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JOHN DEMPSTER: Inspired to seek the silence where God is found


By John Dempster

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THE train stopped. There was complete stillness in the compartment where we sat finishing our soup and sandwiches. Through the open window came the calling of birds, the bleating of sheep.

As part of my birthday present, Lorna had booked a trip on the Strathspey Railway. The pause, just east of Broomhill Station was to allow the engine to be connected to the other end of the train for the return trip to Aviemore.

I felt in those moments of stillness such peace and contentment. It was as though we had stepped out of time. I was simply there, with Lorna, present in the moment.

It reminded me of the elusive joy of being still, open to the ‘now’ in contrast to my normal busyness, mind awhirl with ideas, fingers obsessively scrolling on the iPhone. That Sunday afternoon on the Speyside line inspired me to seek the stillness where God is found.

John Dempster on a Strathsepy Railway wagon.
John Dempster on a Strathsepy Railway wagon.

On the Tuesday, there was another reminder. I was at morning mass at St Michael’s Episcopal Church in Inverness. Of all the many words I heard in prayers, Bible readings and liturgy and at the coffee time afterwards one sentence came alive and lingered within me: “People of Israel, trust in the Lord.”

When I say that these words ‘came alive’ I mean that in one instant I experienced the reality of which they spoke: there was a renewed awakening to the reliability of God, a longing to entrust myself to God, and a joy flowering in my heart. I knew that all was well.

A third reminder on the Wednesday. I was sitting with a friend in his kitchen, talking about our beliefs. “You have a strong faith,” David said. My instinctive response was: “Not at all! I’m full of questions and uncertainties.”

But then I reflected, and I realised that the prime orientation of my heart is towards God. Often when I wake, my first call is to God, seeking help and accompaniment in the day ahead. It’s a call encouraged by moments like those at Broomhill and St Michaels when I have a flickering sense of something so much bigger than I am.

At the mass, Father Iain used a beautifully-crafted call to communion: “Come, not because you are strong, but because you are weak. Come because you love the Lord a little and would like to love him more.”

I recognised that I do have faith, that I am welcome. And I realised once more that church is not a cultural sideshow, maintained like the Strathspey Railway as a memorial to the past, but a living body of travellers encountering life’s meaning in Jesus on the main line of life.


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