed in motorbike gear a bit like Hell’s Angels! They’ve ridden up here on their bikes to go horse riding, but they do look strange on horseback in their leather and ‘Harley Davidson’ stickers. It’s a good thing for Christians to have a sense of humour; Jesus himself told jokes. Then we walk down the road for a little way before striking off back into the maquis, this time going down. After half an hour or so we arrive at one of my favourite places, a clear mountain stream tumbling over rocks. We take off our packs and eat our packed lunch. It feels like the quotation we started with, “Come to me, all who labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.” It’s a well-earned rest, with some of the wonders of the journey over but much more to look forward to. Rest is important in the Christian life, time for quiet contemplation, just to ponder the journey so far and anticipate the good things God has in store for us in the journey to come. We climb out of the valley after lunch. Which way do we go now? On a walk like this you’re constantly making choices about which way to go. But there are little signs if you know where to look for them, just like making the right choices in life. That path over there might look really interesting, but it’s the wrong one! It’s a hot and exposed part of the walk now, quite hard and there’s not much to see close at hand, but the views are always tremendous. Sometimes our Christian life is like that, when things don’t seem too exciting, when God is seen as far off. But that’s only because we’ve stopped noticing him. Eventually we reach quite a large village, where we don’t see many people. It can be lonely sometimes being a Christian, even when there are people around. After that village we get to another river, where we walk on a path alongside it for a while; it’s easy walking and very pleasant there. It’s like that sometimes, when everything is going well and you feel really close to God. Then it’s quite a hard slog back to the starting village, uphill. By the side of the path are more wild flowers, rockroses, gorse, broom and lavender. They lighten the journey, as does the friendly donkey in a paddock when you’re nearly back at the village. So there we are, back where we started from, a whole day’s walk, like a whole life lived as a Christian. There are ups and downs, hard bits, easy bits, times when you feel great about the journey, times when you wish you were lazing somewhere on a beach. But the hard work is all worth it. You’ve seen wonderful things and enjoyed the journey; “God is gentle and humble in heart and you will find rest for your souls.” At the end of the journey is a cool drink in a pleasant garden. “Come to me, all who labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. |
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