A presence rather than an absence
On the brink of a very testing week, I was preaching on ‘what Christians mean by peace’ this morning. Below is the introduction to that sermon:
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Someone has stolen my peace. They must have crept in whilst I wasn’t looking. They’ve rifled through everything, turned it upside down, left the TV news on full blast in my head, and gone, with my peace tucked under their arm.
I put a small ad in the paper: WANTED- the return of my peace, safe and sound. The finder will be rewarded with a share of the find. No response.
I typed out pleas on my computer with ever faster fingers – clickety-clack. P.E.A.C.E. P.E.A.C.E It sounded like a train rattling towards an unstable bridge and I gave it up.
I went to the countryside to see if it had run for the hills – but electricity hummed and crackled in the power line overhead and there was the boom boom of a farmer’s shotgun not far away.
I tried an ancient church – the silence running down its walls like condensation on a window. In the quietness my angry child’s voice sounded louder than ever – stamping its foot and wailing ‘where’s my peace gone’.
I thought I saw a dove land in my garden – a hopeful sign, it seemed. It turned out to be a pale pigeon with pretensions of doveyness and my quest continued.
Troubled, cross, overwhelmed with the futility of my search I turned the pages of an ancient story, only to hear the voice of a condemned man saying ‘do not be troubled…I bequeath you my peace.’
