‘Put on the full armour of God so as to be able to resist the devil's tactics.’ (Ephesians 6:11)
In becoming aware that we are not alone, we may realize that we had forgotten that we had at one time been travelling with others. Now we find ourselves with them again, and we suspect that, though we had no ongoing sense of their presence, they may never have been away.
I have never been able to forget that there was a time when I had been accompanied by others; I could not have made it through some parts of my journey at that time without them. That indeed was why they were there: their presence was no accident, or mere coincidence. It may also have been intended, and necessary, that I should spend a long time without such company: with Jesus as my sole companion. But now, with my own awareness of others having been made real through a recent merging of paths, and through closer contact with Hope, one of the few persons with whom I have always felt at ease, a potential change is hovering (with God’s Spirit perhaps) only just out of reach. It is only beyond reach at all if I remain fixed to the spot: making no move towards it. And there, in that invitation: that extended hand: that smile of welcome: that opened door; I see and feel other things which, other than in myself, may not exist at all: – I hesitate before what appears to be the answer to a long-lived wordless prayer, and find myself viewing the innocent and encouraging beauty of the possibility before me, through vague shadows of doubt.
Do I only imagine that there is an invitation? Taking the offered hand requires only the shortest of steps, but I have to take the step. Am I misinterpreting the smile? Is it merely an everyday friendly response to a normal moment of conversation, and not in any way related to anything hoped for that runs through my mind? And that door; is it really open? If so, am I meant to be there? – is it open for me? Or is the whole idea of the door a figment of my imagination?
Do I only imagine that there is an invitation? Taking the offered hand requires only the shortest of steps, but I have to take the step. Am I misinterpreting the smile? Is it merely an everyday friendly response to a normal moment of conversation, and not in any way related to anything hoped for that runs through my mind? And that door; is it really open? If so, am I meant to be there? – is it open for me? Or is the whole idea of the door a figment of my imagination?
What may be the simplest of steps becomes the smallest of challenges, but, however small, it is a challenge; and with hesitation, it grows. My wish not to risk anything which could, in the least way, spoil this much needed contact, prevents me from doing anything at all. And the difficulty mounts with the passing days. It becomes less likely that I shall say anything, and while nothing may show outwardly, I know that something within me will gradually fall to pieces. I do not allow myself to think about where that would lead me, but it is impossible to shake off the knowledge that it would be a place from which my return would be almost inconceivable; and that chimes frighteningly with the growing sensation of being where I find myself today.
I sense the predatory crouch of a truth in these thoughts. Perhaps I would be led nowhere, and perhaps that is precisely the point. Something is working to send me nowhere; and to succeed in that objective it need do nothing other than ensure that I remain exactly where I am; I am already there: I am nowhere. Being here keeps me out of the way; out of action. So long as I remain blind, deaf, lost, and asleep, and so long as when next I fall, I give up, and remain down, beyond the reach of those who would have me stand again: those who would walk beside me in a shared search for others in need of whatever gifts we can bring, then I shall be of no consequence; a non-combatant; disconnected from the power source which would bring me back to life.
Even when, for the most part, distanced from the immediate physical reality of my life – when writing here – I am running, as it were, on batteries that are always being recharged in my real world; they are never emptied of what actually makes my heart and soul tick. It is therefore no surprise to me that this coincides with having circled round to find myself aware of the contrived group of twelve followers again: The Named, The Touched, and through to The Sent; the unknown companions who share these pages with me (thank you again for being there). We have not been walking our paths alone; nor, in our watching and waiting, do we stand alone. We all need to hold on to that thought. We have been placed in each other's paths for a reason; we have the potential for helping each other on our journeys, and, for much of the time, all it takes is our continued presence. In each other we find the reality of God’s provision: living proof of the Presence which will never desert us or cut us adrift.
It is in having come round to the point at which I hear my name being called again –both within the powerful reality of my renewed contact with Christ’s presence in human form (Hope), and within these written thoughts – that I have come to more fully recognize some aspects of what I believe to be my own predominant flaw: the weakness that most readily incapacitates me, and keeps me out of action while I continue to fade, falter, forget, and fall towards a time when the powers that keep me quiet will forget they ever had cause to keep half an eye on me.
I sense the predatory crouch of a truth in these thoughts. Perhaps I would be led nowhere, and perhaps that is precisely the point. Something is working to send me nowhere; and to succeed in that objective it need do nothing other than ensure that I remain exactly where I am; I am already there: I am nowhere. Being here keeps me out of the way; out of action. So long as I remain blind, deaf, lost, and asleep, and so long as when next I fall, I give up, and remain down, beyond the reach of those who would have me stand again: those who would walk beside me in a shared search for others in need of whatever gifts we can bring, then I shall be of no consequence; a non-combatant; disconnected from the power source which would bring me back to life.
Even when, for the most part, distanced from the immediate physical reality of my life – when writing here – I am running, as it were, on batteries that are always being recharged in my real world; they are never emptied of what actually makes my heart and soul tick. It is therefore no surprise to me that this coincides with having circled round to find myself aware of the contrived group of twelve followers again: The Named, The Touched, and through to The Sent; the unknown companions who share these pages with me (thank you again for being there). We have not been walking our paths alone; nor, in our watching and waiting, do we stand alone. We all need to hold on to that thought. We have been placed in each other's paths for a reason; we have the potential for helping each other on our journeys, and, for much of the time, all it takes is our continued presence. In each other we find the reality of God’s provision: living proof of the Presence which will never desert us or cut us adrift.
It is in having come round to the point at which I hear my name being called again –both within the powerful reality of my renewed contact with Christ’s presence in human form (Hope), and within these written thoughts – that I have come to more fully recognize some aspects of what I believe to be my own predominant flaw: the weakness that most readily incapacitates me, and keeps me out of action while I continue to fade, falter, forget, and fall towards a time when the powers that keep me quiet will forget they ever had cause to keep half an eye on me.
My failure is that which, before anything else, is the main reason for Christians not speaking out to those who have no faith, and who have no awareness of God’s presence among us. In my own case, it has even become my main reason for not speaking up in the presence of others who do believe: even those who are further along their paths than I am along mine, and especially those with whom I long to communicate and with whom I yearn for fellowship.
How can that have come about? And how have I been held in that grip for so long? I am unable to break out of it for myself. If it were otherwise, I would have done it long ago.
How can that have come about? And how have I been held in that grip for so long? I am unable to break out of it for myself. If it were otherwise, I would have done it long ago.
I have been held back, imprisoned and tightly bound by my failure in one of the four things that, for me, echo more loudly than anything else through the pages of scripture. I love God; I do my best to love my neighbour; I strive to forgive all, even myself; but though I hear the words, over and over again, “Do not be afraid”, I fear. And the most frightening thing about it – that which, even in its mere admission, makes me want to delete all that I have written for these posts, and retreat from the thoughts that have plagued me for these weeks – is the incomprehensible awareness that the one thing of which I am most afraid, is that I might become afraid. It makes no sense, but the only fear of which I am conscious is that I might fear.
‘For it is not against human enemies that we have to struggle,
but against the principalities and the ruling forces who are masters of the darkness in this world,
the spirits of evil in the heavens.’
(Ephesians 6:12)
