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Good morning.

I walked through my local park yesterday morning.   It felt odd somehow that everyone was going about their normal lives: mums and dads pushing prams, people on their way to work.  All routine and settled on the surface.  But underfoot, everything’s shifting and shaking.

Not literally, of course, but I’ve lost count of how many times commentators have used the word ‘seismic’ to describe the Referendum vote to leave the EU.  The word does feel right:  the decision will trigger profound changes and shifts in British life and politics.  I have an image, from every earthquake movie I’ve ever watched, of black lines of ink wildly scratching up and down on the seismograph. I have an image of a country where, no matter how we voted, people are asking: What’s my identity now?  Where is the rock to build on again, among the shifting sands?

Part of my roots are in Iceland, a country of real geological instability and turbulence.  A seismic land of volcano, fire and ice which has shaped the character and soul of its people.   And this morning I find myself thinking about Iceland’s most famous eruption in 1783 when the mountain, Laki, burst open and lava poured out for 10 months.  And the story of a tiny church on the south coast, where the congregation huddled behind closed doors as a river of molten rock surged towards them. Then the pastor, Jon Steingrimsson, began to speak.  His passionate sermon to comfort and calm the people became known as The Fire Sermon. In the story, the lava stopped.  The people came out to a changed landscape, and began again.

God who is unchanging in a volatile world, I pray this morning for voices of calm and strength; for words of faith and hope; and for the healing of divisions.  AMEN