Turangawaewae - A Place to Stand

On Saturday I stepped into Dennis’ shoes and danced around a while. He wore my scarf while we sang. This was the first time we’d met. We, along with a couple of hundred others, had gathered in a high school hall in Rotorua for the General Assembly of the Presbyterian Church of Aotearoa New Zealand (PCANZ). The General Assembly meets every two years and is attended by both pastors and lay people from throughout the country who meet to discuss and discern the direction of the church.

That morning Mark read to us these words from Colossians 3:12-14:

 So, chosen by God for this new life of love, dress in the wardrobe God picked out for you: compassion, kindness, humility, quiet strength, discipline. Be even-tempered, content with second place, quick to forgive an offense. Forgive as quickly and completely as the Master forgave you. And regardless of what else you put on, wear love. It's your basic, all-purpose garment. Never be without it.

Mark encouraged us to swap a piece of clothing with the person next to us by way of acknowledging and practicing what it means to be clothed with these characteristics, hence the reason why my little feet were sliding around in someone else’s shoes.

The thing with General Assembly is that there are certain discussions that keep reoccurring. The sexuality in leadership debate is one of them. The PCANZ have been talking about this for longer than I have been alive, and I suspect the discussion will continue until I too am old and grey.

As I wore Dennis’ shoes I found myself wondering what it would mean for me to stand in the shoes of those on either side of this debate, to consider things from their point of view, to see things from their perspective. I was attending General Assembly as an observer, which meant I didn’t have any speaking or voting rights. Neither did Dennis, he was there as a chaplain. As an observer I had the opportunity to, well, observe. This enabled me to wander about in someone else’s shoes, and to wonder.

I wondered what it was like for those who had been my age when this debate first began to gain traction. I wondered what it was like to be a part of a minority who advocate for change. I wondered what it was like for those who took this personally. I wondered if it was possible not to take this personally. I wondered what it was like to take a strong stand. I wondered if anyone else wondered what it was like for anyone else. I wondered what Jesus was saying.

I wonder if you wonder where I stand. I wonder if you expect me to tell you where I expect you to stand. Instead, I stand here and I wonder…

If we are going to make a stand, may we stand firm in the faith, may we stand in solidarity and not in opposition, and may we remember that Christ stands in our place with his feet in our shoes.

Judas

Judas. He's a bit misunderstood really. He's misunderstood because nobody wants to know him. All I really knew about Judas was that he was a betrayer and a backstabber. So, I avoided forming any connection with this character whatsoever, lest my reputation be tainted by his. To me, Judas wasn't a bad-ass (I could quite happily be friends with a bad-ass), he was just bitchy.

All that's changed now though. My mate Murray helped me see things from Judas' perspective. I felt like we'd been introduced and I had the opportunity to know Judas as a person, not just as that guy who pissed everyone off. The more time I spent with Judas, the more I realised we're not so different from one another after all. We both have a shared brokenness and are susceptible to bitterness, but more importantly, we are both beloved children of God and that's beautiful.

Judas' Kiss - by Murray Shallard

You don't care for me, do you?
Hiding in your meetings, busy with your favourites.
Peter, James & John, they knew how to play you.

You never really liked me did you
I could tell, your eyes would just look right through me.
Wasting your time on woman, tax collectors and sinners
What sort of messiah are you?

I'll make you pay, you'll see. 
I don't need you, I don't care.

Ride your donkey into Jerusalem,
A real man would ride a stallion.
You said you could rebuild the temple in 3 days, yeah right.

You always liked the limelight, didn't you.
You had your big chance with Pilate and you choked,
You didn't even fire a shot.

Why don't you tell some more stories?
Heal someone, or for heavens sake, forgive them
Who does that? What sort of messiah are you?

Why wont you love me.
But you say, "I do.
More than all the stars in the universe I love you."

You tell me I'm good,
But we both know that's a lie. 
On the inside I am crying
But you know that too.

How come it hurts so bad, why am I so angry?
You reach out and I hold you.
On the inside I am bleeding
But you hold me anyway.
What sort of messiah are you?

Chocolate Money and Charity

A slurring old man on Courtenay Place wearing a yellow and black jacket asked me if I had any coins to spare. I lied and told him I didn’t often carry cash with me. It was a half truth; I don’t often carry cash, but I did just make a withdrawal from the ATM up the road and had a wad full of twenty dollar notes in my wallet.

It was the second time that morning that I’d been asked for money. The first time was by a young guy at the Civic Centre wearing a red and black jacket. He gave me the spiel about all the great work Red Cross do with disaster relief and asked me to sign up. I told him I thought Red Cross did do wonderful work but that I couldn’t commit to making regular donations. It was the truth; I couldn’t commit, partly because I was already making regular donations to another charity, but mostly I couldn’t commit because I didn’t want to.

The thing is; I probably could give Red Cross my money. But it would just be money, I wouldn’t be investing anything of myself into the work they do with the disadvantaged.

It’s the same with the old guy; I could have dished out some cash. But what he needs and what I need is not for me to give money, but give myself – I need to invest myself with him. I think that’s what it means to care for the poor. That is much more taxing though, and much more terrifying. It involves stopping and slowing down and spending time with people. It involves wearing someone else’s shoes, and they might feel funny on my feet. It involves taking heed to the advice of To Kill a Mocking Bird’s, Atticus Finch, and climbing into someone else’s skin and walking around a while. It involves more than money. It involves me.

Then I met Ronak for lunch and he gave me two chocolate coins wrapped in gold foil. I liked spending time with him. I’d like to spend more time with him.

I’d like to spend more time with the poor too. I’d like us to eat chocolate, and to listen to each other’s tales, and to take a walk together. I’d like that. I’d like to commit to that. I’d like to invest in that.

I’d like to be generous with myself.

I know someone else who’s like that.

The Burn

In acknowledgement of the hurt we cause one another I offer this as an opportunity to express our pain and seek healing for our wounded hearts and hands.

He burnt me

And I held my hand over that flame

For far too long

As if spellbound by the sensation,
Oblivious to its destruction. 

He drew me in

With his fiery intrigue.
I became mesmerised
As the flames danced

Round about me.

Before long
I was paralysed.

Now I'm scarred

And not so nimble.
My movements are cautious

And calculated.
My eyes, ever observant
Watching for the slightest flicker
Ready for quicker withdrawl.

So I hide away
Never to be hurt
Or burnt

Again.

But you, you are the One

Who is burning but not consumed.
You are ablaze with glory;
Igniting my soul

And setting my heart alight.

Christ be our light
Christ bear our pain
Christ bring us life

Christ be the flame

Prayers and Piggy-Back Rides

Caleb Wallis is as exuberant and faithful as only a six year old can be. He has wide eyes and a wild grin, he loves life and he loves God. He is, quite simply, delight-full.

On Sunday afternoon a group of us gathered together to pray, as Adrian poetically puts it;

with our hearts, our mouths, our hands, and our feet
our ears, and our eyes, and our souls complete.

There were different stations set up with different forms of creative prayer and we moved around them in small groups with a couple of adults and a couple of kids each.

Our first stop was ‘Stepping Stone Prayers’. In a circle on the floor were the big blue cushions we borrowed from the kids space. We each stood on a squab and took turns praying aloud. With each ‘amen’ we jumped to the next. In his excitement Caleb rolled his ankle and rolled around on the floor. I gave him the sufficient level of sympathy and bent low as he climbed on my back. We continued praying and jumping and delighting, and Caleb giggled in my ear in agreement.

Our final station involved finding words and forming prayers. Caleb got frustrated because he couldn’t always find the words he wanted to pray. I can identify with that. I had to explain to Caleb that ‘you’re’ is the same as ‘you are’, and that sometimes you have to see the word before you know that it’s the one you want to say. When Caleb got stuck he’d moan and groan. I can identify with that. So I leant across and offered him alternatives. This is his prayer:

You’re the Father
You are Gracious
We are full of blessing
Protect us and everyone on earth
In the eyes of God, give us life

On Sunday Caleb taught me that in prayer there is room for giggling and groaning. I am grateful to God for his goodness.

Ashley

I first met Ashley when we were nine years old. She was new to our school and Ngaire, Jane and I put up our hands to befriend her. Somehow we knew what it meant to include the easily excluded. Maybe it’s something I’d learnt about at church, maybe it’s something our parents had taught us, maybe it’s just instinctive to children who know they are loved.

Ashley had Downs Syndrome and an old, old soul; like she’d accepted life and life had accepted her and they both got on just fine. I was blessed by her friendship. Without even knowing it Ashley taught me compassion and how to delight in daily life – taking time to pick the daisies, that kind of thing. I wish she’d taught me how to be cheeky and sneaky and get away with it. Ash was much more mischievous than me and to my annoyance she’d always get off scot-free, appearing innocent to the authorities.

Ashley died when she was twenty-three and I’d never realised the seriousness of her heart condition. Perhaps that’s a good thing: that I’d never lived in fear of losing her.

I’ve been remembering the friendship I had with Ashley lately. One Sunday evening last month my friend Murray and I headed out to St James Presbyterian in South Dunedin. We’d stopped at the supermarket on the way to get coleslaw, cold ham and ice-cream.

After a few wrong turns and a hurried phone call, a google maps search and some pretty poor navigation on my part, we made it to the old church hall. We’d tried to sneak in the side door undetected but we were late and our efforts at inconspicuousness were thwarted. Everyone turned towards us and we were faced with a roomful of the most beautiful people I have ever set eyes on.

St James holds a weekly evening service – followed by a good feed – for all those in their community who have physical and intellectual difficulties. There were electric wheelchairs and wild cries, sign language and big bright eyes, handshakes and bodies that ache, and words and prayers for Christ’s sake. That night we ate, we talked, we sang, all in the name of Christ, our forerunner and fellow traveller.

The people of St James are children who know they are loved. They know what it means to embrace vulnerability, to include the excluded, to be dependent on God and one another, and to be fed physically and spiritually. They know all this – they live like this – because they know the One who cares for the vulnerable, welcomes the stranger, embraces the outcast and gives food to the hungry.

In this congregation I encountered Christ; I saw his scars and they were beautiful, I heard his voice in words of welcome and embrace, and I felt his presence in the fondness and familiarity I experienced. I first encountered Christ in this way in Ashley, only I’d never realised it ‘til now.

Not the Same

I am not the same girl I was at twenty-two
When I fell in love with you.
Nor are you the same man that you were
At twenty-four
When we first met.

I remember that September
When we walked and talked and ate together.

I am now twenty-five
And much more alive
Since I've let go of hurt and held on to hope.

You are twenty-nine
And I guess you're fine
Because we haven't spoken since you left.

I remember that day
When you stood in my doorway.
You politely declined a cup of tea
Yet let in as you hugged me.

But this time this really is goodbye.
This time though, there's no need to cry.