Let Me Go Wild

I love the wind. It makes me feel alive.

I grew up with a shelterbelt outside my bedroom window and blockading the backyard. Every now and then, when the wind was just right, we’d call up the neighbouring farmer and ask if we could fly our kites in his paddock. Sometimes the wind would funnel down the straight stretch of road where we lived and my brother and his boys would be out there with blue tarpaulins and car bonnets.

When I worked with the kids’ afterschool they’d go a little mad on days when the wind was up. I’d make them put on shoes and a jumper and they’d go wild in the wind; yelling and jumping and running. They’d always want to make kites with skewers and cellotape and scraps of paper, but they’d always break. So, we’d tie string to the handles of plastic shopping bags and twist the other end around sticks that had snapped off in the wind. Sticks, string and plastic bags and the kids would be caught up with the excitement until their parents came to take them home; worn out by the wind but wild nonetheless.

I caught the train from Picton to Christchurch on Saturday. I stood in the open air carriage as we travelled along the coast to Kaikoura and beyond with the bright blue sea of the Pacific Ocean that stretches all the way to South America. I went a little wild in the warm wind; singing and giggling and leaning further over the railing than I should have.

I felt alive. I felt like Mary from The Secret Garden when the household staff of her uncles’ manor would bundle her up and bustle her outdoors so she could learn again what it means to be alive.

Back in the carriage I sat down in my seat with my journal and a pen and a cup of tea that was going cold because I’d left it behind when I ran out to the open air carriage without a jumper and with my hair whipping about my face.

I felt alive out there with the dust and the wind and the wildlife and the view. Sometimes I forget what that’s like when I sit inside all day with books and pens and cups of tea. I want to keep rushing outdoors and remembering what it means to be wild. I want to keep wrestling with the wind and learning what it means to be alive.

The Pilgrim

Almost five years ago I moved back home for the summer. Home to mum and dad’s, home to Katikati, and home to St Paul’s. I’d finished my study, I was just shy of twenty one, and I sure as heck didn’t know what I was going to do with my life.

I spent the summer house sitting and serving coffee at a local café. By February I’d scored a job at the Katikati Community Centre. In the mornings I sat at the reception answering phones and practicing my happy face. In the afternoons I supervised kids after school, feeding them, and perfecting my angry face.

With a full time job, and finally some income, I moved into this place on Polley Cresent and purchased a piece of junk car (which has served me faithfully since). I didn’t know it at the time, but I was learning to make myself at home again. I was learning to live with these people in this place again. I was learning to love these people and this place again.

That same year I reduced my hours at the Community Centre and took on a job at St Paul’s as a Children and Families Pastor. The people of St Paul’s had nurtured my faith since I was a wee tot, and now they were entrusting me to do the same with the youngest members of the congregation.

It has been a privilege and an honour to journey with the people of St Paul’s and the people of Katikati over the last five years, and indeed, the last twenty five years. These people have been fellow pilgrims and I am grateful for the life we have shared together. Now, after all the years, I’ll be walking along this road with different travel companions, with a different community. I’ll see the people of St Paul’s at a distance, I’ll call out, and wave, and blow kisses.

 This is for the people who taught me how to walk, and have walked with me this far:

These restless feet will wander far from here

This humbled heart will ponder and not fear

These earnest eyes are fonder for these years

And when you see me yonder, call me near

Because I know;

I, I am home

I am loved

I belong

You, you are home

You are loved

You belong

We, we are home

We are loved

We belong

These weary feet will stumble and fall

These weathered hands will fumble and brawl

These listless lips will mumble and call

This heavy heart will crumble for all

But still I know;

I, I am home

I am loved

I belong

You, you are home

You are loved

You belong

We, we are home

We are loved

We belong

These homebound feet will follow the One who knows the way

These gentle hands will hold, and hope, and pray

These eager eyes will long to see the day

This hope-filled heart will find a place to stay

Because I know;

I, I am home

I am loved

I belong

You, you are home

You are loved

You belong

We, we are home

We are loved

We belong

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.