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.

A Lament

I thought I should write something deep and meaningful and hopeful by way of introduction. But I don’t know how.  I can’t couch this with explanation this time around.

On Tuesday my classmates and I watched ‘God On Trial’ – a film about a group of Jewish men in a bare wooden hut in the Auschwitz concentration camp during the Second World War. These men were asking the tough questions of faith; they were asking God and each other why this hellish stuff was happening, and why God wasn’t doing anything about it.

I imagined what I would say if I were there. I imagined that my kids were sick, or stolen, or dead. I imagined that people had cut off my hair along with any connection with the reality I once knew. I imagined that my clothes and my dignity were in tatters and that there was nothing I could do to cover my shame. I imagined that I’d say this:

It’s dark and I can’t see you
It’s so noisy, I can’t hear your gentle, quiet whisper
But sometimes, it’s so quiet, yet all I can hear
                is the voice in my head
                and the voice of my soul
                screaming in agony
It’s cold, and I can’t feel the warmth of your presence
I can’t see you
                or hear you
                or feel you
And I’m scared
Because I’m lost, I don’t know where I am
But worse still, I don’t know where you are
O Lord, do not be far from me
Come quickly to help me
For trouble is near and there is no one to help[1]

Lament – that’s what I would do. I’d wail like a Kuia at a Tangi. I’d curl up on the cold, cold ground and cry out. I’d tear my clothes and cover my body with ashes and dust.

My God, my God, why have you forsaken me
Why are you so far from saving me.
So far from my cries of anguish?
My God, I cry out to you by day, but you do not answer,
By night, but I find no rest.

(Psalm 22)

Jesus cried these words too. Jesus knew suffering. Jesus was a Man of Sorrows, a Suffering Servant.

My friend Ed said, “’who needs a God who suffers?’ I do! I need a God who suffers because I am suffering.”

The question of suffering is a big one. And the answer is…that none of us can give an answer – not the most astute theologian, not even Bishop Shallard himself. But we can know this: Christ is with us in our suffering. And we can cry, along with Alistair as he echoes Peter’s words to Christ, “Where else can we go? You alone hold the words of eternal life”, and along with Gary Ma and the people of old, “for I will yet praise him, my Saviour and my God.”[2]

Immanuel, God is with us, we are not alone anymore.

[1] Psalm 22

[2] Psalm 42

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We Were All Children Once

We were children once, we all were

Eyes wide, wild with excitement

Grinning and giggling with infectious delight

Faces bright, alight with adventure

Feet quick for exploration

Open hearts to love, hearts open to be loved

We were all children, we still are

Author and play write J. M. Barrie, created the character Peter Pan; a boy who never grew up, a boy who’s friends were fairies and other lost boys who lived together like brothers, a boy who desperately needed his mother but was too afraid to admit it.

We’re not so defiant as Peter Pan, I don’t think. He didn’t want to grow up. We don’t mind it so much. But what would it mean for us to take a leaf out of Peter Pan’s book (or a feather out of his hat), and not be too quick to relinquish our youth or lose our identity as children – even when our childhood years have long since passed?

 It’s not about being childish, it’s about being childlike.

In Christian circles we have been guilty of saying that our children are to be seen and not heard. I think we got that one wrong. And, at the other end of the spectrum, we have been guilty of saying our children are the church of tomorrow. We have said these things with our words and we have said them with our actions, and I think we’ve got this one wrong too.

Our society at large has been guilty of saying that the elderly are no longer contributing members of society and are in need of being put out to pasture. We haven’t always said it with our words but we said it with our actions and we said it in the things that we haven’t said. Sadly, this has happened in parts of our society, and perhaps even more sadly, this has happened in parts of the Church. I think we’ve got this one wrong as well.

Our generation of children is not the church of tomorrow; they are the church of today. In the same way, our more mature generations are not the church of yesterday; they are the church of today too. Right from our infants to our elderly, and everyone in between, we are all the church of today. The church is the family of God, and we are all children of God – nothing changes that; not age, not ability, not anything.

So, unlike Peter Pan, let us be boys and girls who do grow up, but just like children, let us all enjoy and delight in life – with all its safety and all its surprise. This is the life God has shared with us through his Son by the Spirit. This is the life that grows in us as we grow in Christ. This is the life.

We were all children once. We still are.

Enjoy.

Cate Burton
A child of God

Understood

For all those introverts and internal processors out there, who think a million thoughts before they say a single word. I hear ya!

You don't speak
Just to fill the silence.
Words come easy
But don't get wasted.

Often your eyes
Communicate your thoughts
And speech
Is only secondary

As for me
Words get in the way
Or can't be found
Amongst the clutter and dust

Rather than resting
While they emerge
I stumble about
And add to the mess

But with you
I won't worry
'Cos you patiently wait
As I look around

When I catch them
At last
I hold them
Tight in my grasp

But before I let go
And release them aloud
You already knew
What I was trying to say

Without You

Four years ago my brother’s friend Kyle died. Kyle was not only Nicks mate, but a member of the family. His death surprised us all, and we continue to miss him.

Kyle was a curious character. He got kicked off the bus, kicked out of class, and caught my folks shelterbelt on fire. He was alive in the truest sense, and trouble followed close behind.

I’ve only written about four songs in my life, one of them was in response to Kyle’s death, and the others that followed; Ron, Ashley, Ana, and Kristen. These are the lyrics:

I heard the news today

News about you
It took my breath away
I wish it wasn't true

I’ve got no words to say

I’m just here without you

But I know

I’ll never let go

Of your memory

I know

I’ll never let go

Of your memory

Life moves to fast

I can’t find the breaks

Please stop. Stand still

Oh, for goodness sake

I don’t want to feel

‘Cos this hurts, this aches

But I know

I’ll never let go

Of your memory

I know

I’ll never let go

Of your memory

Don’t let this time

Be lost on me

I’ll try close my eyes

‘Cos I don’t want to see

But your hurt is gone

Now you’re free

And I know

I’ll never let go

Of your memory

I know

I’ll never let go

Of your memory

I heard the news today

News about you
It took my breath away
I wish it wasn't true

I’ve got no words to say

I’m just here without you

Here without you

Without you

It’s been four years and I’ve still got no words to say, we are just here without him.

But the Word of God, Jesus Christ, says “I am the Resurrection and the Life”. This is what we remember and celebrate at Easter, or rather, this is who we remember and celebrate at Easter – and indeed every day. Christ is risen, hallelujah! And it is the risen Jesus who says, “I am with you always, to the very end of the age.” Jesus is alive, and our lives are found in him, now and always – nothing changes that, not even death changes that.

So, Kyle is not here with us. But Christ is. And Kyle is with Christ too. This is no lame compromise, this life in the truest, most beautiful sense.

I will continue to miss Kyle – we all will – but we hold on to the hope of eternal life in Christ.

Maranatha, come Lord Jesus.

See you soon, brother.

Recklessness

A woman came to see Jesus while he was having dinner at Simon’s house. She entered the room full of distinguished guests and let down her hair. Her and her tears fell at his feet. In her hands she held a jar. Breaking the alabaster she poured out the perfume – some say on his head, others say his feet.

Her offering of worship was both beautiful and authentic. She held nothing back – not her possessions nor her pride.

John says she was Martha’s sister, Mary. Luke says she was a sinner from the city; an immoral woman. Matthew and Mark don’t name names. They all say that there were people presiding at the table who became indignant; some called her unclean, others accused her of being careless and wasteful, several scolded her harshly. Regardless of the differences in the detail, Matthew, Mark, Luke and John all say that Jesus didn’t let her take any of her criticisers crap, and he told them to leave her alone.

To those who called her a sinner, he corrected, saying that she was simply and wholeheartedly responding with love to the extravagant love she had received. To those who claimed she was a squanderer and a spendthrift, and suggested she should have sold the perfume for a year’s worth of wages and given the profit to the poor, Jesus questioned their commitment to him and to the poor for whose cause they claimed. They were all talk.

In the midst of all this criticism and critique Jesus commended this woman’s actions, asserting that she had done a good thing, a beautiful thing, a faithful thing. For she had anointed him for burial, she was pointing to his death which brings life.

I have been just like one of Simon’s house guests before, muttering to myself or the person next to me, “What a waste! That could have been sold and the money given to the poor.” The people reclining at the table hadn’t understood or appreciated this woman’s act of worship. All they had seen was the waste, and blinded by their pragmatics they couldn’t see the love.

At times we can be just the same.

I have been just like the woman before; I have been overwhelmed by the majesty of God and fallen to my knees. I have wept, my breath erratic and my shoulders heaving. Our expressions will each be different, but at times we can be just the same.

And just like this woman, I bet there have been times when you have encountered those who are like guests at Simon’s table, those who have become indignant and haven’t understood or appreciated your acts of service and worship to Christ. If this is the case for you, then I want to say that I am sorry this has happened. And I want you to be encouraged; continue to keep Christ at the centre of your worship and service.

Jesus said to the critics, “she has done what she could, and has anointed my body for burial ahead of time.” (Mark 14:8 NLT)

May we be like this woman, may we do what we can, may we point to Christ’s death and resurrection. God has lavishly poured out his love on us, may we respond in kind. May we respond lavishly and extravagantly to the lavish and extravagant love we have received from God in Christ. It’s reckless really. May we live reckless lives of love, and may our commitment and care for the poor – who are always among us – be from the overflow of Christ’s love. May we be poured out like perfume, may our lives be like a fragrant offering, may the love of Christ permeate our lives and our world. Amen.