silly and scammed

I am embarrassed to relay this tale of my own stupidity but from it I learned a lesson and perhaps my experience might help prevent someone else from falling prey to online scammers.
During a particularly busy week, I was looking online for a piece of music for a service I was due to take - I found the song - not on iTunes - and downloaded it.
BUT - then warnings started to pop up on my screen - a bug had been found with dire consequences to  my computer if I didn't ring ...
And so I rang.
I didn't think
I didn't pray
I rang

And the foreign man at the other end was plausible and patient, and persuasive ... long story short ...
I ended up purchasing expensive virus protection which later turned out to be available without cost.

My dear husband was remarkably kind - he talked me through the indicators of scamming and what I  needed to do.
So it was off to the bank to cancel my credit card.
And it was off to my computer man to check the laptop for any 'search and destroy viruses' 'they' might have planted.
But most of all it was to my knees to pour out to God my regret for not pausing long enough to seek God's wisdom before I acted.

As I write about this incident now, I can see that there were other  factors apart from busyness that contributed to my being sucked in -   my pride (a misplaced sense of being 'computer-savvy' - just because sometimes I can do computer things that my husband can't) and my habit of managing by myself, going it alone.

Pride, self-sufficiency and busyness-  three classic barriers to the grace of God. I was behaving as if rushing would lead me to good decisions, as if I knew more than Wisdom, as if I could work better alone, instead of in Relationship.

I was wrong.


Lord have mercy
Christ have mercy
Lord have mercy


Forgiveness is the fragrance that the violet sheds on the heel that has crushed it.
Mark Twain

Duckling time again

It's duckling time of the year again.

Across the road in some vacant land, we saw a female duck sitting awkwardly in the grass. For a moment it looked as if she'd been hit by a car as her legs were stretched out behind her and we could see her webbed feet.But, as we waited and watched, she got up and, slowly, from under her broad body, emerged duckling after duckling after duckling  - eight in all - fluffy, adorable, vulnerable.

Half an hour later, as we returned from our walk, we came across a woman, pushing a pram and trying to control an enthusiastic little dog who mistook our labrador for her best friend, much to Lara's bemusement. As dog-owners do, we got talking and found that the duck and her brood were on this woman's mind too. In fact, we learned that, every day she was doing what she could to protect and feed the little family as they grew and started to walk up and down the street near where she lived.

This woman made an impression on us both - her own evident encounter with serious health issues hadn't stopped her 'going the second mile' to care for these little creatures, We both felt humbled by her courage and compassion.

And I was reminded of the gospel passage in which Jesus speaks of his enduring desire to gather Jerusalem's children 'as a hen gathers her brood under her wings' (Luke 13.34b) - but they were not willing.

Free will - ducklings have it and sometimes it leads them into trouble...
We have it, and with it the choice to move closer to God or further away, little by little, day by day.

Are you, am I like Jerusalem's children - unwilling to be gathered under God's wings?
Or are we increasingly drawn to Jesus, keeping close to him day by day, warmed, nurtured and then freed to live an abundant life?

Working together

I spent Saturday morning at our church Gala - working alongside three other
women on the 'hot food' stall, with enticing aromas drifting from over a dozen
crock pots filled with an assortment of delicious beef, chicken and vegetarian food.
I always make the same pumpkin, red pepper , potato and lentil curry because
it's pretty fool-proof and goes down well with those for whom meat's not such an
important part of their diet.

What struck me was the simple pleasure of working together. We've known
each other really only as parishioners and priest, but here we were able to be alongside one
another, listening to each other's stories, sharing our thoughts about gardening and partners
and children and life  as we waited for customers.

photo from FAMILIES - calendar by M.I.L.K.

In the space of three hours we deepened our connection with each other, and were woven more deeply into the fabric of our church community as we served those from the wider neighbourhood who wanted feeding -  and it was fun!

Friendship, food and fun  - nothing too serious - nothing that had to be done in a particular way - nothing that cost a lot of money or had to be earned - but we were building relationships with each other, and, if we stopped to look around us, we could see the face of God:

• in the smiling butterfly-painted face of the little girl with her mum
• in the elderly man coming to get something tasty and different to take home for dinner
• in the father and son manning the sausage sizzle ...
• in people helping each other 
• in the genuine warmth which welcomed the stranger  

God's not a million light years away but right in the midst of the ordinary - if we have eyes to see!

It's only 5am!

I am not an early riser by nature - I love the warmth of my bed and the comfort of lying flat. Now I'm reaping the consequences of heavy school bags and rounded shoulders, my neck isn't as strong as it used to be and complains after hours sitting in front of a laptop screen, writing.

Anyway, this morning I got up at the usual Tuesday time of  a little before 6am  so I could be at church by 6.30 am in time to set up for the service of Holy Communion at which our Bishop presides when he's able. I'd showered and dressed and was about to put on my watch, when I had to do a double-take - it wasn't 6.00 am as I thought - it was 5.00 am ! [and no - daylight saving clicked over the week before last so it wasn't that!]

5.00 am - I resist getting up that early but I was too far along the process to go back to bed so I took my laptop, went downstairs, sent Lara the labrador - always hopeful of  early biscuits- back to her bed and made myself a cup of tea.

There followed an hour of unexpected clarity about the next couple of sections of the book I'm currently writing - reference material, key concepts, questions, quotes - all just flowed as I spent time alternately writing [standing up at the sideboard as it's a good height] and wandering around the darkened lounge holding my warm drink and mulling things over.

Perhaps I was subject to a subtle Spirit strategy  - God knows my weakness, how I've struggled literally for years with getting up early, even naming it as my 'thorn in the flesh'!
Perhaps a moment of divine playfulness tickled my morning mind and the happy result was the gift of knowing what to write next!

Blessed be the God of surprises!

{ picture by Jean Keaton }

PET BLESSINGS

That day's approaching again  - the day when  the church remembers St Francis of Assisi  - the day when animal lovers are invited to bring their beloved pets to church for a blessing.

All it needs for us to go is set aside our normal early morning routine, make sure Lara's had a big run and done what she needs to do, and have a few little dog treats in our pockets - you can always get a labrador's attention with a well-timed biscuit!

The service, from what folk have told me, is a delightfully chaotic and happy time with barking, the very occasional accident, pets ranging from the carefully match-boxed spider [non-toxic of course] to slightly bemused alpacas all being told how beautiful they are, how beloved of God.

The church blesses our cats, dogs, birds, beasts ...
I long for the time when the church can freely and happily offer that same grace to all our brothers and sisters in Christ without exception -  young or old, rich or poor, LGBTQ or heterosexual, mentally unwell or marginally sane, doubting, stumbling, joyful or sad, in God's eyes we are all beautiful and beloved.

You  might not know that St Francis was not just a lover of the birds and beasts, he was a poet who helps us glimpse the creator heart of God:

God would kneel down

 I think God might be a little prejudiced.

For once He asked me to join Him on a walk

through this world,

and we gazed into every heart on this earth,

and I noticed He lingered a bit longer

before any face that was

weeping,

and before any eyes that were

laughing.

And sometimes when we passed

a soul in worship

God too would kneel

down.

I have come to learn: God

adores His creation.

Love poems from God: 12 Sacred Voices from East and West, translated by Daniel Ladinsky, Penguin:NY, 2002, p41

Shells

SHELLS ...

When I was younger I loved walking on the beach and collecting shells - large or small, so long as they were uninhabited!
Maybe you did that too, or have introduced grandchildren, or friends visiting from overseas, to the beauty of the shells beside your favourite piece of coastline. .
Maybe you even have a collection of shells stored away or enhancing the watery theme of your bathroom!

Back then, I used to keep only the shells that were perfect  - no bits broken off by the action of waves or rocks;
no rough edges or holes spoiling the smooth shapes.

My collection - like my life - had to be 'perfect'.

But over the years that has changed.

As I've got older I've come to realise that broken shells have a beauty all their own.
They show the reality of the environment in which they find themselves - the effects of powers far stronger than their own; the cracks made by the impact of events beyond their control; the holes in the exterior worn through to reveal something of the complex shapes hidden within.

And that's what matters to me now - to be able to catch a glimpse of the inner beauty  - the curves and spirals and the shining surfaces revealed as the exterior shell crumbles.

So next time you are feeling a bit rough around the edges, or buffeted by events or forces beyond your control, you may like to think of these less than perfect seas shells and be thankful  -
that  something of your inner beauty - and the beauty of others - can be revealed through brokenness;
that God chose to reveal the extent of God's love in the brokenness of Jesus the Christ, God with us.

Walking peace

Over the last few days, hundreds of people from different walks of life, all ages, Maori and pakeha [white] participated in a Peace Walk to Parihaka, a small Maori village around the coast from New Plymouth.NZ.

The walk was led by Andrew Judd, our mayor and self-confessed 'recovering racist' who had received a vitriolic response when he attempted  to ensure adequate Maori representation on local government. Andrew, seen here with Archbishop Philip Richardson,   initiated the walk to Parihaka to encourage New Zealanders  to look at our own attitudes towards the indigenous people of Aotearoa  New Zealand.

The story of Parihaka is still not widely known in New Zealand let alone around the world. During the NZ Wars of the 19th Century, Parihaka was a haven for dispossessed Maori following the confiscation of their ancestral lands in parts of the North Island, and reached a population of around 10,000 in the 1870's. As pressures for more land for settlers increased, the New Plymouth township sought to expand along the coast towards Parihaka. In response, the charismatic leaders of the Parihaka community, Te Whiti and Tohu, influenced by scripture and their own cultural values, inspired a campaign of passive resistance. As the settlers made roads, put up fences or began to plant crops, men from Parihaka would plough up the roads and fields and remove the fences, over and over, in spite of daily arrests and unlawful detainment. This campaign came to be symbolised by the raukura, three white feathers representing the Biblical teaching of Luke 2.14:

He whaikororia ki te Atua i runga rawa 

Glory to God on high

He maungarongo ki runga i te mata o te whenua 

Peace on earth

He whakaaro pai ki te tangata 

Goodwill to all mankind

Finally in 1881, soldiers were sent to enforce Colonial supremacy and deal with the 'threat' which they thought Parihaka represented. The children of Parihaka met the soldiers, singing as they sat on the road leading to the village. It was a sign of the community's commitment to peace, but it made no difference, The village was overcome by brute force, its women violated, its men exiled to the cold caves of Dunedin, as far away as possible from all they held dear.

On Friday, as those of us who joined the final stages of the walk moved slowly across the very ground which heard the songs of children and the boots of soldiers over 130 years ago, sounds of karanga [calls], wailing and powerful haka rang out.

And then, as we made our way towards the marae, Mayor Andrew began to beat a bass drum.
The sound went straight to my soul - this is what the people of Parihaka would have heard as the soldiers approached in 1881. What dread it represented then - but not now.

In a stunning gesture of reconciliation, and in recognition of the Peace Walk's intention, the people of Parihaka, had, for the very first time, invited a pakeha to beat the drum. The mutual, intense longing for peace was tangible, The wairua [spirit] was among us.

A new chapter in the story of Parihaka has begun. May it remind us all that reconciliation is possible, new bridges can be built across cultures even when historic wrongs are grave, so long as  there are people of good will, hope and love.

Even a sparrow ...

Solitary sparrow at Ben Gurion airport - 2010

There were feathers on the stairs when I got back from shopping. No little corpse, no blood, just feathers. I went looking for the culprit and soon found Pickles, her tail thrashing,  paying very close attention to something underneath the coffee table in the lounge.

I eased myself down onto the floor and followed her line of sight ... there was the sparrow  ... startled, shocked, but alive. Now what? Scooped up protesting cat, closed lounge door, grabbed a  container and paper towel from the kitchen. It took a little while, but eventually I managed to gather the trembling sparrow in my hand, pop it into the container and secure the lid.

Off to the vet down the road. 'Cat versus sparrow' I said and she held out her hands.

As I drove home I remembered two other sparrows  - the first was the one in the picture above taken when I was waiting for my flight back to London after 3 amazing weeks in the Holy Land. This little opportunist enjoyed both  the crumbs left by busy travellers, and the chance to splash in the fountain pool. Watching her antics calmed my pre-flight nerves.

The second sparrow comes from scripture - Luke 12.6 : 'Are not five sparrows sold for two pennies? Yet not one of them is forgotten in God's sight.' What a statement Jesus is making here. Nothing is beyond God's care and concern, not even the smallest creature going about its unremarkable day.

When we encounter forces that seem unstoppable, be they political, economic, spiritual or relational, reminding ourselves that God remembers the sparrow in all its common simplicity, can encourage us to trust that God remembers us - you and me - the little ones of the earth. We are always in God's mind - may God always be in ours.

a single hen

Yesterday we went to the National Poultry and Pigeon show - an amazing and noisy mix of hens, ducks, geese and pigeons  - everything that cooed, screeched, crowed or, surprisingly, maintained a serene silence. My husband's family had brought Orpingtons to New Zealand in the late 1800's and sure enough there were plenty of this impressive breed to be seen. But it was this little hen which stayed in my mind long after we came home. 

She won no prizes; she had none of the sense of presence which the large and elegant breeds displayed, no charismatic personality to win over the judges, no raucous call or vigorous scratching to attract attention. 
She was simply herself :  a silver laced wyandotte - and her beauty touched my soul. 

Take a moment to look at her feathers - every single one is vivid white edged with black ... she might have been overlooked by the judges, but for me she encapsulated the beauty that is all around us  - the wonder inherent in the fallen autumn leaf, in an individual feather, in the shimmer of a velvet rose petal or the unguarded smile of a child ... the small things of the world.  

And I thought of William Blake's poem Auguries of innocence  :

'To see a World in a Grain of Sand

And a Heaven in a Wild Flower,
Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand 
And Eternity in an hour...'

It wasn't just her beauty which moved me. As I looked at her, and at the other birds, 

I was reminded that they  deserve to live freely in an environment which allows them 

to behave naturally and do what hens do. 

I thought about my egg-buying habits - free range generally  - but I don't always look too

closely at the packaging to see what this actually means.

And I should.

Blake's poem challengingly continues :

'A Robin Redbreast in a Cage
Puts all Heaven in a Rage.
A dove house fill’d with doves and pigeons
Shudders Hell thro’ all its regions.'


When we mistreat the creatures who contribute to our wellbeing, we do them violence,
and we offend the Creator.  


One measure of a society's maturity is how it treats the least powerful - 
animals and birds as well as people.


We still have a long way to go.

Wangapeka 1

Any of you who have been on a silent retreat will know that the process of 're-entry' can be disconcerting: everything seems to be going too fast - cars, speech, life in general - hence my slowness in beginning to share something of the essence of the retreat time.

The Wangapeka Study and Retreat Centre, which was founded by Buddhists 40 years ago, is perched among the remnants of a South Island beech forest, above a river valley filled with mist and raindrops and,when I was there, thunder and occasional sunlight. It was a beautiful environment and very fitting as we were there to pay attention to the creation in all its moods and diversity.

Now I'm home I've been  processing some of the gifts of this important time of reflection, discovery and grace. Wondering just how I might begin to share some of the Wangapeka experience, I thought I'd share a 'fantail' story  to ease my way in.

Photo by Adrienne Thompson

As we Kiwis know, the fantail or 'piwakawaka' is an extremely active little bird which rarely settles in one place for long as it flits around looking for food on the wing. It is sociable and keeps close to people because we disturb the little insects it loves although it does seem as if the fantails enjoy our company!

I certainly enjoyed theirs as I walked the unfamiliar forest tracks among fallen pines and new native growth, with the subdued roar of the river in the background. They would 'peep - peep - peep' their way from bush to bush or dart from one side of the track to the other but, as far as I could tell, not one of them settled for more than a few seconds.

Towards the end of the retreat I was sitting outside in the sunshine, away from the cold wind, watching the fantails in the courtyard as they inspected every nook and cranny, roof crevice and flowering bed for edible delights.  After a while  I closed my eyes and let the sun warm my face for the first time in days.

And then the 'still, small voice' whispered, 'You're just like the fantail  - flitting around all over the place. You need to settle.'

If that had been the only thing I 'heard' at the retreat it would have been enough. I knew the truth of it, I knew it referred to trying too hard, doing too much , even drawing on a range of spiritual practices instead of settling on a simple engagement with scripture and silence which would nourish my soul in simplicity and bring peace.

Perhaps you too have a sense of 'flitting' from one place or activity to the next, finding it hard to settle long at anything, rest-less and striving for stillness and peace. Know that the God who made and loves you will be there waiting when you pause and sit and rest.

May fantails remind us all of the value of stopping for a moment to savour the beauty around us, and to notice the God-moments which help us to hear what we need to know for our own well-being..

Out on a limb

Our adventurous young cat, aptly named 'Pickles',

is centre stage in this photo, although her tabby and white stripes make her initially hard to see.

I took the picture from  a second storey window when she'd scampered up the kauri tree outside, spurred on by my husband. 

She'd never been up this tree before - she'd never been this high before  - and we both watched with some anxiety as she spent the next ten minutes carefully moving four paws and her useful tail 

around, over and through the narrowing branches. At one stage she even let out a plaintive, though restrained, meeaow and I could tell she was having second thoughts about her rash dash upwards.

Finally after realising that she could not jump onto the roof, and the birds watching her from a safe distance were not going to move any closer, she carefully reversed, and very slowly navigated the descent. 

No need to ring the fire brigade after all!

But her predicament made me think about the proverbial 'going out on a limb'. I could see how easily it happens - perhaps inspired by others we start off with great enthusiasm to achieve a goal, without stopping to consider what might lie ahead. We think we have what it takes, but suddenly find ourselves doubting our abilities or wondering whether we should proceed or retreat. 

Yet how often have people who are willing to 'go out on a limb' made lasting changes or achieved outcomes beyond their or others' expectations? People like explorers, inventors, artists and writers, people working for justice, and anyone who risks stepping out in faith, not knowing where that step will lead them. People like Jesus , who stepped out on a limb by challenging the prevailing religious and political authorities in the name of the God whom he revealed as Love. 

Next time you feel as if you're out on a limb, remember you're in good company.

FINAL ARRANGEMENTS

I went to a funeral a couple of months ago.
Not an uncommon occurrence.
But this was a little different - actually quite different.

The funeral took the form of readings, prayers and music because the young minister had been given clear instructions prior to the man's death that he wanted no tributes or eulogies. As a result, by the end of the hour long service, those present knew little more about him than we had before. There was no life overview, and no personal anecdotes to bring discovery, tears, laughter, and thanksgiving and make the deceased more real, even as he moved from our sight.

People will give this instruction for all sorts of reasons e.g.

• Speakers talk more about themselves than the one who's died or they go on too long
• 'I don't want to any fuss'
• 'I don't want people saying nice things about me or making me out to be something I'm not'

But someone once said to me, 'Funerals are for the living, not the departed,' and there is a truth in that. I don't know if you're like me, but I've often valued the diverse perspectives that a thoughtful biography and two or three  well-crafted tributes can provide. Sure they are only glimpses of different contexts in which the deceased was involved, but they paint a fuller picture of the person's  character and life, not just the part we may happen to have shared.

And when different generations are given the opportunity to remember a mum or granddad, their participation in a significant family ritual will be a blessing to them in spite of their grief, and a reminder to us of the impact for good a caring older relative can make.

So, maybe,when we come to make our 'final arrangements' we might allow those who attend a glimpse into our background and the things which have been significant be they people, places, work or play, our faith even our failures. It's a gift to those present if we can provide  a space for trusted family or friends to share their stories, their struggles and their love in the presence of a supportive community.

Then at the end of the service, our 'goodbyes' will be informed by a deeper understanding and appreciation of who the person was in this world, even as we commend them on their journey of

becoming in Christ.

Ripples ...

Ripples

                                                                                                                  Photo BBC 2012

I'll bet many of us have stood at a  river's edge and skimmed a smooth stone across the surface ... there's been a a plop or two or even more to show  the extent of our skill and then the stone has sunk beneath the surface. The ripples have broken up and disappeared, but we know they were real. For a time, however brief, they were full of beauty and energy.

Sometimes I think about ripples when I'm writing - or trying to write. I think about all the books, articles, sermons and so on, written about 'listening' or 'God' or 'prayer' or 'love' or 'spirituality' and I wonder what on earth my writing - the 'stones' of books, articles, sermons and so on - could add to the world. Theologians and writers, scholars and poets far more gifted than I am have explored these themes before me - some of them making such a huge impact, it's as if they've dropped a large rock    [ with the help of a bulldozer ] into the ocean and set off a tidal wave! While I might have aspired to such an influence once, I know now that my contributions are more like the small pebbles a child might drop into the water with joy, without needing to know where the ripples end up. It is enough to know I've found and shaped a particular 'stone', and set it in motion. Its ripples will reach those to whom they will make a gentle difference, without my having to make it happen.

Sometimes I have a picture of a large expanse of water covered in circles of ripples which embrace the globe. And I begin to imagine ... you may like to join me ...

Imagine those of us who try to live a life that is kind and just, sending out ripples of love and hope and forgiveness and grace  as we go through our day ...
imagine persisting even when faced with failure, persecution, disappointment or apathy,
imagine  the Spirit of God breathing encouragement and wisdom into each of us until our ripples merge with others, and then ,
as these ever -widening circles of compassion move beyond our comprehension,
imagine  the world covered  'with the glory of God, as the waters cover the sea'.

Let's see how many ripples of love and joy and peace we can send out today.

In the company of a kingfisher

I love birds.

Perhaps I should have been an ornithologist  - although science wasn't my strength.
Or perhaps a dedicated 'twitcher' - although I haven't got the telescopic cameras that provide exceptional glimpses of a bird's feathered beauty for those patient enough to wait and wait and wait.

There's something about watching birds  - the way the large fledglings pester their parents for food, the squabbling over crumbs by the bins near the beach, the delicate courtship dances, the swoops and stall dives of the resident wood pigeons - that makes my heart lighter.

And there's something about listening to birdsong - the morepork's haunting,  repetitive notes echoing through the darkness, the racket of sparrows sorting out their sleeping arrangements in the roosting tree, and the tui's trills and whistles just before dawn - that makes my spirit sing.

The kingfisher or, in Maori,  'Kotare'  is my all-time favourite. Years ago its coming and going with flashes of brilliance reminded me of the way the divine entered my life - sometimes bright and clear, at other times fleeting and mystical.

In September 2006,  I had an encounter with  a kingfisher that left me blessed and grateful.
My husband and I were a long way from home. Diagnosed with dangerous blockages in his heart only a week before, he was in a specialised hospital undergoing a quadruple bypass operation. It was a long operation and so I went for a walk to the playing fields nearby to occupy some time and get some respite from hospital walls and the heaviness of my thoughts.

As I walked into the field, a flash of turquoise caught my attention - a kingfisher was sitting on a tree about five metres away. Nothing unusual about that.

But what happened next remains with me to this day.

As I began to walk, the kingfisher flew a little way ahead of me. And each time I caught up with this brilliantly beautiful bird, it took flight again and settled a a few metres ahead. This happened several times until I reached the big field. The kingfisher by then had settled on the higher vantage point of a power line and stayed there while I made a couple of circuits , my steps and thoughts lightening as I got some much needed exercise and released some of my anxiety into the care of the great Love some of us name as God.  As I turned to go back to the hospital, I looked at the kingfisher expecting it to stay where it was - but instead it flew ahead of me. And so we repeated our outward journey's pattern - I walked and the kingfisher kept me company until it was time to leave the park.

Now you may think me fanciful but for me that bird was a Godly messenger - reminding me that I was not alone in this ordeal, that God was in so many ways keeping me company - through the beauty of the creation, through the prayers of friends all over the country, and through the Spirit at work in the world - in the medical team whose efforts saved my husband's life, and in the kingfisher's soothing presence as I paced and prayed.

I did not know it at the time, but the kingfisher takes its name, Halcyon sacra from a mythical bird who was able to calm the wind and the waves as it nested on the sea during the winter solstice.

I think of the One who calmed the wind and waves on the Sea of Galilee.

Between them, Jesus and the kingfisher certainly calmed the storm in me and allowed hope to be born from heartache.

Walking by on the other side

I went for a walk with husband and dog as usual this morning.
There was a commotion on the route we normally take and,
before we could see clearly what was happening, I went to go the other way.
But husband was already ahead, interested in the activity, and I followed,
as I often do.

We got closer and saw damaged cars and men standing on the pavement near us.

A  police car arrived and the officer went to the woman still sitting in her
side-swiped car and asked if she was all right.
I could not hear her reply but I could see she was holding herself
upright as if concentrating hard on something intangible.
Perhaps she gave the almost automatic ' yes,thanks'  in spite of
her situation, not wanting to make a fuss.
Convention doesn't help us in times like these.
I wondered if I should stop and go over to her until someone of her own
came to offer comfort.

But I didn't.
I kept walking and the policeman left her and turned back to his vehicle.
The men on the pavement  chatted on their phones,
and one a little further away took more pictures, careful of his angles
and the light.

The woman was alone.

We turned the corner.
I hesitated.
I thought about what it might be like to be shocked and alone.
To be without a hand to hold.
There was an almost tangible impulse.
I said 'I think I'll go back.'
Husband and dog continued their walk.

Only two or three minutes had passed, but by the time I got back,
there was someone else by the car.
She had a cardigan on over her uniform and her young hand was on the
woman's pulse. Human touch - woman's hand to woman's hand.
I heard an ambulance in the distance.

I went by another route to my destination
and thought about the Good Samaritan story.
I've always thought that I would be that Samaritan
the one who stopped and took care of the man
at some personal cost and inconvenience.

But what I discovered this morning was
a less attractive reality:
I was the one who gawked and passed by
the one who hesitated but moved on
until the Spirit reminded me of
who I am supposed to be.

I had missed an opportunity to help another person
even for a couple of minutes.
I had missed an opportunity to touch Christ.

Being Beatrice

I go to see Beatrice today -  I find her  in the big lounge - one of the many sitting in a semi-circle of wandering minds,as notes from Andre Rieu's violin  float past muffled ears like so many dandelion seeds in the wind.

I tell her my name and push her comfy chair to a small private lounge.
We sit facing each other.
We are not in any hurry to go or do anything.
The room is tidy, clinical, a kitchen space, some chairs, a window curtained bright, a table.
She cannot reach these things.
She can't remember what they are for.
Someone has chosen her clothes with care
this morning; the colour of her necklace is reflected in her shirt and her nails are clean and polished.

I introduce myself again and she briefly becomes alert when I mention our common links of family and church. She starts to talk and I listen intently.
Her words are a mixed bag: here and there a run of two or three reveal a small piece of the puzzle her life has become. References to clothing, food, her sons, an old friend pop to the surface like bubbles and then evaporate into the silence.
We sit gently in the space they leave behind.

She inhabits this silence with an air of wondering, an occasional frown and then something makes her smile and she waves her hand and her eyes crinkle. I don't know what the joke is  but I mirror her delight with my smile.
Silence settles again.
There is no rush ... until ...

There is a knock on the door. A carer pops her head round the door - time to gather folk for their mid-day meal. I nod. The door closes.
I tell her again who I am and ask her if we might pray the Lord's Prayer together before I go.
She smiles.
I begin the old version and so does she.
Words emerge in their proper sequence without hesitation.
I see her lips form familiar phrases as her voice gets quieter.
At the end she says, quite firmly, " Thank you, Lord for helping me get through."
Clear as day.
"Thank you Lord," I whisper as I take her hands and kiss her cheek.
Her hair may need washing
but her spirit is sparkling.

Empty tomb, full hearts

The empty tomb is a strange place ... the two tiny rooms lie within an  elaborate 'edicule' [or shrine] now in such poor condition that scaffolding supports it as it awaits its own resurrection. 'Holy Sepulchre'   and 'Resurrection' [Anastasis] are  both names for this Holy Church - and the site we were about to enter spoke both of  the death of hopes and the death of death itself.

Under the stern eye of guardians from different churches, I stand with others from our St George's College group in a queue that trails around the edicule, under the rays of light through the cupola above.  As we wait, some people nearby  sing songs from their homelands, some are clearly deep in prayer, others chat about food and hotels and touristy things, while still others focus on their phones. Yet we are all drawn here by one man, Jesus of Nazareth, and the story of his life, death and resurrection.

After an hour's wait, it is all over in a matter of minutes. Several of us are ushered into the first space where a portion of the original stone which the angels rolled away is kept right here. A brief moment for reflection and we move into the second room - where you see the candlelight in the picture above - the actual place of Jesus' s burial and of his resurrection. The surface of the shelf where Jesus's body lay is protected from  countless pilgrims' hands - and ours  - by a slab of marble. It is cool to the touch - a hard reminder of the lifeless body which lay right here so long ago, . But the candles tell another story  -  the extraordinary energy, the power-full light that blasted through the darkness of death like a laser, and, right here,  released Jesus the Christ into the cosmos, into Love for all time. 

And as we are waved outside by the queue 'manager', I thought of the disciples who ran to the tomb and crouched right here and ran to tell others what they'd seen  and Mary waiting in the mist of mourning, right here.Not recognising the resurrected Jesus in the dim dawn light, it wasn't until he called her name right here that her grief fell away like an ill-fitting cloak.

And so it is with us - with me - it's not easy to recognise Jesus when we are bogged down in busyness or poverty, suffering or anxiety,  depression or fear for the future of the world and our children and their children. 

But as soon as we stop and are still enough to hear him call our name, everything changes. 

Stop today. Right here.

Listen.

Nail, bone and blood.

If you go to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem you'll enter through an ancient door - to your right there are steps carved into the rock of Golgotha, and when you ascend these - as millions of pilgrims have done - you will emerge into the Roman Catholic Chapel of the Nailing of Jesus to the Cross - the 11th Station.. 

It is dimly lit, often crowded with pilgrims, some of whom stop and reflect, while others move more quickly to the Greek Orthodox Chapel which is built over Calvary itself, which you can just  glimpse to the left. 

This chapel commemorates the moment when Jesus was nailed to the cross. There is no way we can imagine the anguish of that moment; there was no way the trauma was lessened because of his divinity. All those who loved him could do was keep as close as they could, willing their presence to bring him some comfort, yet knowing he was already moving beyond their reach.

In the shadowy background to the left, there is the chilling image of the man who drove in the nails. Probably it wasn't the first time he had held a man down with the strength of his body and forced nail into flesh, heard splintering of bone, felt warm blood flow. 

I wonder if he had heard of Jesus, if he had been present when he rode into Jerusalem, if, even as he did the deed, he was wondering, 'Who is this man?' 

I wonder if he heard Jesus's words, 'Father forgive them; for they do not know what they are doing.' Luke 23.34

​

Jesus was nailed to the cross two thousand years ago

and yet we nail Jesus to the cross still,

whenever we put ourselves at the centre of our world, 

whenever we ignore those who are poor, in pain, 

homeless or on the margins.

Jesus, forgive us,

Forgive me.​

Washing Judas's feet

A reflection on  John 13.3-16

Washing Judas’ feet

Beneath my damp hands 

are your ordinary feet 

much like the feet of my other 

weary and wary  friends.

The skin is rough,

with tiny cuts from stones still healing.

The heels are cracked.

The toes have dirt in the nails 

just like my feet …

But soon …

too soon

these feet will carry you

along the path of betrayal

along the path which will

bring me to my death,

bring my feet to nailing.                                                             

You wanted something from me    

I could not give.                                                                                                           

You wanted violence and overthrow,

power expressed through battle and bloodshed.

There will be violence,

but I will absorb it as I bleed,

take with me in my dying

the power  you craved …

Love  - which is my Essence -

will prevail.

Resurrection waits

‘neath  Abba’s wings -

and my feet shall spring to dancing.    

            

The Lady in the Van

It's not often  a film is still  percolating in my mind well into the next day but 'The Lady in the Van' , a 'comedy-drama' about an ageing woman who lived for 15 years in the driveway of London playwright Alan Bennett, is such a film.

If you've seen it you may have been affected by it ; if you haven't seen the film, I hope that you'll glean something of its emotional complexity as you read through this list of significant elements which  affected me:

• the 'not in my backyard' attitude of those living near Alan
• the cantankerous unpredictability of the 'odd' woman, not given to gratitude or cleanliness
• the playwright's needy mother sliding into senility 
• the old woman's brother wracked with guilt, and deferential to his inhospitable wife
• the threatening figure who extorted money in the darkness of the night 
• Alan and his alter ego debating the limits of his compassion and the ethics of exploiting the woman as subject matter for his writing 
• the kindness of the helpers - ambulance man, doctor, and day care worker who were not afraid to touch her dirty hands
• the patient priest who repeatedly assured her of the limitless forgiveness of God 
• the stigma of homosexuality in London at that time 
• the awful blunder of those who could not see that playing the piano was the young nun's way of praying, of giving herself as fully as she could, to the God who gave her that talent ...

There is more of course. 

There is the uncomfortable realisation that I may well have reacted as those who lived in the street did - instead of being  the Good Samaritan' I would have tried to avoid her and wished she were somewhere else. And that's not a 'good look'  - this part of me that holds back from reaching out.

I would have been discomforted by her 'difference'. 

Perhaps you would too.

It's not easy for us as human beings to learn to welcome and love those who seem 'other',  to get to know them enough to find beneath the veneer of dirt or disease or ethnic diversity, the fundamental humanity which connects us all. It's only when we begin to share our stories, that we begin to discover our similarities and build relationships that  can sustain us as we venture through this life and prepare for the next...

It's worth a second viewing this film - a second round of battling with my own 'alter ego' - the part of me that wants an easy life even though I also want to grow more like Jesus. He opened his arms wide for her - just as he did for us all two thousand years ago on the cross.

Now through his Spirit, he challenges me -and you -  to risk opening our arms wide and see what happens ...

MORNING GLORY

 I was stopped in my tracks this morning by a stunning display of glowing purple flowers blanketing the bush in the old hospital grounds near where we walk our dog. The flowers were all turned towards the risen sun, their petals unfurled and their colour given vibrancy by the cooler, clear air.

What an irony that such beauty should be displayed by what many regard as a weed -  MORNING GLORY [aka convolvulus] is one of those plants which tends to spread without hesitation as far as it can, climbing, clambering, covering everything around it, a gardener's nightmare if left unchecked

But in this untended part of the city, this aptly-named plant brought a welcome brightness to begin the day that I wanted to savour.

And I just wanted to stand for a few moments and enjoy it and smile.

Aah - cricket at Pukekura Park

It was 4pm - a light breeze, not too hot, convivial company and a battle between NZ and the Aussies!  The little gem which is Pukekura Park in New Plymouth was hosting the third and final T20 match between the White Ferns and the Southern Stars. A taste of heaven on earth!

But Perhaps the team names are unfamiliar because they belong to the women's cricket teams, the equivalent of the 'Black Caps' and the 'Baggy Greens'[ one way of describing the Aussies - but it really relates to the Test side].

We [ the White Ferns] were already 2-0 up in the series so this was a 'dead rubber' - but it gave several women the chance to gain experience in the cauldron of international cricket before they all head off to the World Cup in India in a couple of weeks time. [No - it's not just the men's teams competing at the T20  - there are ten women's cricket teams as well and Australia and New Zealand women will meet again in pool play.]

It was an idyllic three hours [ apart from the result - we were 20 runs short of the Aussie total,  so we lost] and we are reminded how fortunate we are to be able to watch cricket in such a superb setting.

After we went home, though, I started to think about inequality - the way, even in developed countries, systemic sexism continues. These women cricketers train hard, have high skill levels, provide an entertaining game to watch and are healthy role models for young women. Yet their public profile and their remuneration cannot compare with those of their male counterparts.

Far worse examples of inequity exist in other countries of course. Countless women remain no more than chattels, or are powerless to find a way through embedded cultural practices which put them and their girl-children at risk. But there is hope : one pathway to equality is via education when it is made available to girls. Another developing pathway is through sport, and the impending Olympic games will remind us again of the opportunities sport can offer to increase gender equality around the world.

Perhaps seeing the emergence of women's sports teams at the T20 World Cup and the Olympics will give disadvantaged women some hope. 
Perhaps our women will make connections with others around the world and be blessed by knowing they are doing their part in building freedom for women, even if it is one small step at a time.

And perhaps we will pay more attention to the radical equality that permeates the New Testament. After all, Jesus shattered cultural and religious rules, suffered ridicule, resentment and ultimately death, because he drew the marginalised closer and gave the women he met the power to live as full human beings. Good news indeed.

FORGOTTEN WORLD

The 'Forgotten World' lies in the back country of the North Island of New Zealand between Stratford and Taumarunui. Over the last four years, some entrepreneurial Kiwis have leased an old rail-track and built a thriving business offering visitors an insight into the stories, beauty and struggles of the local environment and its inhabitants.

We drove modified golf carts on the rail-track through stunning country - native bush, hills stretching away in the distance, even glimpses of the mountains of the central high country. We saw evidence of fossils from 14-17 million years ago, left in the sedimentary rock before the upthrust of this land through tectonic activity.

And all the while we were learning a little about the people who had worked so very hard to construct the track and push west in the early years of the twentieth century: the surveyor who died of peritonitis, in spite of friends' efforts to ride for days to get help; the women who raised children and stock and somehow survived; the vast unnamed numbers of men who were deemed unfit for service in WW1 but who nevertheless cut timber for sleepers, built trellis viaducts of untreated wood and then packed them with soil, using wheelbarrows not bulldozers!


Of most of these people, little trace remains: the occasional grave marker, fading unnamed photos in the pub at Whangamomona, the chimney standing alone in the paddock and snippets of stories meandering down the years.

But the fruit of their hard labour endures: there's the literal fruit - heavy laden old apple trees, their fruit sharp and refreshing, and round the corner, the 'best plums in the world'. And there are the tunnels - we went through twenty on our 83km journey - some of them lined with bricks made on site from local clay - all of them required the removal of tons of earth - again with no modern machinery. Working in the pitch black, damp and bitter cold for a meagre wage, these folk have left us an example of courage, persistence, camaraderie, and good old Kiwi ingenuity. The fruit of their spirit lives on; we were blessed to have witnessed it that day.


What will be the example we leave behind, I wonder?
What stories will remain in the memories of those who follow us ?
Will our 'fruit' bear witness to the Godly fruit of love, joy, peace, patience, kindness,generosity, faithfulness and self-control? I pray so.

Red carpet time

The movie world has hosted yet another round of OSCAR awards and stars have made the walk with their friends and supporters, soaking up all the worldly adulation. For some of the lesser known faces, this moment represents not only the culmination of countless years of hard work but also recognition by their peers that their work is of the highest standard in the film industry. Whether or not they win an award, simply to be noticed and included is reward enough.

          Those whose stardom is well established are interviewed about their clothing and jewellery, their partners and their hopes for awards. Pushy paparazzi compete for the best positions,  determined to give the public what they seem to want - fleeting images of what, for many, may be only short-lived fame. For we all know that public opinion can change from adoration to vehement judgement almost overnight as rumours circulate and speculation gathers momentum.

          Speculation and rumour were rife in Jesus' life too as people heard of the miracles and the mercy of this prophet who walked and taught in the villages, in synagogues and out in the open country. Jesus’ popularity mushroomed; he was pursued by people desperate for healing of body, mind and spirit, but also desperate for relief from the oppressive Roman occupation. It's not hard to see why Jesus needed time to pray and reflect as he processed what was going on around and within him.

          Even as he drew strength from the Source of all life,in his humanity he would also have been wrestling with the  lure of fame, and the heady feeling of being sought out by people wherever he went.  Perhaps he was trying to reconcile the tension between the call he knew to be his, to usher in the Kingdom of God, and the call of the people, to be the leader of a popular movement against Roman rule.  No wonder Jesus needed to receive, in silence, the deep assurance of grace sufficient for his needs, and guidance in the time ahead, for all too soon he would have his own ‘red carpet day’.

          Matthew 21: 1-11 describes that  day - Palm Sunday - the day of Jesus’ triumphal entry into Jerusalem. Riding on a donkey - reminding the crowd he was coming in peace - Jesus entered that holy city with the adoring cries of the people ringing in his ears.  

All the months of miracles, the countless meetings with people for healing and hope-bringing,reached a peak of excitement and adulation as people threw their cloaks and branches of palms to form a 1^st century version of the ‘red carpet’ and shouted:

           “Hosanna to the Son of David!”

          “Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord!”

          “Hosanna in the highest!” ( v. 9)

But, as we all know, that adulation did not last. Within a few short days, their shouts had changed from adoration to derision:  “Crucify him! Crucify him!” ( Matthew 27: 22-23) Before long, Jesus found himself walking another path, the Via Dolorosa, which led to the place of execution, Golgotha, and the descent into the darkness of death. Popular recognition had turned to decisive rejection.

          This time next year, few will recall the names of the 2016 Oscar winners, but the name of Jesus will continue to draw, disturb and delight countless people around the globe who see in him the hope of resurrection and a different way of being human - the Jesus way.