Lent 2025: God in the Silence

This process of writing a reflection at the end of the day has been really helpful for me. I find it’s a way to reflect and learn more about God, about deepening my faith as I really apply my mind to seeing God in the day just gone or wrestling with things that provide stumbling blocks. Usually, something presents itself as inspiration.

This evening, as I started to write, I found myself at a loss. To be clear, I don’t know everything there is to know about God, and I still have things to wrestle through, but today, I just hit a block. It’s not that today was bad; just the opposite. It was a standard, ordinary day. I got up and went to work. I did my job until it was time to come home. I cooked dinner and talked to my housemates. It was all fairly mundane.

And that, I think, is part of the challenge. In times of trouble, I can reach out to God for help. In moments of joy, I can pray in gratitude. But on an ordinary day, when everything is just ticking along, it’s easy to go through the motions without noticing God at all.

I’ve gotten into the habit of reflecting back over my day, asking God to reveal where He was, noting the good and the bad without judgment, and letting it all go. It’s an Ignatian practice called the Examen, and I’ve found it a good way to round off the day. Until today.

Reflecting on today is hard because I’ve already forgotten most of it, and when I ask God to reveal where He was, I get… silence.

Silence can be refreshing, a welcome pause from the noise of life. But silence can also be disconcerting, a worrying sign that I’ve wandered away from where I’m meant to be. I love silence in worship, those moments of simply soaking in God’s presence, whether He speaks or not. But I also fear silence, because it’s in the quiet that doubt speaks the loudest.

That got me thinking, this isn’t the first time God’s people have faced silence. In fact, there was a time when it lasted not just a day, but centuries.

The Bible is split into two main parts (okay, that’s a massive oversimplification, but bear with me): the Old Testament and the New Testament. The Old Testament tells the story of how the nation of Israel came to be, how it split, was sent into exile, and later restored. There are kings, judges, and prophets; laws, histories, and poetry. Some of it is hard work to read, while other parts are gripping tales of battles and unlikely victories.

The New Testament is the story of Jesus – His life, death, and resurrection – and the birth of the church. But between the end of the Old Testament and the beginning of the New Testament, there are roughly 400 years of silence. No prophets. No new scriptures. No divine revelations. Just silence.

Can you imagine being a Jew in those 400 years? Going to the synagogue but secretly wondering if God had stopped listening? Trying to live righteously in the hope that the Messiah might come? Or maybe just going about the daily, mundane tasks of life, not thinking about God at all?

But here’s the crucial detail: God may have been silent, but He was never absent. Even in the silence, He watched over His children. Even in the silence, He was preparing the way for reconciliation. Even in the silence, He loved.

Silence really is a test of faith. It’s easy to trust God when He’s speaking loudly into our lives. It’s much harder when the days feel empty, and we realize we haven’t thought of Him at all.

But the truth remains: God is present, even when we don’t perceive Him. And if God’s people could endure 400 years of silence, I think I can manage one ordinary day.

Lent 2025: Already Running

I didn’t manage to go for a reflective walk today (weekend afternoon naps, anyone?), but I did spend some time reflecting on a passage from Luke’s gospel. Like two weeks ago with Psalm 23, it’s a passage I’ve read more times than I can count. And yet, it always seems to offer something new. Today, what struck me was a point in the middle of the story:

“But while the son was still a long way off, his father saw him and was filled with compassion for him; he ran to his son, threw his arms around him and kissed him.”

Some parts of this story would have had a different cultural significance to the original listeners. This part, for example, would have been quite shocking. In that time, dignified men didn’t run. It was completely undignified and even shameful! What if someone had seen? But the father didn’t care what others thought—his love for his child was too overwhelming for social norms to restrain him.

It reminded me of another image, one more familiar today. When parents have small children, they often stand with their arms open, waiting for the child to run to them. There’s a joyfulness in that moment, but the parent stays still. Yet here, we see something different: a respectable, dignified man running with the same uncontainable love we expect from a child. It flips the usual pattern. Instead of waiting, the father moves first.

This raises so many questions: Was he watching every day? Did he neglect everything else while waiting for his son’s return? Or did he set aside an hour or so each day to watch? Maybe he had a servant keeping an eye on the road? There’s no way to know for sure. But what matters is that the moment he saw his son, he ran.

I think this stood out to me today because of what it reveals about God’s love. In most interpretations of the story, the father represents God. And this father is not restrained by social norms or human expectations. He’s not ashamed to welcome his son with open arms, even though the son has treated his family so badly. He is so eager, so joyful at the chance to be reunited, that he doesn’t even wait to hear his son’s carefully practiced apology.

That’s God’s love for us. We may sometimes find ourselves in the shoes of the older son, but sooner or later, we all know what it’s like to be the younger one—wondering if we’ve wandered too far. We think we’ve messed up too much, and maybe we can work our way back into God’s favour. But there’s no reluctance in the father’s actions—no hesitation, no conditions. Likewise with God. The moment we turn toward Him, He is already running toward us with open arms, glad we have chosen to come home.

And while this story is often used as a message of hope for those who have wandered far from faith, there’s something here for all of us in the everyday moments of confession. None of us are perfect. We all need to turn back to God. In my tradition, there’s a moment of confession every week at church. In some traditions, people make confession to a priest or a trusted person. However it happens, confession is part of Christian life.

But how do we view it? A duty to be done? A reminder of our sinfulness? An opportunity to grovel before God? It doesn’t need to be. Picture this story—you know you’ve done wrong, but you turn back to God anyway, and there He is, already running toward you with His arms open. Confession is like stepping into an embrace that is already there.

A friend recently recommended an Ignatian spiritual practice (there are many, I’m no expert!). I was to start my prayer by turning my face to heaven and simply resting in God’s love for me. I struggled. I have always struggled to ‘look’ into the face of God. What if He’s disappointed? What if He’s angry? What if He doesn’t care? (I know that’s not God’s nature, but sometimes that little internal voice of fear gets in the way.)

Then I had a breakthrough moment: What if I looked into the face of God and saw love?

We don’t need to be afraid to turn back to God. Whether it’s a daily confession or a complete change of direction, God is already watching and waiting. The moment we turn, He is already running toward us, arms open, ready to reaffirm our identity as His children.

Take a moment to picture yourself in the story. You’ve just turned toward home. What do you see? Do you see God running toward you? And if you meet His gaze, do you see love?

Lent 2025: Pastoral Jelly Babies

On my desk at work I have a tin with jelly babies in. It started as something nice to do (and slightly influenced by a certain Dr Who…) but has evolved a little. While I still offer jelly babies to those who come in, they have also taken on the role of a pick-me-up for frustrated or anxious colleagues. The thing is, I’m a pretty good listener, I care, and I’m trustworthy, so I find people willing share things with me to get them off their chests – cue a pastoral jelly baby (or two!)

This week there have been a number of situations, at work and in my social life, where I have been able to offer that safe space to people who needed it. They have been able to share what’s on their hearts and minds, and leave knowing they have been heard and that they are loved. It’s a wonderful privilege to be able to support people in this way.

However, there is a shadow side to this gift. Sometimes my friends share and I feel helpless or inadequate. I can sit with them, I can listen to them, but I can’t fix things for them. My frustration comes from caring so deeply – if I could take away their pain or change their circumstances, I would in a heartbeat!” But I can’t, because I am human. A loving, patient human, but a human all the same.

I was given a pastoral heart, some might call it a mother’s heart, so this caring is a natural part of who I am. Recently, I was reminded of a verse in Galatians where Paul says, “Carry each other’s burdens and in this way you will fulfil the law of Christ.” It’s biblical to support one another. But there is a tension there. When people share with me, they do so because they know I won’t gossip about it. I have shared their burdens, but how can is share my own frustrations? While I am pleased to offer that space and honoured to be someone people feel they can turn to, there are times when it takes a toll, spiritually and emotionally.

This morning, a friend reminded me of the need to take a break, to look after myself as well as those I care about. There was a situation unfolding between friends and, while I had no idea what I could do, I wanted to help in some way. My friends words were a reminder to stop and take a step back. If I’m exhausted and emotionally drained, how much help can I really offer? (I compromised slightly by buying them a coffee then leaving them to it…)

Even Jesus would withdraw for times of solitude and refreshment. There are many examples, but Luke 5 is great for this situation. Jesus meets a man with leprosy and, moved by compassion, reaches out, touches him and heals him. Hearing about Jesus, people from all over flock to him to be healed. But ‘Jesus often withdrew to lonely places and prayed’. Rest isn’t neglecting the people we love, it’s necessary to allow us to continue caring.

So today, I spent most of the day at home. I listened to some music, sorted out my bookshelf, drank copious amounts of tea and gave myself permission to take a breather. Oh, and I spent a little time in prayer too. Because while I can’t carry it all or fix it all, I have a God who cares about these people more than I do and who can carry the emotional load. And he wants what’s best for us all in the long run, so I guess I also need to remember to trust God with those I care about.

So if this resonates with you, if you feel like you care too much, if you’re overwhelmed by the burdens of those around you, remember to take a step back. Give yourself permission to rest, recharge, and most of all, trust that God is holding them even when you can’t (and if you need it, I can recommend a pastoral jelly baby or two!) If you need a little help, try this prayer:

Lord, help me to love and care well, but also to trust you with what I cannot carry alone.

Lent 2025: A Cry of the Heart – Finding Hope in Blues and the Psalms

This evening, I treated myself to going to watch a friend’s blues duo. It was a fantastic evening with brilliant music. I’ve seen these musicians before, so I have some favourites they play a lot. Tonight, as I was listening, the words of one of them struck me.

“I don’t want to know about evil, I only want to know about love.”

Those words from John Martyn’s Don’t Want to Know have been sitting with me. They feel like a modern-day psalm: raw, honest, wrestling with the state of the world. Because the truth is, you don’t have to look hard to find pain. It’s everywhere. Wars, injustice, suffering. Some days, it feels too much to bear. And like the song says, “Sometimes it gets so hard to listen, hard for me to use my eyes.”

That line struck me. The struggle to see hope. To believe in goodness when darkness seems overwhelming. It reminded me of the psalmist’s cry:

“How long, Lord? Will you forget me forever?
How long will you hide your face from me?
How long must I wrestle with my thoughts
and day after day have sorrow in my heart?” (Psalm 13:1-2)

The Psalms give us permission to be honest. David didn’t hold back,he poured out his fears, his doubts, his frustrations to God. He didn’t pretend everything was fine. And that’s crucial. Because false positivity – forcing ourselves to say “everything happens for a reason” or “just look on the bright side” – can be dangerous. It doesn’t sustain us when life is hard. What does sustain us is a faith that allows honesty. A faith where we can bring our real, unfiltered emotions before God, knowing that He hears.

David’s psalms often start in despair but don’t end there. Even in the darkest moments, there’s a turning point, a choice to keep trusting. Psalm 13 continues:

“But I trust in your unfailing love;
my heart rejoices in your salvation.
I will sing the Lord’s praise,
for he has been good to me.” (Psalm 13:5-6)

That doesn’t mean the pain is gone. But it means David refuses to let darkness have the final word. He holds onto love. Just like in Don’t Want to Know, where the longing is clear, amidst all the evil in the world, we ache to fix our eyes on love.

So maybe that’s our challenge. Not to ignore suffering, but to let ourselves be honest about it. To bring our raw, unfiltered hearts before God. And, in doing so, to hold onto hope.  Not a naïve hope that denies reality, but a hope that, even in the darkness, trusts in a love greater than the pain.

Lent 2025: Air Traffic Control

My social battery is running low at the moment. This evening, I was at a gathering and found myself slightly overwhelmed. Mingling isn’t my favourite activity at the best of times, but tonight, with four or five conversations happening around me, my brain struggled to latch onto just one. As I stepped aside for a moment of quiet, the host checked in with me. He understood my struggle but then shared something intriguing—he knew someone who had worked in air traffic control and could listen to multiple conversations at once, process them, and give relevant input to each one!

I’m a long way from being able to do that, but it struck me as a great picture of God. Imagine if He were like me—overwhelmed by too many voices! Prayers would go unheard, answers would be missed, and we’d be left circling, waiting for direction. But God isn’t limited like I am. He hears every prayer, responds to each of us personally, and guides us exactly where we need to be—even if His answers don’t always align with our expectations.

Sometimes, I hesitate to ‘bother’ God with my small or selfish prayers, thinking others need Him more. But God isn’t like a human overwhelmed at a social gathering or even an air traffic controller juggling multiple planes. He doesn’t need to prioritize, take a break, or focus on just one person at a time. He listens. Always. And He responds in ways that, in His wisdom, are best for us.

So maybe I don’t need to hold back. Maybe none of us do.

Lent 2025: A God’s Eye View

Have you ever looked back at your journey and marveled at how far you’ve come? Recently, I found myself reflecting on past versions of me – the me who didn’t value myself very highly, who could be grumpy and defensive, and who wasn’t always the easiest person to be around.

And yet, that was the version of me that rediscovered God. Or, more accurately, that was the version of me God met with. Not the best version of me, far from it. But God didn’t wait for me to improve before stepping in. He met me as I was, in a dimly lit church one night, when I least expected it and least deserved it.

It’s hard to explain that moment. The closest I can come is this: it felt like God lit a flame in my heart. A gentle yet unshakable flame, unlike anything I’d ever known. A flame unmistakably fueled by love.

Around that same time, I found myself surrounded by a group of Christians, people I am now blessed to call friends. What began that night turned into a journey of growth. These friends loved me even when I didn’t love myself, and slowly, I began to change.

I knew my grumpiness and defensiveness weren’t great, but I also realised they weren’t random. They came from not valuing myself. With God’s whisper of love and the voices of my friends echoing His truth, I began to learn what the Bible says about me, what God says about me. And little by little, my opinion of myself began to shift. I began to love myself. (Which, let’s be real, took about ten years of intentional work, but I’ll summarize it in three sentences!)

So why all this reminiscing? Today’s reflection was Ephesians 2:8-9:

“For it is by grace you have been saved, through faith – and this is not from yourselves, it is the gift of God – not by works, so that no one can boast.”

These verses remind me that faith itself is a gift, and through faith, we receive grace. Grace: God’s undeserved, unearned love and kindness. I didn’t earn that initial love. I just finally opened my heart enough to hear the whisper of it.

And with time, with God’s whispers and my friends’ voices, I learned to see myself through God’s eyes.

Now, I’m still not perfect. I still make plenty of mistakes. But I am more at peace with who I am. I recognise the gifts and skills I bring into the world and the positive footprint I leave behind.

Of course, sometimes I forget. Doubt creeps in. But every time, God nudges me, gently, persistently, and reminds me to see things not from my flawed human perspective, but from a God’s eye view.

Lent 2025: Held in Love

I don’t have a long, profound post this evening. Today has been long—full, tiring, and by the end, a little overwhelming. But in the midst of it, God showed up in the kindness of friends. One gave me an amazing hug—the kind where you feel truly held and supported. Another reminded me that I’m stronger than I think and so deeply loved. In that moment, I was reminded that God draws people into our lives to lift us up, and I am so blessed by the friendships He has placed around me. Even on the hardest days, His love is there, woven through the people who care.

Lent 2025: No Easy Answers

Yesterday, I was reflecting on a passage from Matthew’s Gospel—Matthew 6:25-34, where Jesus tells His disciples not to worry. He points to the birds of the air, reminding them that sparrows don’t stress about food because God provides for them. He speaks of the flowers in the fields, clothed in vibrant colors, even though they are here one day and gone the next. Then He says, do not worry about what you will eat, drink, or wear, because your Heavenly Father knows what you need.

I found this passage a real challenge to read. I am painfully aware that much of the world’s population lives in poverty. Starvation and dehydration are daily realities for many. So how is this passage still relevant?

I wrestled with how to reconcile what I was reading with what I see in the world. The question of suffering has troubled theologians and believers for centuries—I don’t claim to have an easy answer! But here’s where my wrestling has led me, in case it is of use to others.

My first thought was that, in theory, there is enough to go around. The problem is not scarcity but inequality—human greed hoards resources so that a global minority live in luxury while the majority struggle. But then comes the deeper question: If God provides, why doesn’t He intervene? Does He not care?

I know in my heart that God does care. So then—why suffering?

When God created humans, He gave us free will—the ability to make choices. God is not a dictator ruling with an iron fist but a loving Father who desires a real relationship with us. And because love cannot be forced, He does not impose Himself on us. We are free to believe or not, free to choose justice and mercy or greed and selfishness.

This can be hugely frustrating—especially when it seems like evil is rewarded. But at the heart of the Bible is a two-way relationship between God and humankind, and that relationship comes with responsibility. Every day, we are faced with choices. Followers of Jesus are called to be different—to speak out against injustice, to amplify the voices of the marginalized, to care for God’s creation. But let’s be honest: that feels like too big a job. And sometimes, it’s easier to look away.

Yet I believe it grieves God to see suffering in the world. Jesus’ words and actions show His deep compassion for people. And as we look ahead to Holy Week and Easter, we remember that Jesus came to earth to die—because God’s love for us was so great that He needed to mend the relationship broken all the way back in Genesis. Jesus restored that relationship, making a way for us to be with God for eternity.

This is the part where my brain fails me. That’s a truth too vast for me to fully grasp. And maybe that’s why I don’t have an easy answer to the suffering in the world. But I understand this much: Jesus died out of love for me (and for you!). And because of that, I want to do my part.

Yes, the task feels enormous. Challenging injustice, caring for creation, and looking out for the vulnerable is too much for one person to carry alone. But Jesus never asked us to do it alone. Even when He sent out His disciples, He sent them in pairs. Each pair had a few villages to visit—not the whole world! We, too, are called into community—with each other in the Church and with God. It’s from that place of togetherness that we can shoulder our part of the great mission.

We don’t have to do everything. We just have to do our part.

So this Lent, I want to let the suffering of the world change me. I want to seek out my part in God’s work. And I want the strength and courage to do it.

What about you?

Lent 2025: Praying for the best, preparing for the worst.

I’m a chronic over-thinker. I often find myself imagining every possible scenario, especially the worst ones, and then mentally preparing for how to handle them. Before conversations, I rehearse responses, trying to be ready for anything. Before events, I anticipate everything that could go wrong. My mind is constantly split, half in the present, half bracing for the future.

Of course, I bring these worries to God in prayer, asking for His help with a situation out of my control, an event I’m dreading, or an experience where fear is getting the better of me. But if I’m honest, I struggle to leave it with Him. I pray for the best, yet I still prepare for the worst.

Today’s reflective walk was centered on Matthew 6:25-34. In this passage, Jesus tells His disciples not to worry about material things – what they will eat or wear – because God provides for His creation. If He cares for the birds of the air and the flowers of the field, how much more will He care for us? Jesus urges them to seek first the Kingdom of God and not to be consumed by worry about tomorrow.

It’s a beautiful teaching, but not an easy one to live out. Some things in life do require preparation – you can’t ignore an exam until the day of the test and expect it to go well! But I think Jesus is speaking to something deeper: a matter of perspective. If we let future worries take all our focus, we risk missing the beauty of the present moment. We overlook God’s grace in the world around us. We miss opportunities to be His voice, His hands, His presence to others.

But when we first tune our hearts to the Kingdom, to the unshakable reality of God’s love and provision, it reshapes how we approach uncertainty. It doesn’t mean pretending challenges don’t exist, but it does mean seeing them in light of a bigger truth. And perhaps, when we trust that we are fully known and fully loved by the God who holds all things together, we won’t always assume the worst.

So today, I’m choosing to hand over my worries again. Not because I have to force myself to stop thinking, but because I want to remind myself who God is, and who I am in Him. And maybe, just maybe, from that place of security, I can live with a little less fear and a little more faith.

Lent 2025: Waiting and Preparing

Lent is often described as a season of waiting—a journey towards Easter, filled with reflection, repentance, and preparation. Sometimes, that preparation is deeply spiritual: time spent in prayer, wrestling with faith, or seeking God’s guidance. Other times, it’s practical—getting things ready for what’s to come.

Today has been a day of preparation. A quiet one, but no less important. I’ve been finalizing everything for tomorrow’s café church service: refining my talk, ensuring the table leaflets are ready, and making sure the space is set for people to engage with the theme. It’s not dramatic work, but it’s essential. Without preparation, the experience of gathering, reflecting, and worshipping together wouldn’t unfold as smoothly.

It makes me think about the woman in Luke 13:10-17. For eighteen years, she lived with pain and limitation, not knowing if things would ever change. And yet, she still came to the synagogue. She still placed herself in a space where she could encounter God. She didn’t know she was waiting for healing that day, but when Jesus called her forward, she responded.

We don’t always know what we are waiting for or how long the waiting will last. But like her, we keep showing up. We keep preparing, keep trusting, keep making space for God to move. And when the moment comes—whether quietly or in ways we never expected—grace breaks in.