Holy ground. The words muscle their way into my Monday morning to do list. Somewhere between paying the bills, shopping for dinner and writing an article. Although to be honest my writing is not happening at the moment, there is no time to be inspired when life is so hectic. I am beginning to wonder if I misheard, and what I thought was God’s call was nothing more than my own desire to write.
Holy Ground. Two words I vaguely remember from yesterday’s sermon. What do they mean? I feel a twinge of irritation – ‘I don’t have time to think about this now.’ I have far too much to do.
Holy Ground. This is not going to go away. Perhaps I should stop, just for a moment. I am in the churchyard of Christchurch Priory; tidy gardens, ancient gravestones and a magnificent cathedral of a church. 900 years of history and I had walked by without so much as a glance.
Holy ground, I suppose it is. I know that Christians have worshipped on this site since the seventh century, but familiarity has made me blind. This historic site has been reduced to nothing more than a shortcut to the shops. And it is not just me, other shoppers, commuters, and school kids hurry along, muffled in thick coats, hats and scarves against February’s chill. A multicoloured tide, each in their own world, talking into phones, listening to MP3s, smoking cigarettes, oblivious to these once hallowed surroundings. What are we missing?
Holy Ground. Standing still, I feel set apart, the only person who can really see. The church, local stone, luminous against the muted winter sky. Huge, white seagulls circling the tall bell tower, calling to their neighbours on the nearby river. A gardener’s discarded tools beside a freshly prepared flower bed, a hint of bonfire smoke mingling with the damp scent of turned earth. And there under my feet flag stones worn smooth by the feet of untold numbers of pilgrims and sanctuary seekers. I can feel the history of the place, as solid as the stones themselves. History, His story and I know I am a part of it. God’s story passed on from the beginning through succeeding generations.
“Take off your shoes Moses, you are standing on holy ground,” God’s words from the burning bush. I recall the sermon, how spontaneous combustion was commonplace in the desert. Moses would have seen bushes burning before, it was the fact that the fire failed to consume the bush that caused him to stop. If he had walked on he would have missed his miracle. And there it is. The connection. I have been unable to write because my frantic activity has stopped me hearing God’s prompting. My writing only becomes service if it communicates what God wants to say. If I had walked on I would have missed my miracle. Not as significant as the burning bush, but a part of His story just the same. (500 words)
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