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SERMONS Sean Gilbert — 14/4/08 As always I was very appreciative of Philip Carter’s shared insight of last Sunday. The written text was waiting for me when I returned home on Monday morning, the CD recording not far behind it. Liminal Space, that “betwixt and between” place he called it, where we live much of our lives; that place of waiting and anticipation between major life destinations and discoveries. A place, nevertheless, to look up and see, not to look down and ignore; and more particularly for us, a place in which to discern the face of God, the very presence of God, even in the midst of life’s most despairing and hope-less situations. On a Friday afternoon, in the latter part of last year I walked out these front doors, and got in my car in the knowledge that I then had nowhere to go. My world, and the world of those closest to me had duly collapsed; shattered. It was a moment of raw terror and emptiness I will never forget, and sitting in my car, I was simply frozen or chilled by the knowledge that I was alone, and totally directionless. All the support options I considered came up empty, and any destination just didn’t make sense anymore. Well, right into the midst of this, entered a familiar car, an ever-present smile and a cheery greeting: “Sean, hello, what are you doing, where are you going?” “I don’t know,” I stuttered. “Well, you must come round home. Come on!” “Thanks”, I said, and got moving. Ordinary as that interaction was, it certainly wasn’t ordinary to me. I had never known such despair. I had never felt such alienation from life itself, but in this coincidental meeting, in this person, was the face of God, the presence of God, although I hasten to add, not in some supernatural or exclusive way. But it was for me regardless, and that moment kept me going for a good while, until other moments came and went, in which again I found comfort and the encouragement to move further onwards. So,
you might imagine, reading this Psalm anew, takes the all to often
woolly sentiment right out of it for me and states pretty strongly,
that this presence of grace, this imbued and undergirding courage of
God, doesn’t guarantee health, happiness, protection, or even
answered prayer. But what it does suggest, is that if we look,
if we see, if we weight things up, consolation and comfort is ever
beside us, often in hidden and very ordinary ways. The rod and staff
of the shepherd are symbols of companionship on sometimes-hellish roads – not
magical wands or wizard staffs to make things instantly and brightly
better; hard yards, yet good yards together. Nietzsche certainly got
it right when he suggested that so much religious belief and practice
is but human projection and that ultimately our faith has got to find
root and stem in ourselves, and can only arise through the real things
of life and genuine experiences of love. For this metaphor and experience of Shepherd reminds us how closely entwined is grace to life, is divinity to humanity, is love to suffering. And that somehow, somewhat strangely and mysteriously, this almost shy presence of Grace, helps gather the threads back together and gently, yet persistently, reposes (or repositions) our soul; for the living if we but let it be so… A needed courage, a re-affirmation of worth, a re-kindled hope and the desire for the future. Small things, perhaps, but huge things in matters of life and death. The Lord is our Shepherd, we shall not want… Yet perhaps Michael Leunig says it best in a more contemporary and accessible voice, and with his wit and wisdom I conclude: Dear God, A small, shy truth arrives. We accept it, we observe it, we absorb it.
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