Reconciliation

There was a battle at Gate Pa a hundred and fifty years ago. Maori and Pakeha fought over the land and men fell in the fight. Last Tuesday (April 29) hundreds gathered, and remembered, and sought reconciliation. 

I shivered in the southerly breeze as the war-painted warriors roared and wielded their guns. The men, armed with muskets instead of taiaha, were quite terrifying as they lay their challenge for peace at the foot of the manuhiri, who stood staunch and silent. 

The tangata whenua were eager to defend and protect those dearest to them; their woman, their children, and their land who gave them life. 

There were speeches and songs and shouts. And then he sang and my spirit was very still. One warrior took careful steps to the centre of the clearing. He bent low, lay down his weapon and began to sing. I didn’t know the words that he was using, but it was like he was whispering to the wounded world beneath his feet, ‘it is finished’.

‘It is finished’, that’s what Jesus said. God was reconciling the world to himself in Christ, not counting people’s sins against them. And he has committed to us the message of reconciliation. (2 Corinthians 5:19) We are being reconciled to God and to one another. 

May the Spirit of Christ, the Prince of Peace, who is closer than our breath, pass between us and bind us together as one people.

Cave, Table, Road

Spirit, lead me to the wild spaces

where the wind whispers through lonely places. 

Lead me to the desert, to the cave

where my cry is heard for you are quick to save. 

Spirit, lead me to the laden table,

with my brothers and sisters, each needy and able. 

Lead me to community, 

the place where we commune with thee. 

Spirit, lead me to the open road, 

where we travel together and share the load. 

Lead me to the marketplace, 

to work, to play, to seek your face.  

Dorothy

You can’t dance all the way down
the Yellow Brick Road.
It starts out wide and bright,
then curves ‘round corners, out of sight.

You, my dear, have seen lions and tigers and bears.
You, my dear, have stood eye to eye with fear. 

In the dark, there are quite frightening fellows.
In the dark, the path doesn’t seem so yellow. 

But you took heart, you took courage,
armed with veracity and valour.
You were safe in those arms,
as he followed you into the dark
and took hold of you. 

You, brave one, were not alone
on those dark days.

Nor in the cold light of day,
when the icy snow gave bite
to the words you’d say. 

There were days, too, full of songs and quick, rhythmic steps.
There were days full of rest and long, deep breaths.
There were days, full,
                           full of life.
There are days still,
               days still to fill. 

So, just close your bright, blue eyes,
tap those ruby heals together three times
and say, “there’s no place like home.” 

 

What's in a Name?

Kia ora. Ko Katarina Arihi toku ingoa. 

Catherine Alice, this is the name that I belong to. 

I am named after both my Grandmothers: Dorothy Edith Catherine and Alice Elizabeth. From one I learned how to be feisty and forthright, from the other, gentleness and faithfulness. 

I inherited Dorothy's quick feet and desire to create, and Alice's dark curls and love for white pearls. Turns out I inherited more than just their names. 

I must confess, when I was a kid I didn't like my name all that much. Mostly, the only people I knew with names like mine were old ladies (my old man's old lady and my old lady's old lady, and some queen who Henry VIII disposed of). Interestingly, the name printed on the back of my Year 13 Leavers Jersey was 'Nana' - for various other reasons. 

Alice lived ‘til she was in her 90’s and it looks like Dorothy is headed that way too. It has been a privilege to observe both my Nana’s in their old age. From them I have learned something of what it means to be human, to be vulnerable and fragile and to embrace that rather than avoid it. 

I don’t think it was easy for either of them, though; these two strong and staunch women who lived rurally, ran households and raised a handful of children each. Their husbands worked hard, honoured their wives beautifully, and died well before anyone was ready. 

I don't mind my name all that much now, though. At graduation I was told that the name printed on my certificate sounded elegant and important. But now, my name is more than just a name it is a reminder of my heritage and the people I belong to. 

Catherine Alice, these are the names that I belong to. 

Ko Katarina Arihi toku ingoa. Kia ora. 

This photo was taken on my 15th birthday, two days after I broke my nose, 

so please don't look too closely. 

Mum made me pose for the picture. I'm glad she did.

Heaps and Hopes

 

I captured this photo from a rooftop room of a community center at Smokey Mountain, Manila. This former rubbish dump and landfill is now littered with low-cost housing stacked stories high, offering accommodation to thousands of Filipinos. There are still many shanty's and cute sari-sari stores along the road frontage. Prior to the project, people lived in slums around the dump and made their living rifling through the rubbish. Now, there is health and hope and life.

I arrived in the Philippines ten days before I took this photo. It was early on a Monday and I was due to meet up with the rest of my team from St Peter's in the City, Tauranga. They were spending the morning at Trash Mountain, not too dissimilar, I imagine, from Smokey Mountain before it was closed. 

At Trash Mountain the poorest of the poor who live in and around the dump scavenge for treasure or burn wood to make charcoal. Suffocating smoke pours forth from the charcoal pits and claims the lives of the workers by the time they are barely in their twenties. 

The morning was spent feeding children sloppy mash full of goodness and nutrients, handing out clothing to the ragged and naked, mixing antibiotics for the sick and cleaning the wounds of the injured, and playing with children who's lungs were full of smoke and faces full of joy. 

When I arrived I put down my drink bottle, picked up several bags of secondhand clothing and followed Cathy, Braedon, and a local pastor along ashy, muddy paths past charcoal pits and between makeshift shacks. I looked into deep eyes in dark rooms as our hands reached out toward each other, exchanging gratitude.

I am grateful for the welcome I received at Trash Mountain; these people opened up their lives and their homes to me, even if just for the morning. 

But I am still disappointed; disappointed that we, humanity, are killing our planet and our people. Places like Trash Mountain shouldn't exist. But they do. 

That night I asked God where he was in that place. I'm pretty sure I heard him say that he was on the mountain of rubbish and in the charcoal pit feeding the hungry and being fed, clothing the naked and being clothed, caring for the sick and being cared for. That sounded a lot like something else Jesus said once (Matthew 25). 

Psalm 113:5-8 says, 

Who is like the Lord our God, 

the One who sits enthroned on high, 

who stoops down to look on the heavens and the earth? 

He raises the poor from the dust

and lifts the needy from the ash heap; 

He seats them with the princes, 

with the princes of their people. 

Jesus has humbled himself, bearing our humanity and bestowing us with dignity. Jesus, through whom the world was created, gets covered in ash and dust as he cradles and carries the humble and helpless. Maranatha, come Lord Jesus. 

As we were packing up to leave Trash Mountain I spotted a wee girl in a red dress with a ladybug umbrella. She was walking home along the waterfront, walking over the rubbish of a nation. She was alive and she was loved and the God of the universe walked with her. 

There is hope for Trash Mountain yet. The same hope that is happening at Smokey Mountain. Maybe there's hope for us all, 'cos God knows we need it.  

A Woman of Corinth

I am currently interning at St Peter's in the City in Tauranga. We've just started a series on 1 Corinthians and here is a wee soliloquy I wrote for the congregation here from the perspective of a woman in the Corinthian church and how she may have responded to Paul's letter to them. It's written to be read aloud with all sorts of emphasis, exaggeration and dramatic pauses. For those biblical scholars among you, I may not have got all the history quite right, but don't let that get in the way of a good story. 

It was good to see young Timothy yesterday, bearing a letter from our brother Paul. While his letter was read, I could hear Paul’s voice in my head. It was as if he was right here with us again. I wish he was right here with us again. 

He’d stayed in Corinth 18 months, stitching tents and speaking the truth and teaching us about Jesus the Christ. That was three years ago though. He’s been gone for twice as long as he was here. 

I’ve been missing him, and I’m not the only one. Yet there are others who have said, ‘good riddance’, they say they’re glad he’s gone. They speak of him badly behind his back and belittle the gospel he brought. 

But despite all the backstabbing and backsliding, despite all the disgrace, Paul refuses to turn his face from us. In fact, he said he thanked God for us. I am grateful for our God is faithful. Paul is like a prophet, a mouthpiece for God, with words ringing true, “you are my children and I love you.” 

How on earth did we forget? When did we stop understanding? Did we ever understand? Even with all this wisdom and knowledge at hand? But what is wisdom without love? What is sophia without sacrifice? 

Sophia: the wisdom of God, the Spirit of God, the power of God. That’s what Paul talked about. I wish he would come and sort this out; this mess we’ve made of our lives of faith. But his letter is better than nothing.

I couldn’t understand it all though, trust Paul to trail off. I could hear the love of Christ in his words, and I could hear his love for us. I don’t remember all that was said, if only I could read that letter over and over so Paul’s words to us about our God of love could be etched into my body and written all over my heart. If only I could read.  

I’ll have to ask Andre when he gets home; hopefully he’ll remember more of the letter than I do. I do remember that bit, though, the bit about the wives not calling out in the ecclesia, and if they have any questions to ask their own husbands at home. 

No doubt these words will kick up a fuss amongst some of the woman around here. But that’s no different; they’re used to causing a ruckus, some of our dear women are. Frankly, it can be embarrassing and I’m grateful for Paul’s boldness. It’s better if they keep quiet and control their tongues – we woman are not exempt from order either. It’s no different for the women than it is for the men; Paul’s right, we all encounter freedom in Christ but not in a way that brings disorder. 

All things ought to be done decently and order. But there hasn’t been much of that lately – there has been a distinct lack of decency. Maybe it’s just the Corinthian way, but it’s certainly not the Christian way. This church has become a mirror image of the city of Corinth.

This seaport city is busy and bustling, cliquey and cultish. Our city is a melting pot of Jews and Greeks, soldiers and sailors and slaves, philosophers and freedmen, prostitutes and peddlers and trades-people. And this Church is no different; made up of all and sundry, a sure sign that the Spirit of God is not concerned with status. Diverse: yes. Yet, divisive. Our people scrabble and squabble, dead set to defend their social standing. We are not so different from the rest of the Corinth, and we ought to be. Just like Corinth, we too are large and licentious; full of sexual immorality, idolatry, lawsuits, and a complete lack of unity. But we ought to be different because we are a body, we are his body – that’s another of the brilliant things Paul wrote about. He said Christ is the head and we are like a body with many parts, whether Jews or Gentiles, slaves or free, male or female – by God’s Spirit we experience unity even in the midst of our diversity. In this body, all belong, all are blessed, all are loved. 

 

Love. Paul had a lot to say about that in his letter too. I remember it well:

"Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonour others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no records of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails."

Love; the greatest gift of all. “Follow the way of love,” Paul said, and I’m certain he doesn’t mean the way of prostitution at Aphrodite’s temple – the goddess of love, she’s called, but her way is reckless and disrespectful. The kind of love Paul is talking about, the love of God in Christ, that’s ... indispensable. And I wouldn’t exchange that for the world, not for wealth nor wisdom. 

But some of my brothers and sisters take pride in precisely those things; so called wealth and so called wisdom. They’ve secured a high standing for themselves and are desperate to defend their independence. They won’t let anyone hold them up or hold them down, they think their honour is at stake. And at the Table they won’t even wait, everything is a race to the top. Even in worship. Words that were once spoken to God alone have become a resounding gong and an endless drone. 

I’m glad Paul wrote to remind us of who we were when we were called; without wisdom and without honour, weak and wounded, foolish and frail. And Christ our Lord has born our weaknesses and our foolishness; he has become for us our strength, our righteousness, and our redemption. That’s what Paul wanted us all to remember. Sophia: the wisdom of God, the Spirit of God, the power of God. 

I praise you our God, Father, Son and Holy Spirit.