Lent 2025: The Importance of the One

This week has been challenging – if you’ve read my recent posts, you’ll know that. But I don’t apologise for that. If David could write psalms about despair, abandonment, and loneliness, then I think it’s okay for me to write about exhaustion and overwhelm. God created us with emotions, and being honest with Him about how we feel is important. But I also knew I didn’t want to stay in that place.

Today, as I reflected on what to write, I realised I needed to remind myself that not everything had been bad. The difficult moments stood out, but there were also things to be thankful for (go read Wednesday’s post on gratitude). And in the middle of that reflection, I was reminded of a quote from a book I read recently. A friend of mine lent me The Christian Priest Today by Michael Ramsay, and one sentence struck a chord with me:

‘The glory of Christianity is its claim that small things really matter and that the small company, the very few, the one man, the one woman, the one child are of infinite worth to God.’

Reading this was a reminder I needed. So much of what I do is for the few – the church I serve is small, my team at work is small, and I try to make time for individuals in need. In a world that often measures success in numbers, even within the church, these words from a former Archbishop of Canterbury reassured me that this work still matters.

Looking back over this week, I didn’t change the world (not a regular occurrence, I admit). But I know I made time for individuals. I know I offered a listening ear, a hug, or just a smile to someone each day. And those are still worthwhile things. Jesus heard a blind beggar on the side of the road call out to him and stopped and made time to listen. (Of course, Jesus also gave him his sight back, a level of impact I didn’t quite achieve this week!) He saw a passing funeral procession of a widow burying her son and raised the son from the dead, even though he had never met this widow from Nairn. He stopped his teaching when a paralysed man was dropped through the ceiling. When a Syrophoenician woman followed, calling for help, he stopped and talked to her. Time and again, Jesus shows his care for ‘the one.’

And another way to look at that: I am the individual, the one who is of infinite worth to God. And so are you. So if you find you’ve had a tough week, don’t worry. You are still of infinite worth to God.

Lent 2025: When there’s nothing left to give

Some weeks leave us feeling empty. This has been one of those weeks.

The kind where more is asked of you when you’re already giving your best. The kind where tension lingers in the air, where people are frustrated, where morale is low. The kind where you listen, support, and carry the weight of others, but by the end of it all, you have nothing left to give.

I know I’m not the only one who feels this way sometimes.

There are plenty of verses in the bible that talk about rest and restoration. Isaiah 40.29 talks about God strengthening the weary. Matthew 11.28 talks about coming to God with burdens and finding rest. But sometimes it doesn’t matter how many bible verses we memorise or how many of these truths we know. The reality is that some weeks leave us feeling completely spent.

Maybe that’s why I need the reminder: I was never meant to carry it all alone.

God doesn’t expect me to be endlessly strong. He doesn’t ask me to fix everything. He simply asks me to lean on Him—to trust that He is enough, even when I feel like I am not.

So tonight, I’m setting it down. The frustrations, the exhaustion, the weight of trying to hold things together. God is holding me. That is enough.

If you’re feeling drained too, maybe this prayer is for you as well:

“Lord, you see the weight I’m carrying. You know the exhaustion I feel. Hold me in this moment. Remind me that I don’t have to do this alone. Strengthen me, and help me to trust that You are enough. Amen.”

Lent 2025: Overwhelmed

“From the ends of the earth I call to you, I call as my heart grows faint; lead me to the rock that is higher than I.” Psalm 61:2

Some days, the weight of other people’s needs presses in from every side. A listening ear, a word of advice, a problem to solve; so many voices, so many expectations. And while it’s a privilege to be someone others turn to, it can also be exhausting.

Tonight, I feel that exhaustion. Not in a dramatic, world-ending way, but in the slow, steady drain of always being on. My heart is full for those who need help, yet weary from constantly pouring out.

That’s why this verse caught my attention today. When my heart is overwhelmed, God doesn’t ask me to carry it all. Instead, He invites me to call out to Him, to be led to a place of refuge, to the rock that is higher than I am.

I don’t have to have all the answers. I don’t have to hold everything together. I just have to lift my eyes and let Him hold me for a while.

So tonight, that’s my prayer:
“Lord, when my heart is weary, lead me back to You. Be my refuge, my strength, my rock. Amen.”

Lent 2025: The Perspective of Gratitude

Some days, it’s easy to be grateful. The weather is beautiful. You manage to do all the jobs you need to get done. You spend time with people you love. You do activities that fill you with life. Those kinds of days, when everything seems to go right. I’m sure you know the kind of days I mean.

Then there are the more difficult days. Conversations are challenging. Work is frustrating. You end the day too drained to do much more than collapse in a heap. Those might also be the days when the toilet breaks and the milk has gone off. I’m sure we’ve all had those kinds of days too. And sometimes, we get a run of them that can be really draining, physically, mentally, and emotionally.

I mentioned before that this Lent, I’ve been trying to fit in two reflective walks each week – one on Sunday and one midweek (usually Wednesday). I have a passage and a question, and I spend some time pondering and listening to my nudges from God. It’s a practice I’ve enjoyed. Today, the passage was James 1:17:

“Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights, who does not change like shifting shadows.”

The question to provoke my thoughts was: Can I name five things I see or experience that feel like gifts from God?

When I finally sat down in the evening and read that passage and question, I couldn’t help but laugh. This morning, a queue of traffic meant I couldn’t move my car from its parking spot for a good five minutes, making me later to work than I wanted to be (though still on time). The traffic on the main roads was awful due to “overrunning roadworks,” meaning my boss wasn’t in first thing for our planning session. The internet was intermittent, impacting the jobs I was trying to get on with. By the afternoon, it dropped out completely, so no sending emails, no designing posters, no researching funders. Basically, it felt like everything was conspiring against us being able to do our jobs, and that was more than a little frustrating.

So when I read that passage and question, it felt a little like a joke. Some days, when things go well, gratitude is easy. Prayers of thanks – for situations, for friends, for opportunities – come naturally. But days like today?!

But I tried. While acknowledging that today had not been the easiest, I looked for things to be grateful for.

When I finished work, I heard birdsong, a sure sign of spring. I wish I could name each one, but even without that knowledge, there’s something beautiful about their song. At lunchtime, colleagues invited me to sit with them instead of eating on my own. Because the internet was down, I had a great conversation in the office about books and Harry Potter World over a cuppa. A friend brought me two bags of jelly babies (for my pastoral jelly baby tin). And on my gentle stroll this evening, the sunset was beautiful, a sky of calm pastel colours that brought a sense of peace after a rather unproductive and frustrating day.

There, that’s five things I am grateful for today. And actually, although the frustrations loom large, finding things to be grateful for wasn’t as hard as I had first thought when I read that passage and question. Because God does not change.

I suppose that’s the thing about gratitude; it doesn’t erase the hard moments, but it gives them perspective. Today wasn’t easy, but it wasn’t without gifts either. And maybe that’s what James was getting at: every good thing, however small, is still a gift from the unchanging God, steady even when life feels anything but.

Maybe you’ve had a day like mine—full of small frustrations, unexpected disruptions, or just a lingering sense of weariness. If so, I wonder… what five gifts might you find, even in the middle of it all?

Lent 2025: Our God’s kinda big, isn’t he?

Some days just feel messy. Clashes, mistakes, misunderstandings… it all piles up. By the time the day ends, I find myself holding onto frustration, regret, and sometimes hurt. Those are the moments when forgiveness – both giving and receiving – feels hard.

Today, someone said something simple yet profound that captures my imagination:
“Our God’s kinda big, isn’t He? And He’s pretty good at loving us.”

It came up in a conversation about forgiveness. In the Bible, Peter asks Jesus how many times we should forgive. Seven times? That feels generous. But Jesus replies, “Not seven times, but seventy-seven times” (or in some translations, seventy times seven).

That’s an exhausting amount of forgiveness! But maybe that’s the point. Jesus isn’t giving Peter a number to count up to, He’s telling him to stop counting altogether. God doesn’t keep score when He forgives us, so why do we struggle to do the same for others?

I love that God’s forgiveness is limitless, but when it comes to me forgiving, there tend to be conditions. I struggle the most when I feel someone should be sorry but isn’t. I don’t need justice or revenge, but sometimes I do long for remorse, for an apology that never comes. God’s forgiveness flows freely. Mine sometimes hesitates, waiting for an apology that never comes.

And yet, if forgiveness is part of God’s big love for me, then maybe I can take small steps toward extending it too.

That doesn’t mean excusing hurt or pretending things didn’t happen. (Forgiving and staying are two different things, but that’s a thought for another time.) But it does mean choosing not to carry the weight of resentment. It means trusting that God, who is big and pretty good at loving us, will help me try again tomorrow.

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.