No Longer in Exodus: Finding the Promised Land

In the beginning, there was movement—restless, searching, uncertain. Like Israel of old, I wandered through theological deserts, my faith a pillar of fire by night, a cloud of questions by day. The exodus from the certainties of childhood left me parched for truth, longing for a place to plant my roots deep and call home.

I was raised in the garden of tradition, where faith bloomed predictably with the seasons. Sunday mornings were sacred ground, the hymns a steady rhythm that shaped my soul. The ancient words of Scripture and prayer moulded me, like clay on the potter’s wheel, spinning into something that resembled devotion.

But as youth gave way to the wilderness years of education, the familiar paths began to fade. I found myself drawn to the academic oasis, where I drank deeply from wells I hadn’t known existed—historical criticism, comparative religion, philosophical inquiry. The waters were sweet, but they were also bitter, dissolving the simplicity I once cherished. The faith of my childhood began to feel too small for the questions I carried.

My theological wandering intensified. I pitched my tent among the Catholics, drawn to their sacramental beauty and passionate certainty. Later, I dwelled with the Uniting Church, captivated by their commitment to justice and inclusivity, their spiritual vitality. For a season, I sojourned with the Anglicans, appreciating their intellectual depth and liturgical richness. Each tradition offered manna for the journey, nourishing me in its own way, but none felt like home.

Like a compass needle trembling toward true north, I found myself drawn back to Anglicanism—not as the faith of my childhood, but as something deeper, richer, more expansive. Here was tradition without rigidity, intellect without coldness, mystery without confusion. In this ancient-future faith, I discovered what my soul had been seeking all along: a middle way, a place where questions and convictions could coexist.

The Anglican path offered me a liturgy that carried me when my own words failed, a communion table wide enough for my doubts yet firm enough for my faith. Here was room to breathe—to honor the progressive call to justice while holding fast to the wisdom of centuries. The prayer book became my map, its well-worn paths guiding me through seasons of doubt, devotion, and discovery.

Now, I no longer count myself among the exodus people. The wilderness wandering has ceased. I have crossed the Jordan of uncertainty into a promised land—not a land of perfect answers, but of faithful questions; not a place of arrival, but of belonging.

This is not to say the journey is over. The promised land, I’ve learned, is not a static destination but a living relationship. Each Sunday, as bread and wine become body and blood, I am reminded that home is not a place but a presence. The same God who led me through the wilderness now invites me to rest in green pastures, beside still waters, to dwell in the house of the Lord forever.

And yet, the journey continues, for faith is not a straight line but a spiral, ever deepening. Like the Starship Enterprise, I find myself boldly going where I have not gone before—not to escape, but to explore the infinite mystery of God. The Anglican tradition, like the Enterprise, is a vessel that carries me through the vastness of the unknown, charting new courses while remaining tethered to its mission: to seek, to serve, to love.

Or perhaps it is more like the TARDIS, that blue box from Doctor Who, bigger on the inside than it appears. Anglicanism, too, is deceptively simple on the surface, but step inside, and you find a vast, timeless space where past, present, and future converge. It is a place where the ancient creeds meet the modern world, where the liturgy transcends time, and where the mystery of transfiguration—reminds us that God is always transforming the ordinary into the extraordinary.

But faith is not a solitary journey. We are called to yoke ourselves with the right people, in work, in community, and in love. To walk together, not in hypocrisy, but in humility. To see the plank in our own eye before pointing out the speck in another’s. To live out the justice of the law, not as a weapon, but as a reflection of God’s mercy. For true religion is not about rules but about relationship—relationship with God, with others, and with the world.

And in this promised land, I have found that fulfilment comes not from comfort but from calling. Like Onesimus, the runaway servant who was sent back to his master not as a slave but as a brother, I have been called to return to the work I once fled. To answer the call of God, not reluctantly, but with joy. To be put to work in the vineyard, not as a labourer earning wages, but as a child of the kingdom, sharing in the harvest.

So I build my altar here, at this crossroads of ancient and new, of mystery and clarity, of tradition and innovation. No longer in exodus, I have found my promised land—not by leaving the questions behind, but by learning to live within them, trusting the One who makes all things new while remaining the same yesterday, today, and forever. And as I journey onward, I do so with the hope that, like the Enterprise and the TARDIS, my faith will continue to carry me into the vastness of God’s love, where there is always more to discover.

Abandonment Prayer

Father,

I abandon myself into your hands;

do with me what you will.

Whatever you may do, I thank you:

I am ready for all, I accept all.

Let only your will be done in me,

and in all your creatures—

I wish no more than this, O Lord.

Into your hands I commend my soul;

I offer it to you with all the love of my heart,

for I love you Lord, and so need to give myself,

to surrender myself into your hands,

without reserve,

and with boundless confidence,

for you are my Father.
Amen.