An Everyday Miracle

On Saturday at about 2 pm New Zealand time, our grandson Noah James Murray was born in Doha, Qatar. Bridget and Scott had gone into the hospital about 6 hours earlier and we had, of course been waiting by the phone. And the computer. And the other phone. And the other one.

And then there was my daughter's voice coming from the other side of the world, telling me Daddy we have a little boy. His name is Noah. He is so beautiful. So we talked and there were photos texted bearing witness to the extraordinary miracle of the growth of this new, perfectly functioning  human being out of next to nothing in the space of just nine months. He looks a bit like his Uncle Nick did at the same age, and something like his first cousin once removed Nathan, but mostly he looks like his Dad

 It has been a very long day for both of them

How all those intricate organs form in just the right places and at just the right times and connect themselves to each other in just the right ways is one of those brain numbing conundrums like trying to imagine what might have been before the beginning of everything or what might lie at its end. It's babies' hands that astonish me most: tiny and perfect in every detail, with all those intricate folds and the minuscule fingerprints all there and the tiny pink nails; but I suppose that's only because I can see them. There are other, more extraordinary parts in that new body and there are many unseen things even more miraculous.

I am thinking about our other grandchild, Naomi who less than two years ago was as helplessly new as Noah. Now, in what seems to me only a heartbeat later,she speaks in short sentences, counts, knows her shapes and colours and is beginning to play imaginative games. She handles objects with dexterity and grace. She is beginning to grasp the basic intricacies of social relationships.  Language, number, speech, the ability to maneuver her own body and a million other things besides... how does a human being learn so much in less than two years?

 Naomi in her PJs helping out in the garden

It is this knowledge acquisition that astounds me. I remember when  Bridget, Noah's mother was about three. She came to me one day and asked to have her photograph taken but she wanted it done secretly. She took me outside and then arranged her doll in a bush and stood beside it while I took the photo. The doll was a not terribly convincing rag mannequin called Mother Doll (I think there was also a Baby Doll) and Bridget wanted people to think that Mother Doll was a real person. They would, obviously, be convinced if they saw her standing unaided, and to make sure they got the point Bridget folded her arms to demonstrate that Mother Doll wasn't being held in any way. She was doing this as an act of kindness to the doll. Over the years I have thought often of the sophistication of the thinking she was displaying. Developing a Theory of Mind is developing the ability to know what someone else is thinking. Theory of mind continues to develop through life and to increase in sophistication, but think of what was happening in this three year old head:

• The ability to project personality onto this toy.
• The ability to know that it was merely a toy and that the projection was made up but nevertheless...
• The ability to empathise with the projection and to wish to do it a kindness.
• The knowledge of how a viewer would see and interpret the photograph as distinct from what the photograph actually contained.
• The desire to manipulate what the viewer would see and interpret.
• The knowledge of what other members of the family might think, and therefore the desire to restrict their knowledge of events.
• Her recruiting of me showed an understanding of how I might perceive her scheme and react to it

This growth in empathy and social sophistication in such a short period is equally as miraculous as the growth of the body. Amongst the many blessings I desire for him, I hope Noah manages to acquire some of his father's quiet strength and exceptional sporting skills. I hope he does the same with his mother's quick understanding of people and extraordinary social skills.

Oh, and finally I include a photo of Bridget at a young age. She is standing in our yard with a friend. The friend is not a doll, for, as you can clearly see, she is standing unaided while Bridget nonchalantly folds her arms.

Pangaimotu

On the last morning of the Bishop's conference on Pangaimotu Island, just off Nuku'alofa in Tonga, we had been asked to walk around to the other side of the island for our morning Eucharist. So, leaving our little ferry by way of a floating jetty we walked the ten minutes from Big Mama Yacht Club, where we had been meeting, and found Archbishop Winston Halapua waiting for us. He was dressed in an alb and was talking on his cellphone. Here, in this place where it felt about as remote as it gets he was still connected.

Which was why he had asked to meet us there. The spot he chose was one where, as a small boy, he had gone fishing with his father. As he explained it, the clergy stipend back then wasn't nearly enough to feed the twelve members of the Halapua family, so his father put food on the table using his expertise with a throw net. Little Winston's job was to gather the fish his father took from the net and form them into a sort of raft to float back to the mainland. It was a place of cherished memories, where the little boy had performed useful and enjoyable work with his adored father. But now the beach had changed and the coconut palms were dying off because global warming was causing a rise in sea levels. No matter how remote we are, we are still connected.

Pangaimotu is exquisite. There is a gently sloping beach, palm trees, coarse golden sand, warm water and a charmingly down at heel establishment run by Ana, aka Big Mama where blue water yachts stop for R&R and where locals come for swimming and picnics. We sat under a canopy made from driftwood and palm leaves for a few days to discuss the affairs of the Anglican church in Polynesia and Aotearoa/New Zealand. Perhaps because we were so relaxed, or perhaps because there was no way we could do anything but talk to each other, this was one of the friendliest and most productive meetings of its type I have attended. We chatted, prayed together, ate, sang songs as we travelled to and from the island, walked, swam, drank the local beer, and did our best not to snooze during business sessions. A lot got planned. A lot was decided. Friendships were deepened and renewed in the hot still Tongan days together. And in the middle of our idyllic landscape, there was always a visual reminder of the importance of what we were doing. Just off the jetty is a rusting shipwreck, pointing up out of the water like a giant shark's head. On most days little boys (and the occasional bishop) jumped off it into the crystal clear water. Right beside it was another, smaller wreck, and as we walked around the island I could count another eight, varying in size from small fishing vessels to large ocean going ships. These were boats driven ashore in hurricanes, and left to rot because the Tongan government had no money to remove them, and not enough power to force their owners to do so. It was another reminder that we are all connected, and that the cost of a modern trading economy often falls on the smallest and most vulnerable, whether it be people or nations.

As Justin Duckworth reminded the Christians of Dunedin a few weeks ago, our call as resurrection people; as followers of Jesus,  is to fight oppression wherever we see it. And here in the eroding shoreline of Panaimotu and the thousands of tons of abandoned iron was sign enough of what we are called to sacrifice ourselves to defeat.

Three Services

Photo courtesy St. Peter's Cathedral, Hamilton

I went to church three times this last weekend. On Saturday in company with about 1,000 others I went to the chapel of St. Paul's Collegiate School in Hamilton to participate in the farewell service to Archbishop David Moxon. The next day I went to my old parish, St. Francis Hillcrest and was able to take in the main morning service before rushing off to the airport to catch the flight home. Then in the evening I went to the Resurrection service in the Regent Theatre in Dunedin, and again in company with about 1,000 people.

The three events were quite varied. And that former sentence will be my official entry in this years understatement of the year awards. The St. Paul's chapel is a beautiful place with a soaring wood roof. It is light and spacious with the reflected light of a pool playing through a plain, frosted window featuring the words of Jesus arranged to form an enormous cross. The liturgy was considered, intelligent and reverent. People spoke warmly of David Moxon, whose influence on the life of the Anglican church in this country has been unparalleled.There was a lot of colour, and despite the formality and complexity of the occasion I found the time sped past quickly. The hymns were David's favourites and he is a musician. In his sermon, Philip Richardson managed to combine a  farewell tribute and some clever insights on the readings for the day. I was very glad to be there. There was, for me a real sense of God's presence, and the liturgy, the vestments, the beauty of the building and the views out to the water and trees beyond set us in a context temporally and spatially huge.

It was harvest festival at St. Francis, and the familiar octagonal building was decked out with all the usual bunches of grapes and artfully placed displays of home grown vegetables. Being a co-operating parish (that is, encompassing Presbyterians, Anglicans and Methodists) the service didn't follow a pattern usual in many Anglican parishes. When I was there we had over 100 children in the Sunday School,  so we had the readings and the preaching at the end of the service rather than at the beginning so that we could more practicably manage the kids. This practice is still followed. The music, led by a small music group was pretty standard for a suburban church these days, and there was a lively question and discussion time following the sermon.There were many faces we recognised, even after more than 20 years away, and it was wonderful to be back in the community which had meant so much to us and played such a huge role in our formation.

The Regent Theatre doesn't look like a church. Devoid of scenery and props the stage is not particularly handsome though there is a certain period elegance  to the rest of it. Arranged on the stage were the members of the band with the usual assortment of haphazardly placed black boxes, chrome stands and cables. It was loud, and I was in the front row. The songs were a mix of stuff unfamiliar to me and old standards spruced up a bit with fancy guitar riffs and complicated drumming. The largely young congregation sat in the half light and looked at the musicians on the brightly lit stage. From time to time casually dressed guys wandered onstage to contribute to proceedings and wandered off again. It was all as contemporary as the latest model iPhone and it was exuberantly energetic and lively. It was great to see so many churches worshipping together but at times I had to work hard to feel part of what was going on around me.

Then Bishop Justin Duckworth spoke, for a good half an hour without notes, microphone in hand, strolling back and forth,  in his trademark dreads and bare feet and he was spellbinding. He spoke of resurrection and of the way the church seems to have forgotten about it. He told us that the religious, political and social powers had killed Jesus but that Jesus resurrection had defeated these powers and rendered them second rate. He reminded us that if we seriously believed in resurrection we would join the fight against oppression wherever we saw it. He told us that God's call was not to be successful or cool or wealthy but to suffer and to serve. 1000 people sat so still that the only reason you couldn't hear a pin drop was that no-one had thought to bring one. All this varied weekend of church going and this half an hour put it all into its proper place. Vestments or checked shirts or frosted windows or spotlights; none of it matters really, except to the extent that it invites us to follow Jesus in laying down our lives and participating in resurrection. Thanks Justin.

Seeing in the Dark

It is perhaps seven or eight hours until the sun rises on Easter morning, and I am thinking about two things. One is Anthony De Mello, who in talking of our enemies says, "Given the background, the life experience, and the unawareness of this person, he (sic) cannot help behaving the way he does. It has been so well said that to understand all is to forgive all. If you really understood this person you would see him as crippled and not blameworthy..."
The other is Jesus being nailed to his cross and praying, "Forgive them for they know not what they do."

I don't think Jesus was praying just for the drunken louts who were doing what the procurator paid them to do. He was praying also for the procurator and the High Priest, and the Sanhedrin and the countless, nameless ones who worked the machinery of power. He was praying for his friend Judas who had thought that the best course of action was to give the authorities what they wanted. All of them were not so much evil as ignorant; unaware of who they were dealing with and unaware of why they themselves thought and acted as they did. All of them, I suspect, were working with the best of motives and thought at the time that they  were doing what was true and good.

This is a hard truth that Jesus' absolute forgiveness faces us with. How much easier to have  a couple of separate categories, the bad guys and the good guys into which to sort people. With those simple labels we can, with very little mental sleight of hand, imagine that we are in the group that wears the white hats and  consign all those who make us uncomfortable into the group that wears the black hats. By keeping a few simple rules, or by adhering to the right  few easily understood doctrines we can give ourselves the comforting knowledge that we are on the right side of the line. We have the added pleasure of being able to pity, or loathe, or fear or vilify those on the wrong side of the line. We have done this for centuries to the principal villains of the Easter story, to Judas and Pilate and Caiaphas, and at times our loathing and fear has spilled out onto groups of others whom we have imagined share some of the guilt of these three.

But Jesus lies with his lacerated back on grey splintered wood and watches as someone puts a nail against his wrist and in his anguish and terror he yet forgives. And in forgiving he tells us that there is no line; we are all there with the soldiers and priests and deserters and cowards, each one of us. We cannot look to others for blame, but only to ourselves.

This is a harder call. Judas is crippled and not blameworthy, but if this is true, then so am I. And it's so much easier to find a reprehensible other to hate and fear than it is to acknowledge the partiality and error of my own awareness. But as the admission of the dullness of my own sight is the harder call, so is the remedy more glorious; for as the villains of  Good Friday are forgiven, absolutely and unconditionally, then so am I. And I am invited to participate in a resurrection which Judas, tragically, never saw. I am invited to allow the Holy Spirit to lead me to a new awareness of myself and my motives which, though at times is excruciatingly and humiliatingly painful, enables me to live the life into which Jesus calls me. 

Judas Iscariot

Judas has always fascinated and puzzled me. Years ago I wrote a series of seven meditations for Good Friday, Witnesses of the Cross, in which I tried to enter, Ignatian style, into the minds of some of those who witnessed the crucifixion. Here is Judas. It is my attempt to imagine why someone might in good faith, betray a friend to death. The piece is designed to be read aloud in a 3 hour service, so the punctuation may seem a little strange. 

 Judas

I didn’t always hate the Romans. When I was a little boy I loved them. My mother and father would warn me about them, and at mealtimes, when my parents and my sisters and I gathered to eat, with the door of our tiny house firmly shut,  my father would talk strongly about overthrowing them and establishing the old ways again. But I would note that even as my mother complained about the taxes, she still went to the new aqueduct to fill the water jars. I noted that my father might speak strongly at home, but in the presence of even the lowliest legionary he would smile and grovel and give the imperial salute. And every day he went to work, building the new Roman amphitheatre and every day bring home the coin stamped with the likeness of the emperor with which to buy the food we ate. As for me, I saw them march past with their armour and their helmets and weapons and with the flags flying. I would hear the sound of the trumpets and the loud drums and the tramping of a thousand feet and I would be filled with awe and wonder and envy. I would watch them pass and think to myself that the old ways could never be as wonderful as the might of Rome in all her glory. Until I was fifteen I wanted nothing more than to be a legionary myself; to wear the scarlet tunic and carry the locking shield and a broad Roman sword. Until I was fifteen.

The day it all changed was a Tuesday. My mother asked me to go with my eldest sister Sarah to fetch water. It was the middle of the day, and we wouldn’t normally need water, but earlier that morning a jar had toppled over and spilled most of the day’s supply. I didn’t want to of course; water carrying is girls work, and I was nearly a man. But I went for the sake of Sarah whom I loved as much as my own mother. She was five years older than me, and was by far the prettiest girl in the village. Ever since I was tiny she had cared for me. I can remember being carried on her hip, although I have no memory of being carried by my mother. She was the one who sang me to sleep when I was sick and who chased away the big boys if I got into a fight. I knew that in a few months she was to be married to Simeon the son of Malachi, the stonemason and that she would leave our house for ever. I knew that Simeon wanted to move to Nazareth where there was a lot of work for stonemasons and that when she was married I might not see her again. I guess I wanted to spend every moment with her that I could. So I went.

We walked to the pool that is filled by the aqueduct and filled two jars. Sarah acknowledged my manhood by asking me to carry the bigger of the two jars, but I couldn’t help noticing that her jar, though smaller, held the most water. That’s how she was. We carried our jars past the new courthouse and down the alley between the butcher’s and the carpenter’s shop, when they appeared, seemingly out of nowhere. There were five of them, standing across the end of the alley, dressed in their legionnaire’s tunics but without armour or weapons. They made insulting remarks about Sarah, who ignored them and tried to push past. One of them grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her to himself. Her water jar fell to the ground and broke. He tried to kiss her and she pulled away from him. I put my jar down and rushed forward to try and help her. I could smell the wine on their breath. I found my self hitting one of them, shouting at them to let her go, kicking, lashing out in any way I could. Then one of them grabbed me from behind. I remember a crushing pain on the side of my face. And then I was on the ground. I remember the kicking and then nothing. I don’t know how long I was unconscious. When I came to, it was to see my sister lying beside me, weeping and crying out. No-one came to help us. No one. We walked home and Sarah would not let me touch her not even to give her my arm in support. I remember two things about the rest of that day. One is Sarah standing in the river crying and scrubbing herself until she bled. The other is my parents’ silence.

I could do nothing to save her. To whom could I go for justice? My own powerlessness was the greatest burden of all.

My wounds healed in a week or two. Sarah’s never did. From that day onwards the demons entered her. She was fearful and silent. She would not let any man come near her, not Simeon, and not even me whom she had carried on her hip and sung to sleep. My once lovely sister, grew silent and old before her time, drinking wine and always washing herself and talking to no one. One day they found her dead in the river. She was naked and the blood and scratches on her body told us she had been scrubbing, scrubbing, scrubbing herself again

From the time of the water jars I have hated the Romans. All the admiration and excitement I once felt seemed instantly to be turned on its head and I found whatever way I could to harm them. I had never been much of a scholar, but since that day, I began with a vengeance to learn the scriptures and to keep the law and I discovered the power and beauty and dignity of my Jewishness. I found companions amongst others whom the Romans had hurt. I met with those who dreamed of the end of the oppression. I rediscovered the powerful words The Lord himself had given our ancestors: justice. Righteousness. I learned that we are truly the chosen people and that The Lord himself will cause us to triumph over the ungodly Gentiles. I learned from our people’s history that the righteous saviour will come and lead us to freedom as Moses lead our ancestors out of the tyranny of Egypt.

About three years ago my friend, another Simeon, who had recently left the Zealot party to become one of Jesus’ disciples took me to hear him speak in the synagogue in Capurnaum. Jesus read one of my favourite passages, the chapter in Isaiah in which the blessed prophet speaks so movingly of the coming reign of Justice. But just before he got to my favourite verse of all, the part where the prophet promises the day of vengeance for the hated oppressors of our people, Jesus rolled up the scroll and sat down. He finished his reading not at the appointed place, and not even at the end of a verse, but in the middle of a sentence. The congregation was stunned, and we all sat in awkward silence, wondering what on earth he was doing. Then he stood up, turned to us and said, “today this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing.” There was uproar, as it dawned on us what he was saying: that he was the fulfilment of scripture. The crowd surged forward, ready to drag him to the city gates and stone him, or perhaps to cast him off the brow of a hill. But he stood tall and walked calmly, quietly out through the middle of the crowd. And no one, not even the most outraged of us lifted a finger to stop him. It was such an exhibition of personal power and charisma that I knew right then that even if he wasn’t the one promised in the prophesy, he had such authority that he could make the prophecy be true. I left and followed. And I have followed ever since.

It has been a strange three years. Sometimes exhilarating and exciting. He has shown me great love and in his presence I find a release from the anger which constantly gnaws like a rat within me. But increasingly, it has been frustrating and disappointing. You have no idea how powerful Jesus is. You could not possibly imagine, unless you had seen it with your own eyes, the effect he had on people.

Like Mary, for instance. One day we were passing through a town in Judea when we came across a demoniac, a woman. She was dressed in rags and her hair was uncombed. She looked to be about 50. The front of her tunic was stained with her woman’s uncleanness and even from twenty paces away the smell of her was appalling. One of the people of that town told us that she had been abused by the soldiers and that she had been possessed of demons ever since. When I heard those words, my heart stopped. All of me stopped. I felt as if part of me wanted to go to her and do some small kindness. But she was so unclean, so dangerous. I was terrified of her and she brought such memories to me that I just wanted her gone. I looked at the master. He had stopped still in his tracks and he looked at her with tears rolling down his cheeks. She saw him staring at her and she came towards us, running,  screaming,

“Men! Men! I know you, despoilers and thieves! All of you! I know you!”

We, all of us pulled back, fearful lest she should touch us, but not the master. He stood as still as ever. “Don’t think I don’t I know you”, she screamed. The master stepped towards her.

“I know you”, he said

She stopped only a foot in front of him and she was quiet. You could see her, puzzled and uncertain as if trying to recall something she had long forgotten. And then the master did something that astonished us all. He touched her. He took her hands and he smiled at her. 
"Mary," he said. 
And at that moment I saw the demons depart. She stood there, still filthy, still dressed in rags, but now I could see she was a young woman, not much older than me. She was pretty, and there was softness, humour and grace and huge relief in her eyes. She looked down at her dirty hand and at Jesus’ hand holding it, and as if suddenly remembering that this was not allowed for a man she was not related to she said, “Do I know you?” 
We all laughed, her, us disciples, the master.

Then he said “You will”, and he took her filthy face in his hands and kissed her forehead.

And he said, “Blessed are you Mary. Beautiful virgin daughter of Israel.”

From that time forward she has followed him, walking with us as closely as any of his other disciples. It causes some problems, but the master never seems concerned about them. For me she is a constant reminder of Sarah, which brings me joy but also reminds me daily of my own and my parents and our nations’ failure to stand for what is right.

I could tell you a thousand other stories. For a while it was intoxicating. I could see how the crowds responded. I could see how the priests and the other lackeys of the Romans feared him. I could feel the power he exerted over everyone he met. But all the while I also saw that the might of Rome continued. The soldiers still stood on every street corner. The insults to our nation and our God went unanswered. The abuse of our women continued. And Jesus talked and taught and told stories. But that’s all he did. I have argued with him, pleaded with him begged him to take his rightful place. And he answers with words. With meaningless answers about the Kingdom of God, which once filled me with hope, but which now I see, cannot come unless someone actually does something to make it happen

Several times the crowds around him would be inspired by his teaching and would be ready, under his leadership, to rise and do what was right. Twice that I know of, they rose to the point of proclaiming him king. And with him at our head and in the power of our God there is nothing that could have stopped us. We would have smashed the power of Rome, and I would have delivered to my Sarah the only recompense that would have been worthwhile: the same dowry that David paid for Michal dumped at her feet.

Just this last week there was another opportunity. After he had taught and performed an astonishing feat of power at Bethany, and when the whole city was abuzz with the rumour of his name, the master rode into Jerusalem on the back of a donkey. All true Jews who know the words of the prophets could not miss what he was saying:

”Behold your king comes, meek riding on a donkey and on a colt, the foal of a donkey.”

He was not a hundred yards into the city when the crowds recognised him and what he was saying. They broke palm branches from the trees and laid them at his feet. They took the very cloaks from their backs and laid them under the hooves of the donkey. They cried out with one voice, “Behold the son of David!. Behold the King of the Jews! Blessed is he that comes in the name of The Lord!” I knew from watching it that our time had come. At Passover there are so many Jews in Jerusalem that all the Romans in the East could not have stopped us if we had him at our head. This was the moment when Justice would roll down like thunder and Righteousness like a mighty stream. All it would take was a word: one word from him. And he did nothing. And he does nothing.

But I know it is not too late. The crowd is still excited and speaks of nothing but Jesus. The authorities are confused and frightened. All it will take is one small act to force Jesus’ hand and get him to do, finally, what God is calling him to: to grow beyond his words; to give himself for our people. It is time for us to rise from our cowardice and stop the rape of our beloved country.

So I have done it. 

For Israel. 

For Mary. 

For Sarah. 

No more running away. 

No More silence

Harbour

Fog on the harbour, and time for a short drive before dark, looking to see if there were any photos lying about.

Not many. It was a nice little cruise anyway. 

Riverton

St. Mary's Riverton. The buttresses make it appear to be leaning. Beside it is the old assay office, now used as some sort of holistic healing centre.. 

On a good day there can't be many towns in New Zealand prettier than Riverton, and yesterday was a good one. St. Mary's church was pleasantly full for a chrism Eucharist   We renewed baptismal and ordination vows and licensed Aaron Galey-Young as a deacon in Gladstone parish, blessed James and Barbara's engagement ring and commissioned a small team  to work with special needs people in Kenya. Leaving the church after the service at about 8.30 pm the sun was going down  and some children were setting a flounder  net. I sat in the church for a while afterwards then slept in my caravan parked beside it through a warm Southland night.