A Spacious Place

Around once a month, I have the privilege of preaching in my home church. I'd rather call it 'speaking', because I'm a little uncomfortable with the potential connotations of the word 'preaching'. Nobody wants to be 'preached at', in the sense of a moralistic monologue in which the speaker seems superior to their listeners, and that's not at all what we're trying to do! There is, though, something powerful about preparing and delivering a message inspired by the Holy Spirit. I often feel that I'm preaching to my own heart, urging myself on, reminding my weary soul of truth that is worth clinging to and good enough to shout about.

A few weeks ago, I spoke on Psalm 18. This Psalm is attributed to David, an early king of ancient Israel. It's a song of praise, about when God rescued him from those who sought to kill him. (Why not take a look at it?) It reads as though David found himself pursued one day, cried out to God, and quickly experienced a miraculous moment of victory. Old Testament narrative, though, reveals that David was on the run for years. Other Psalms, too, express his anguish; at times he cried out to God in despair, feeling that those pursuing him were too strong for him. There was no quick fix. Somehow, though, in David's eventual deliverance, there's a sense that the pain of what had been is eclipsed by the joy and relief of his triumph.

I have never been hunted down, forced to become a fugitive. Nothing in my peachy life comes close to that! However, I at times go through fairly intense struggles. Some of these I would associate with mental health problems, which I have written about in other posts. Aside from that—though sometimes overlapping with it—I have often also experienced what I would call spiritual attack. At times, even when not going through depression, I face wave after wave of discouragement, and feel that I can hardly go on, especially in leading others in worship or pursuing the sense of call to ordained ministry, but also in nursing, teaching or PhD study—all things that I believe God has led me into and works through me in. (It even applies to writing little blog posts!)

In such times, when simply putting one metaphorical foot in front of the other feels almost too much, I make it through by trusting God. That might sound trite, but it's genuinely the best summary. It doesn't look particularly dynamic (I simply choose to still turn up at church, for example) and it's certainly not a quick fix, but it means I don't start pressing 'quit' buttons here and there. The conviction that God has led and is leading and sustaining me is at once my inspiration and my last resort—both what fuels me in the first place, and what I cling to when it feels like I'm running on empty. If God has called me, surely God will equip me. And, in my failings, I'll sink into the everlasting arms of the one who it's all about anyway.

My experiences of spiritual battle primarily take the shape of internal struggles. It's as though I'm fighting through the densest of forest, hampered by branches, tugged at by brambles, scraped on rugged stones. Then, just when I most intensely feel I can't go on, I burst out, suddenly free of all the tangles and obstacles, almost falling into a lush meadow. It's even harder to describe than the struggle, but it's a spacious place of freedom to move and make progress, of light and warmth, peace and joy in awareness of God's presence, greatness, and goodness. 

During the battle, it feels like the spacious place is a delusion. That's when faith/trust really has teeth; it becomes ALL about God's ability to fulfil his promises and to lead and carry me, rather than about me having any strength to persevere. Once I burst out, it's the struggles that seem like some sort of momentary bad dream that weighs nothing in light of the present reality. That's how it seems it was for the psalmist, too:

         You have given me the shield of your

         salvation, and your right hand has

         supported me; your help has made

         me great. You gave me a wide place

         for my steps under me, and my feet

         did not slip.

                                     Psalm 18:35-36

I preached that sermon to myself, as well as those listening. See, there's something about the spacious place, when the struggles mysteriously pale into relative insignificance, that also looks forward to how I'm sure it will be 'at the last day', when Jesus returns and all things are made new (2 Corinthians 4:16-18). I've made it this far in faith—active trust in God's strength and faithfulness. To keep going when I doubt I can is actually an expression of that! To keep gathering with other Jesus-followers, and joining with my whole being in the worship of God reorientates me to the greater reality. My part is no more grand than simply clinging to God as all there is to hold on to, but that's precisely how I'll eventually burst through into the lushest meadow imaginable.⬦

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