Thinking back to the stream by which I was standing when these thoughts first began, and to the shadows on the water, even when those shadows do reveal what is otherwise hidden, we fail to receive the complete picture. We still see only in our limited human way, viewing from one angle, and in a logical attempt to fill in all the details we use our accumulated knowledge of the world, and our imagination.
Having thus patched up and retouched the image, we have no further need of consideration. We think we know. What we believe to be the truth is calculated or estimated, and that which is the truth therefore remains hidden.
The true form of what we see can only be understood when we have viewed it from different angles. The beauty which may be apparent from the side may be unsuspected when viewed from above. The two Salmon beneath the bridge are examples of this: the grey torpedo shapes giving no hint of their magnificent silvery flanks.
If the possibility that these images and ideas may be carriers of meaningful information, has any bearing on reality, then the same must apply to the messages themselves and to their significance. Understanding the fullness of any such communication must be beyond us until we learn to completely re-tune ourselves to a spiritual awareness, and to search for the many hidden angles of view before rushing ahead with the apparently obvious.
We should strive endlessly for intellectual and emotional patience, as the gift most needed in our world today is the same as it always has been: - discernment.
All the other gifts are maintained and used correctly through the gift of discernment. Without it we are led into blind alleys and subtle forms of idolatry which scatter us instead of bringing us together. When we have learned that our being apart is not just the result of our not having approached each other, but is the continued aim of forces we all too often fail to recognise - forces which endlessly work to ensure that God's Kingdom will not come - we begin to understand why discernment should be acknowledged as the essential foundation upon which all other gifts must be built.
The two fish being together seemed synonymous with Marilyn and Tracy, who worked so beautifully together: the one blind, the other deaf. Alone, neither could have done what they were doing, but together they amounted to so much more than the sum of their individual talents. Their combined resources enabled them to communicate with, and respond to, all that went on around them. The apparent disability of the one was entirely negated by the abilities of the other. They had discovered that together there was nothing to hold them back. They were doing God's work with joy.
The two Salmon were waiting: waiting for rain.
And when the river clouded and began to rise - when the time was right - they would know what to do. They would rise from the depths of that pool in readiness for moving into the mainstream of life once more, to continue ever upwards on their journey to the waters of their birth, driven by creation itself until the plan for their lives was completed.
Haunted for a while by the knowledge that in their entire lives, those two fish may never have been seen by anyone, except in that pool, at that moment, by me, I realised that had I crossed the bridge at any other time they would not have been there. They would never have been seen at all.
Or, was it possible that all three of us were meant to be there at that moment, to be illuminated, and to meet in that shaft of light?
The image slipped away, and I returned to the now rather boring looking stream by which I was still standing.
The clouds were darkening; - it looked like rain.
'Listening to God' had been the theme of the day, and in following the stream, perhaps I had opened the way for God to be heard in an unsuspected way. The time had been right, and the message was clear enough to me.
"Better two than one alone, since thus their work is really rewarding. If one should fall, the other helps him up; but what of the person with no one to help him up when he falls?" (Ecclesiastes 4:9-10)
When I took that walk along the stream, I needed that message, and writing about it later was an aid to my own understanding as much as anything else.
My dwelling on it again now has resulted from aspects of the rainfall and flooding three weeks ago.
The streams clouded and rose, the floods did their damage and receded.
Amid the destruction and loss, what has been washed away? What has been cleansed? What has been uncovered and brought into the light? Among the sorrows and grief, the bitterness, the anger, the depressions, the fears and the futility, what new lights have begun to shine? Where are the newfound whispers of joy?
Before the shadows of that day are fully cast aside, let us dwell within that clarity; let us see through the surface image to whatever lies beneath.
Among the countless good deeds done among neighbours and strangers, will have been many meaningful thoughts, touches and words which have carried the presence of God’s Holy Spirit into people’s lives. Someone you have met during this or other times of crisis may be God’s provision for you, just as you may have become His provision for another.
May each of us recognize our place, our calling and our direction, and may we know those beside whom we are called to stand.
“Where one alone would be overcome, two will put up resistance; and a threefold cord is not quickly broken.” (Ecclesiastes 4:12)
.
Tuesday 14 August 2007
... upon reflection ...
While dwelling on thoughts of reflection and shadow, my awareness of the stream beside which I had been standing was swept away by an image from long ago.
I was standing, once more, on a footbridge in Glen Feshie. The memory came, not so much out of the blue as from the clarity of the shadows: out of the darkness that covered the deeper recesses of my memory, my understanding and my will. The feeling flooded back for a moment as the image filled my mind: the thrill that had burned that memory into place.
How had something so strong apparently slipped away for so long? Why had it been brought back so suddenly, and with such force?
The river - not a large one - was particularly narrow at that point, where it flowed between two large rock outcrops, and I found myself looking once more to the bottom of the deep pool over which the bridge had been built. There, again, was the Salmon I had watched with excitement and awe all those years before. The fish could be clearly seen as the pool lay in the shadow of the rocks, while, at the same time, the bright light of the morning flooded the pool from upstream. The shaft of light cutting under the rock that overhung the pool, contrasted with the deep shadow in such a way that the river was, at that one point, totally illuminated.
The fish held station with a gentle waving of its tail: almost still, waiting, going nowhere, and doing nothing.
Was it simply waiting?... for what? Or was it resting? Or hiding?
That last question particularly struck me. Why had that thought come?
I felt strongly that the memory had been lodged and retained for a reason; that the experience, as well as having being memorable in itself, had been meant to speak to me in deeper ways many years later. I was suddenly receptive to the idea that it had now returned for that very reason: - that the time was now right.
Could that be why some things are remembered so clearly, while other seemingly more important or significant things are not? Are these seemingly random memories only conspicuous through the forgetting of so much else, or could they be a great deal more? If the former, they can be of little or no consequence, other than in relation to our own personal interests and subtleties of character, but, could it be that they are meaningful moments during which we have failed to recognize that God is trying to attract our attention? - That he is speaking to us? And could these moments be used years later when we have begun to see and hear more clearly? If we are still unaware of God's presence in our lives, could it be that a similar situation may trigger the remembrance of a previous encounter, and will at least get us thinking, and wondering, and searching for Him?
My own feelings at the time, clearly led me to believe that the memory had flooded me at that moment for a reason. And what did I do? I began to think; and as a result, I was left with my own reasoning and tenuous interpretation instead of what might have been.
If only, dear God, I could still my mind and move only with the breath of your Spirit!
When the images first returned, I thought there was only one fish, and I at once felt that fish to be me: me hiding away, out of the mainstream of life and hidden from other people. Not moving, so as not to attract attention, and if possible, so as to remain unseen.
I found all sorts of feelings and thoughts, some previously unrecognized, that seemed to be part of me, blending with the fish at the bottom of the stream.
I became aware again of the awe and wonder which I had felt when looking down into that pool; the excitement contained in the knowledge that I was seeing something that, in all probability, would not have been seen at all had I not seen it. And a stunning awareness of the potential contained in that quiet and almost still shape at the bottom of the pool.
The awakened awareness of potential instantly drew me deeper into the reality of that long gone moment. The outer confusions of the memory were shaded for me, and I saw through to the truth that lay beneath. It was illuminated from within, and I saw, realized and remembered, there was not just the one: there were two Salmon poised side by side.
I recall that when actually there, my feelings intensified at that moment. The potential suddenly seemed so much greater. Potential for explosive power: for accelerating through the water and leaping skywards into waterfalls up which many of their kind are compelled to swim. Potential for long sustained effort: for the swim through the North Atlantic, and the journey up river to the distant waters of their birth.
They did not have to be doing anything strenuous or spectacular to be powerful: the power was there even when they were not using it, and somehow the fact that there were two of them made it all seem normal, natural, healthy; - as planned by their creator.
If there had been only the one, I may have wondered if it was unwell in some way; exhausted perhaps: or dying even. But there were two of them, and that had assured my youthful heart that all was well.
I could not know what they would do once I had moved on, but whatever they would do would be done naturally, skilfully and wonderfully. Their potential would find expression in power.
My conviction that this was happening for a reason, later found me struggling to recognize the significance.
What was all this saying to me?
I can do nothing alone? The journey is difficult if done alone? God is always with me, to guide me and give me encouragement?
I am hiding my own abilities: my gifts? Hiding and not using the power of God within me? Perhaps I was not hiding anything; perhaps I was only now being given something which I would later come to recognise. But maybe, (and this is what I now believe), this was part of an awakening: a rousing of gifts and of a power lying dormant within, placed there and held as a secret, even from myself, until the time was right. A prompting, and a builder of self-confidence. Something was surely going to be asked of me.
As with any such moment, our faith and our confidence can and will waver. I sank back into the shadows at times, asking myself whether there could really be any significance at all in any of this. Is the whole series of events, feelings and memories just another pattern produced by a fertile imagination? A spiritual placebo that covers the cracks, and fills an empty space that longs to be filled?
With the years steadily layering over the re-lived memory as well as the original experience, my answer today is most assuredly no!
“The natural person has no room for the gifts of God’s Spirit; to him they are folly; he cannot recognize them, because their value can be assessed only in the Spirit.” (1 Corinthians 2:14)
I was standing, once more, on a footbridge in Glen Feshie. The memory came, not so much out of the blue as from the clarity of the shadows: out of the darkness that covered the deeper recesses of my memory, my understanding and my will. The feeling flooded back for a moment as the image filled my mind: the thrill that had burned that memory into place.
How had something so strong apparently slipped away for so long? Why had it been brought back so suddenly, and with such force?
The river - not a large one - was particularly narrow at that point, where it flowed between two large rock outcrops, and I found myself looking once more to the bottom of the deep pool over which the bridge had been built. There, again, was the Salmon I had watched with excitement and awe all those years before. The fish could be clearly seen as the pool lay in the shadow of the rocks, while, at the same time, the bright light of the morning flooded the pool from upstream. The shaft of light cutting under the rock that overhung the pool, contrasted with the deep shadow in such a way that the river was, at that one point, totally illuminated.
The fish held station with a gentle waving of its tail: almost still, waiting, going nowhere, and doing nothing.
Was it simply waiting?... for what? Or was it resting? Or hiding?
That last question particularly struck me. Why had that thought come?
I felt strongly that the memory had been lodged and retained for a reason; that the experience, as well as having being memorable in itself, had been meant to speak to me in deeper ways many years later. I was suddenly receptive to the idea that it had now returned for that very reason: - that the time was now right.
Could that be why some things are remembered so clearly, while other seemingly more important or significant things are not? Are these seemingly random memories only conspicuous through the forgetting of so much else, or could they be a great deal more? If the former, they can be of little or no consequence, other than in relation to our own personal interests and subtleties of character, but, could it be that they are meaningful moments during which we have failed to recognize that God is trying to attract our attention? - That he is speaking to us? And could these moments be used years later when we have begun to see and hear more clearly? If we are still unaware of God's presence in our lives, could it be that a similar situation may trigger the remembrance of a previous encounter, and will at least get us thinking, and wondering, and searching for Him?
My own feelings at the time, clearly led me to believe that the memory had flooded me at that moment for a reason. And what did I do? I began to think; and as a result, I was left with my own reasoning and tenuous interpretation instead of what might have been.
If only, dear God, I could still my mind and move only with the breath of your Spirit!
When the images first returned, I thought there was only one fish, and I at once felt that fish to be me: me hiding away, out of the mainstream of life and hidden from other people. Not moving, so as not to attract attention, and if possible, so as to remain unseen.
I found all sorts of feelings and thoughts, some previously unrecognized, that seemed to be part of me, blending with the fish at the bottom of the stream.
I became aware again of the awe and wonder which I had felt when looking down into that pool; the excitement contained in the knowledge that I was seeing something that, in all probability, would not have been seen at all had I not seen it. And a stunning awareness of the potential contained in that quiet and almost still shape at the bottom of the pool.
The awakened awareness of potential instantly drew me deeper into the reality of that long gone moment. The outer confusions of the memory were shaded for me, and I saw through to the truth that lay beneath. It was illuminated from within, and I saw, realized and remembered, there was not just the one: there were two Salmon poised side by side.
I recall that when actually there, my feelings intensified at that moment. The potential suddenly seemed so much greater. Potential for explosive power: for accelerating through the water and leaping skywards into waterfalls up which many of their kind are compelled to swim. Potential for long sustained effort: for the swim through the North Atlantic, and the journey up river to the distant waters of their birth.
They did not have to be doing anything strenuous or spectacular to be powerful: the power was there even when they were not using it, and somehow the fact that there were two of them made it all seem normal, natural, healthy; - as planned by their creator.
If there had been only the one, I may have wondered if it was unwell in some way; exhausted perhaps: or dying even. But there were two of them, and that had assured my youthful heart that all was well.
I could not know what they would do once I had moved on, but whatever they would do would be done naturally, skilfully and wonderfully. Their potential would find expression in power.
My conviction that this was happening for a reason, later found me struggling to recognize the significance.
What was all this saying to me?
I can do nothing alone? The journey is difficult if done alone? God is always with me, to guide me and give me encouragement?
I am hiding my own abilities: my gifts? Hiding and not using the power of God within me? Perhaps I was not hiding anything; perhaps I was only now being given something which I would later come to recognise. But maybe, (and this is what I now believe), this was part of an awakening: a rousing of gifts and of a power lying dormant within, placed there and held as a secret, even from myself, until the time was right. A prompting, and a builder of self-confidence. Something was surely going to be asked of me.
As with any such moment, our faith and our confidence can and will waver. I sank back into the shadows at times, asking myself whether there could really be any significance at all in any of this. Is the whole series of events, feelings and memories just another pattern produced by a fertile imagination? A spiritual placebo that covers the cracks, and fills an empty space that longs to be filled?
With the years steadily layering over the re-lived memory as well as the original experience, my answer today is most assuredly no!
“The natural person has no room for the gifts of God’s Spirit; to him they are folly; he cannot recognize them, because their value can be assessed only in the Spirit.” (1 Corinthians 2:14)
.
Reflecting ...
Recent thoughts and experience of rain, of streams brimming over and of floods, have brought memories back to the forefront of my mind.
The stream that caused the recent problems at The House of the Open Door (HOD) had set me thinking after a visit there in 1993.
I wrote about it soon afterwards, and included it later in something I put together for my own children and for my godsons; other than that it has remained unread. Some of those thoughts seem relevant to whatever it is that I am attempting to do here, and I shall therefore dip into those earlier words whenever I am reminded of something that may be worth repeating. Reflecting on these earlier reflections may lead me further into something previously unsuspected, thus continuing a spiralling advance in my awareness of the journeying that has led me here.
Knowing that we are on a spiritual journey brings the recognition of stages in that process, and sometimes even a step by step knowledge of short sections of our walk. Reflections can bring certain insights but we should always strive to see through them to whatever may lie beyond. Whether meditative or physical, they are a form of barrier to the clearer vision of that which we seek. As we focus more intently upon them they become another form of that thinnest of dividing lines separating us from our full potential in the stream of God’s awesome loving presence; they place us once more at the very edge, the edge beyond which we must long to go.
Streams speak of our journeying through life.
An uncertainty accompanies their changing course, character and mood, which points to something deeper than the obvious effects of nature. Terrain, geology, vegetation, climate and weather all combine to make each stream the singular feature that it is, but between source and inevitable disappearance into a larger waterway, they carry a mystery. The peaceful stretch of deep and silent water, with the changes it undergoes to become the shattered and sparkling rapids or waterfall round the next bend, encompasses the thoughts which may come to mind.
As in all things however, - there is more.
Two streams have spoken to me in ways that left a lasting and meaningful memory. One flows, unimpressively and barely visible, beside a country road in a place that enabled the emergence of my true self; a place that became my gateway to so much of which I had previously been unaware. The stream spoke, and as I walked beside it the smiles increasingly welled up from within: for the first time I became aware that my emptiness was being filled with something beautiful and joyful. There were no delays; I heard it, and I understood, though today I have no remaining impression of what it was that I understood.
But (and this took me more than thirty years to find out) there is another, larger, more impressive and clearly visible stream which revealed only part of its message in the form of an ensured memory: a memory which, through its undiminished clarity, could remain alive while awaiting recall and explanation at the appropriate time. This was a potentiality of which I had been completely unaware.
My awareness of the possibility of meanings being given in this way, by a delayed comprehension, or ‘reflective revelation’, came as a result of that visit to HOD, where the stream that caused their recently changed circumstances, offered me, at the right time, its own reflection.
While there I heard Marilyn Baker, a singer, accompanied and assisted by Tracy Williamson. Marilyn is blind. Tracy is deaf.
The theme of the morning had been "Listening to God", and, after the cogs within me had slowly turned into place, I found everything about my visit had fitted so well into that context.
While there, I walked along the stream which flows through the garden and adjacent farmland, and began to think about the face the water shows to us. For much of its course this is not the stream at all, but only reflections of its surroundings which prevent us from seeing the truth: - that which lies beneath the surface. We are able to see some of it only where there is shadow, and where the water is deep we can still not see the bottom. The only way to see all that is there is to have total shadow - always assuming that the water is completely clear.
Total shadow, with its complete absence of reflections, implies total darkness, as where there is light - however dim - there also is reflected light. That is the nature of illumination.
But in total darkness we can see nothing of the stream. It is only through coming to a realisation of this blindness that we can begin to think and feel beyond the reflections that so readily swamp our senses. Illuminate from without, and by seeing the reflections on the surface, we at least know where the stream is. Illuminate from within, and we become able to see everything, especially if darkness covers all else.
Likewise, with our seeing God, each other, and even ourselves. It is only when things are lit from within that we can see clearly.
The same applies to situations around us. It is only when places, events, people and relationships are lit from within by the Holy Spirit that we can see clearly and begin to understand in God's way, rather than the way of the world. It is the darkness around us which, though so frightening and lonely, enables us to see beyond the surface with all its misleading and distracting reflections.
The dark and the cold: the desert through which we pass at times, is as the shadow of God's cloak thrown over us, cutting out the reflections. It is as a hand held over the surface of our watery spiritual vision. Though we may feel God to be far away at these times, he has in fact come very close. It is He who casts this shadow for us.
He can be seen more clearly in this lack of light, and we can see ourselves more clearly too: our fears, our failures, our sins, but also our strengths, and the gifts He is holding out to us. The difficulty and the challenge is to overcome our natural responses: to keep our eyes wide open, both literally and metaphorically, that we may come to see Him in the clarity of these shadows.
It is within these shadows that we may sense a hint of that infinite simplicity which mankind has as yet been unable to grasp.
“In the beginning … there was darkness over the deep …” (Genesis 1:1,2)
.
The stream that caused the recent problems at The House of the Open Door (HOD) had set me thinking after a visit there in 1993.
I wrote about it soon afterwards, and included it later in something I put together for my own children and for my godsons; other than that it has remained unread. Some of those thoughts seem relevant to whatever it is that I am attempting to do here, and I shall therefore dip into those earlier words whenever I am reminded of something that may be worth repeating. Reflecting on these earlier reflections may lead me further into something previously unsuspected, thus continuing a spiralling advance in my awareness of the journeying that has led me here.
Knowing that we are on a spiritual journey brings the recognition of stages in that process, and sometimes even a step by step knowledge of short sections of our walk. Reflections can bring certain insights but we should always strive to see through them to whatever may lie beyond. Whether meditative or physical, they are a form of barrier to the clearer vision of that which we seek. As we focus more intently upon them they become another form of that thinnest of dividing lines separating us from our full potential in the stream of God’s awesome loving presence; they place us once more at the very edge, the edge beyond which we must long to go.
Streams speak of our journeying through life.
An uncertainty accompanies their changing course, character and mood, which points to something deeper than the obvious effects of nature. Terrain, geology, vegetation, climate and weather all combine to make each stream the singular feature that it is, but between source and inevitable disappearance into a larger waterway, they carry a mystery. The peaceful stretch of deep and silent water, with the changes it undergoes to become the shattered and sparkling rapids or waterfall round the next bend, encompasses the thoughts which may come to mind.
As in all things however, - there is more.
Two streams have spoken to me in ways that left a lasting and meaningful memory. One flows, unimpressively and barely visible, beside a country road in a place that enabled the emergence of my true self; a place that became my gateway to so much of which I had previously been unaware. The stream spoke, and as I walked beside it the smiles increasingly welled up from within: for the first time I became aware that my emptiness was being filled with something beautiful and joyful. There were no delays; I heard it, and I understood, though today I have no remaining impression of what it was that I understood.
But (and this took me more than thirty years to find out) there is another, larger, more impressive and clearly visible stream which revealed only part of its message in the form of an ensured memory: a memory which, through its undiminished clarity, could remain alive while awaiting recall and explanation at the appropriate time. This was a potentiality of which I had been completely unaware.
My awareness of the possibility of meanings being given in this way, by a delayed comprehension, or ‘reflective revelation’, came as a result of that visit to HOD, where the stream that caused their recently changed circumstances, offered me, at the right time, its own reflection.
While there I heard Marilyn Baker, a singer, accompanied and assisted by Tracy Williamson. Marilyn is blind. Tracy is deaf.
The theme of the morning had been "Listening to God", and, after the cogs within me had slowly turned into place, I found everything about my visit had fitted so well into that context.
While there, I walked along the stream which flows through the garden and adjacent farmland, and began to think about the face the water shows to us. For much of its course this is not the stream at all, but only reflections of its surroundings which prevent us from seeing the truth: - that which lies beneath the surface. We are able to see some of it only where there is shadow, and where the water is deep we can still not see the bottom. The only way to see all that is there is to have total shadow - always assuming that the water is completely clear.
Total shadow, with its complete absence of reflections, implies total darkness, as where there is light - however dim - there also is reflected light. That is the nature of illumination.
But in total darkness we can see nothing of the stream. It is only through coming to a realisation of this blindness that we can begin to think and feel beyond the reflections that so readily swamp our senses. Illuminate from without, and by seeing the reflections on the surface, we at least know where the stream is. Illuminate from within, and we become able to see everything, especially if darkness covers all else.
Likewise, with our seeing God, each other, and even ourselves. It is only when things are lit from within that we can see clearly.
The same applies to situations around us. It is only when places, events, people and relationships are lit from within by the Holy Spirit that we can see clearly and begin to understand in God's way, rather than the way of the world. It is the darkness around us which, though so frightening and lonely, enables us to see beyond the surface with all its misleading and distracting reflections.
The dark and the cold: the desert through which we pass at times, is as the shadow of God's cloak thrown over us, cutting out the reflections. It is as a hand held over the surface of our watery spiritual vision. Though we may feel God to be far away at these times, he has in fact come very close. It is He who casts this shadow for us.
He can be seen more clearly in this lack of light, and we can see ourselves more clearly too: our fears, our failures, our sins, but also our strengths, and the gifts He is holding out to us. The difficulty and the challenge is to overcome our natural responses: to keep our eyes wide open, both literally and metaphorically, that we may come to see Him in the clarity of these shadows.
It is within these shadows that we may sense a hint of that infinite simplicity which mankind has as yet been unable to grasp.
“In the beginning … there was darkness over the deep …” (Genesis 1:1,2)
.
Tuesday 7 August 2007
Alongside
It is our faith that invites us to walk alongside each other, to carry the internal message that strives for recognition within us and which would guide our lives, into the unobservant existence and everyday routine of our days, as well as into the perceived burdens and turmoil of the people around us. To lighten the darkest days and to point to the true glory that lies behind the brightness of those that already seem ablaze; to throw open the shutters and roll back the blinds, that the constant flow of grace, which will fall freely upon each one of us, may be made known, received, shared and acted upon.
So easy to say when the sorrows and hardships are not our own, and yet, somewhere in the middle of the whole confusion of birth, life and death, of otherness, time, vanity and futility, of infinity as concept, impossibility or reality, of permanence and the ephemeral nature of all things physical, there lies an empathetic glow which cannot be disregarded nor detuned into a superficial and therefore meaningless form of sympathy. If we are aware of this feeling within our hearts, we will most probably dwell upon it with our minds, and, whether this results in a form of shutting-down, or in our responding to it in some supportive way, the consequence will be the product of our thinking, our vanity, and a sincere belief that prayers can be answered that is irretrievably entwined with an ongoing sense of futility.
This raises nervously asked questions within us; Should I say anything? What should I say? When should I say it?
If we have been made aware of a situation in a way that makes it clear to anyone directly involved in that situation, that everyone knows about it, is it sufficient to walk away without saying anything? Is it right to maintain an anonymous distance with the presumption that those closest to the reality of the situation will themselves be presumptuous with regard to our level of awareness? Will they know, presume, assume, hope or doubt that we are thinking of them? That we are praying for them?
Remembering that their minds are filled with the moment-to-moment actuality of their circumstances, will they even give a passing thought to such things?
Good people frequently hold different views on almost any subject we can think of, and this is no exception.
This was highlighted for me recently, when, after leaving church, and having briefly stood beside someone who is at the very heart of a long running struggle and sorrow, I was asked, by someone I have known for many years, if I had spoken to them. Confirmation that I had done so brought a surprised (and for me, a surprising) response.
This kind of sincere amazement and apparent disbelief demonstrates how very differently we can think, believe and act in the presence of other people’s distress.
We are individuals: we are individual creations and we each have our own outlook and view of the world, however similar our surroundings, upbringing, faith and fortunes, and yet there is only one truth. There is only one right way to live, to react and to be.
In any particular situation, at any particular time, there can be only one best way to respond, and that is the way God would have us respond. We may discern what that response should be, but, no sooner do we move in that direction than we override and exceed the limits of God’s guidance and instruction; the approach may be as intended, and the touch may be in response to God’s leading, but then we speak …
Our spoken words are so closely connected to our thinking that we almost certainly go beyond the utterance of anything that carries the blessings inherent in words given through inspiration. Discerning those words – if there are any – is an ability acquired and refined only through experience, and that experience does not even begin until we are in a position to receive and understand such touches of God’s will. And then, only if He wills that we should hear Him in such a way; He alone decides who is required to receive, carry and give these words. There are many gifts and we are each gifted in different ways according to the work God requires of us.
Perhaps, in my own case, the touch was all that was required? Perhaps that was all that was asked of me? Perhaps not even that?
A not too obvious approach, with a glance and a quiet nod of awareness perhaps, and not a single word?
We are individuals. As well as having our own outlook and view of the world, we have our own needs and our own responses to the needs of others. Beyond these facts of heart and mind, lies their spiritually calm and fruitful equivalent: the needs and responses of the persons we were born to be. Certainty may be regarded as a dream by many of us, but degrees of clarity are available to those of us who trust and obey at the very edge of our belief. In the presence of the Holy Spirit, and with that same Spirit welcomed into our hearts, we are increasingly enabled to judge the right response as we journey towards our full potential.
To be aware of someone’s fear, distress or pain, to share in sorrow or grief through the publicising of a situation, or through a knowledge of their involvement or close proximity to an announced need for prayer, is, in itself, not enough. If we give no hint that we have heard the message, or that we recognize their need, how are they to know that we are there for them, that we are truly aware, and that we shall indeed pray for them? Such moments carry feelings of uncertainty and risk, and it is this that makes us keep our heads down; we lower our eyes or otherwise avoid any near-contact that may cause embarrassment, especially to ourselves.
We make a point of superficially focussing ourselves and our conversation on others around us as we consciously drift back towards our comfortable everyday lives, leaving the devastation of the other’s need to the silent and unseen dignity of an uninterrupted solitude somewhere in our wake.
Having failed to consider alternatives, we do not even tell ourselves that this is best. We are not prepared to risk taking the risk.
Without a word our voice remains unheard; without a touch our presence remains unfelt; without a glance we are seen ever as unseeing. Without risking an admission of our own sense of helplessness and vulnerability in the face of another’s pain, our standing beside them can be little more than a sterile intrusion.
Our faith carries us far beyond a mere invitation; in that one glance, in a fleeting touch, or in the single word, we can fulfil its demand that we bring Christ into the heart of the situation: that we make known that we shall stand and walk alongside each other.
.
“God did not give us a spirit of timidity, but the Spirit of power and love and self-control.” (2 Timothy 1:7)
.
So easy to say when the sorrows and hardships are not our own, and yet, somewhere in the middle of the whole confusion of birth, life and death, of otherness, time, vanity and futility, of infinity as concept, impossibility or reality, of permanence and the ephemeral nature of all things physical, there lies an empathetic glow which cannot be disregarded nor detuned into a superficial and therefore meaningless form of sympathy. If we are aware of this feeling within our hearts, we will most probably dwell upon it with our minds, and, whether this results in a form of shutting-down, or in our responding to it in some supportive way, the consequence will be the product of our thinking, our vanity, and a sincere belief that prayers can be answered that is irretrievably entwined with an ongoing sense of futility.
This raises nervously asked questions within us; Should I say anything? What should I say? When should I say it?
If we have been made aware of a situation in a way that makes it clear to anyone directly involved in that situation, that everyone knows about it, is it sufficient to walk away without saying anything? Is it right to maintain an anonymous distance with the presumption that those closest to the reality of the situation will themselves be presumptuous with regard to our level of awareness? Will they know, presume, assume, hope or doubt that we are thinking of them? That we are praying for them?
Remembering that their minds are filled with the moment-to-moment actuality of their circumstances, will they even give a passing thought to such things?
Good people frequently hold different views on almost any subject we can think of, and this is no exception.
This was highlighted for me recently, when, after leaving church, and having briefly stood beside someone who is at the very heart of a long running struggle and sorrow, I was asked, by someone I have known for many years, if I had spoken to them. Confirmation that I had done so brought a surprised (and for me, a surprising) response.
This kind of sincere amazement and apparent disbelief demonstrates how very differently we can think, believe and act in the presence of other people’s distress.
We are individuals: we are individual creations and we each have our own outlook and view of the world, however similar our surroundings, upbringing, faith and fortunes, and yet there is only one truth. There is only one right way to live, to react and to be.
In any particular situation, at any particular time, there can be only one best way to respond, and that is the way God would have us respond. We may discern what that response should be, but, no sooner do we move in that direction than we override and exceed the limits of God’s guidance and instruction; the approach may be as intended, and the touch may be in response to God’s leading, but then we speak …
Our spoken words are so closely connected to our thinking that we almost certainly go beyond the utterance of anything that carries the blessings inherent in words given through inspiration. Discerning those words – if there are any – is an ability acquired and refined only through experience, and that experience does not even begin until we are in a position to receive and understand such touches of God’s will. And then, only if He wills that we should hear Him in such a way; He alone decides who is required to receive, carry and give these words. There are many gifts and we are each gifted in different ways according to the work God requires of us.
Perhaps, in my own case, the touch was all that was required? Perhaps that was all that was asked of me? Perhaps not even that?
A not too obvious approach, with a glance and a quiet nod of awareness perhaps, and not a single word?
We are individuals. As well as having our own outlook and view of the world, we have our own needs and our own responses to the needs of others. Beyond these facts of heart and mind, lies their spiritually calm and fruitful equivalent: the needs and responses of the persons we were born to be. Certainty may be regarded as a dream by many of us, but degrees of clarity are available to those of us who trust and obey at the very edge of our belief. In the presence of the Holy Spirit, and with that same Spirit welcomed into our hearts, we are increasingly enabled to judge the right response as we journey towards our full potential.
To be aware of someone’s fear, distress or pain, to share in sorrow or grief through the publicising of a situation, or through a knowledge of their involvement or close proximity to an announced need for prayer, is, in itself, not enough. If we give no hint that we have heard the message, or that we recognize their need, how are they to know that we are there for them, that we are truly aware, and that we shall indeed pray for them? Such moments carry feelings of uncertainty and risk, and it is this that makes us keep our heads down; we lower our eyes or otherwise avoid any near-contact that may cause embarrassment, especially to ourselves.
We make a point of superficially focussing ourselves and our conversation on others around us as we consciously drift back towards our comfortable everyday lives, leaving the devastation of the other’s need to the silent and unseen dignity of an uninterrupted solitude somewhere in our wake.
Having failed to consider alternatives, we do not even tell ourselves that this is best. We are not prepared to risk taking the risk.
Without a word our voice remains unheard; without a touch our presence remains unfelt; without a glance we are seen ever as unseeing. Without risking an admission of our own sense of helplessness and vulnerability in the face of another’s pain, our standing beside them can be little more than a sterile intrusion.
Our faith carries us far beyond a mere invitation; in that one glance, in a fleeting touch, or in the single word, we can fulfil its demand that we bring Christ into the heart of the situation: that we make known that we shall stand and walk alongside each other.
.
“God did not give us a spirit of timidity, but the Spirit of power and love and self-control.” (2 Timothy 1:7)
.
Monday 6 August 2007
House of the Open Door
I have just been looking through this morning’s mail.
Among it was a letter from the House of the Open Door, a genuinely open and welcoming Christian community at Childswickham, near Broadway.
It is a place that has always quietly attracted me, though I have rarely visited in recent years.
There is never anything on the envelope to say where it has come from, but, as a result of a mistake made when jotting down my name and address long ago, I always know its source as soon as I look at it. The details incorrectly include the word ‘rower’, and how apt that seemed when I read the news it contained.
As already described, I have been conscious of the misfortune of others as a result of the rain on 20th July as contrasted with my own successful avoidance of any real inconvenience, but I now realize how general and how thinly spread my awareness was. I confess I had not given HOD a single thought until opening that envelope, and the shock brought me into reality once more.
House of the Open Door Community, Childswickham House, Childswickham, Broadway, Worcs WR12 7HH
As on 31st July:
Dear Friends and Supporters,
Greetings in the name of the Lord!
Along with many homes in our part of the country, HOD was badly flooded on Friday 20th July.
A torrent, waist-high, swept through all our buildings and the farm. Thank God no-one was hurt and even the animals survived!
In this last week we have been so aware of God’s care and provision in many ways. Villagers opened their homes for the first couple of nights to accommodate the 25 young people staying with us in the run-up to Focus. Meals were cooked for us until we were given the loan of a cooking trailer.
The mountain of washing has been taken care of by some lovely ladies from the village and from our parish in Broadway. Trish and Rob’s tiny bungalow made a warm, dry base until we managed to clean up a little. And we have already received financial help from generous friends.
Ten days on, we have cleaned up most areas but are still waiting to get our electricity checked out, and we have no hot running water, and even worse, no internet, email or phone line! Although we quickly got moving with our insurance company, the damage is such that we will not be able to run the retreat centre until January/February at the very earliest. This of course means we have lost our main source of income, and Bernie has calculated that we have enough reserves in the charity, plus one immediate large donation, to see us through until the end of October. Another issue is that due to our open life-style and unlocked doors we were not able to take out contents insurance. Although we managed to lift some furniture and rugs upstairs before the water came in, we lost a lot of furniture, and community members with downstairs rooms lost many personal possessions.
The need now is for money to replace lost furniture and electrical items as well as for money to live on day to day. Your prayers too are appreciated for us at this time, that we would hear God’s direction in the midst of the disturbance.
In preparation for the Focus Conference (which should have started on Monday 23rd), Suzanna, one of our CRC, had made a set of banners which turned out to be quite prophetic in their watery theme.
He is the God who pulls us out of the deep water and rescues us even though the oceans roar.
We do praise Him for He is sovereign and He is in control.
With love and thanks,
Fiona
Fiona Hendy
An update on the situation can be found on their website, which is worth visiting for the inspirational effect of seeing the laughter and smiles on the faces of those whose lives have been so disrupted.
www.houseoftheopendoor.org
Take a look, pray for them, and help if you can.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
