'Promises are all very well. What are you going to do about my future?'
In such terms, Abram (later renamed Abraham) questioned God in a vision (Genesis 15).
Perhaps Abram then woke and felt unable to settle. Perhaps he needed space to think, outside the confines of his tent. In any event, he realised that it was God who'd led him outside; God who'd turned his gaze upwards to contemplate the night sky.
And in that contemplation, the answer came. His future was assured; his descendants would be as numerous as the stars shining brightly above him. He knew for sure that God was speaking, and he believed what God was saying.
I can relate to that, and vouch for the significance of contemplation. Years ago, at a time of considerable uncertainty, I spent a few days away on retreat. A very similar question to Abram's was on my mind. 'What are you going to do about my future?' I asked God. 'What do you want me to do about my future?'
Answers were elusive until I went out into the grounds of the retreat house for a quiet, thoughtful walk. It was December. Chilly gusts of wind sent clouds racing across the sky above me. The beech hedge rustled and rattled, its dry, shrivelled leaves clinging on to the branches as if afraid to let go.
God spoke to me. Don't cling. Don't put your trust in worldly securities. You'll be sucked dry, lifeless, purposeless; just an empty noise.
I walked on. There before me was a compost heap: thousands of leaves, damp. black and rotting. Was that my destiny?
God spoke to me again. The answer was no.
Then a great gust of wind tore through the garden, bearing a shower of leaves like sailing-boats on a stormy sea. Trusting in the wind, travelling where it took them, they seemed alive and free. 'Trust me,' said God. 'The future's in my care.'
Storm Leaf
Whisper your fragile mystery, crisp wisp,
Cocoon of cool in summer, fierce fall-fire:
Death's rattle now curtails your desire.
Your shrivelled secrets shiver, beechen swing
Clasped fearful-fast; but me? I will not cling.
Silence your sodden sleep in leaf-pall deep
Moist melancholy! Earth to earth unfold.
Vivid departs: your hue of red, green, gold
Extinguished; now with winter slumber blessed
To clay decay; but me? I know no rest.
Exultant shout, sing out, spread spinnaker
Surfing the storm-wind, Spirit-tossed, star-set:
Journey the hidden breath divine, nor fret
At risk, uncertainty; let God enthrall
Your soaring soul; and me? That is my call.
In such terms, Abram (later renamed Abraham) questioned God in a vision (Genesis 15).
Perhaps Abram then woke and felt unable to settle. Perhaps he needed space to think, outside the confines of his tent. In any event, he realised that it was God who'd led him outside; God who'd turned his gaze upwards to contemplate the night sky.
And in that contemplation, the answer came. His future was assured; his descendants would be as numerous as the stars shining brightly above him. He knew for sure that God was speaking, and he believed what God was saying.
I can relate to that, and vouch for the significance of contemplation. Years ago, at a time of considerable uncertainty, I spent a few days away on retreat. A very similar question to Abram's was on my mind. 'What are you going to do about my future?' I asked God. 'What do you want me to do about my future?'
Answers were elusive until I went out into the grounds of the retreat house for a quiet, thoughtful walk. It was December. Chilly gusts of wind sent clouds racing across the sky above me. The beech hedge rustled and rattled, its dry, shrivelled leaves clinging on to the branches as if afraid to let go.
God spoke to me. Don't cling. Don't put your trust in worldly securities. You'll be sucked dry, lifeless, purposeless; just an empty noise.
I walked on. There before me was a compost heap: thousands of leaves, damp. black and rotting. Was that my destiny?
God spoke to me again. The answer was no.
Then a great gust of wind tore through the garden, bearing a shower of leaves like sailing-boats on a stormy sea. Trusting in the wind, travelling where it took them, they seemed alive and free. 'Trust me,' said God. 'The future's in my care.'
Storm Leaf
Whisper your fragile mystery, crisp wisp,
Cocoon of cool in summer, fierce fall-fire:
Death's rattle now curtails your desire.
Your shrivelled secrets shiver, beechen swing
Clasped fearful-fast; but me? I will not cling.
Silence your sodden sleep in leaf-pall deep
Moist melancholy! Earth to earth unfold.
Vivid departs: your hue of red, green, gold
Extinguished; now with winter slumber blessed
To clay decay; but me? I know no rest.
Exultant shout, sing out, spread spinnaker
Surfing the storm-wind, Spirit-tossed, star-set:
Journey the hidden breath divine, nor fret
At risk, uncertainty; let God enthrall
Your soaring soul; and me? That is my call.
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