From The Goldfields
God-Talk: Horizon
The Revd Dr Elizabeth J Smith AM Mission Priest, Parish of The Goldfields
It’s a flat country out here. Over millions of years, time, the weather, and the absence of volcanic activity have levelled the ancient mountains and filled in the old river valleys.
Now, if I can find a modest vantage point, I will see barely an undulation at the meeting place of earth and sky. No matter where I turn, the journey will be a long one.
What destination, which direction will I choose?
The Aboriginal people of the Goldfields region knew the country and sang their way across it from waterhole to soak, from ochre mine to grinding stone, from secret lake to hidden rock shelter. I do not have their songs or their wisdom, and nor did the early gold prospectors, some of whom perished as they feverishly sought their fortune. The maps on my phone will not help when I’m out of digital range. An old-style compass could keep me roughly on track. But I am reluctant to set out through prickly shrubs or dense woodland without a compelling reason for going in one particular direction. What are my chances of coming to a place of shelter and abundance?
The last weeks of Lent are a journey towards appalling suffering, and certain death, for Jesus of Nazareth. There’s no comfort in the clarity he has about his road up to Jerusalem.
Then comes the resurrection, and suddenly the world is utterly trackless. This has never happened before. There are no reliable landmarks. The friends of Jesus have lost their sense of direction. From empty tombs to locked rooms to failed fishing trips, there will be no return to normal for them. They spin, at walking pace, from Jerusalem to Emmaus and back again. The familiar outlines of temple and tomb fade into insignificance. All roads no longer lead to Rome, Jerusalem or Athens. The ends of the earth will soon be beckoning. Their horizon has changed completely.
As a parish priest, I navigate by familiar landmarks from Sunday to Sunday, and more widely from season to season around the church’s year. Now we’ll stop singing the Gloria. Now we’ll bring back some alleluias, then bright red in honour of the Spirit, journey steadily through this epistle and that Gospel for long and nourishing months.
A baptism, a funeral, a new member arrives, a pastoral farewell. It’s not all a walk in the park, but I do know the landscape.
Yet the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead still has the power to jolt me, disorient me, and radically change my perspectives. Something unprecedented and unpredictable starts here. I can’t imagine it. I certainly can’t control it. It is tinged with joyful astonishment, although it carries the memory of suffering, too. It draws me beyond everything I know.
So I cannot just stand still, waiting for everything to settle. I must begin again the journey towards the horizon, where faith is leading, where hope lights the way, and where love sustains me at every step.