Paihia
So we’re in early mission territory. Just up the road Samuel Marsden preached his first sermon in New Zealand on 25th December 1814. We attended the local Anglican Church this morning. The change to daylight saving time influenced the punctuality of the attendees. Is that what you call people at a church service? We had a second round of Hospital Chaplaincy week – with a very nice lady chaplain priest doing her thing. Once has to say that small churches in country towns seem to be the playground of religious women who are engaged in their faith hobby. Where are the men? Sad when you see the line of tombstones in the church yard of great men of God who served over the years. The service was a curious Anglican experience – one unhappy lady announced half way through that she had the wrong service sheet – the correct one of the day was produced for her and a few others who had picked up last week’s programme! She was unimpressed it seems and did not communicate (well she did as I said but not at the Communion table later). The poor chaplain priest person lady also had to contend with another enthusiast who thought it was her job to say all the prayers that were not in bold etc, but at her own pace. The organist was pretty organised I had to say, and the liturgist tried to recruit me to lead the singing on a weekly basis.
What do you learn from a sermon that is a series of testimonies with the occasional loose link to the scriptures (two in fact – one mention that miracles do happen (prayers answered in the hospital) “as we saw in the gospel reading”, and that God could be in this place (a la Jacob at Bethel).
What does one learn? That most Presbyterian sermons are too cerebral and need some more testimony. Yes. And also that the liturgy itself teaches one every time. And of course (is this a third “finally”?), that God is in the place even in the depths of grief and the darkness of the separation and grim reality of mental illness.
Straight from this Anglican stoush (the cherry on the top was the testimony/sermon which had been interrupted by “I think I may have lost a page of my notes here”, and ended with a very unbiblical “go the All Blacks”), we entered into the very depths of Catholic country. After a fashion that is – we went to Russell. This was achieved by driving onto a Ferry which was driven by another woman driver (like the team of Anglicans who ran the show at Paihia) and being ferried across a bit of water for the sum of $11.00 for me and the car, and $1 for my spouse and passenger. We passed the site (this time driving the car on land) of the original capital of New Zealand to Russell as it now exists, and had a drive up Flagstaff hill. The story of the flagstaff is all to do with the British firing up on the town back in the day because a certain person of the land had chopped the flagpole down more than once over a few years (one assumes the Union Jack was on the thing at the time). The oldest church in New Zealand still stands in the town (despite having holes in it from the canon – or rather musket balls hurled at the place). And then there is the Roman (and oldest functional) printing press still churning out things (we were able to print something ourselves). The tour of the Pompallier museum was fascinating, especially the Freudian slip in which the enthusiastic lady in red indicated that the Roman Catholic mission had been divided into to dossiers (I think she intended to say diocese/s). I thought immediately of my good friend John in Wellington and took a special photograph of one of the exhibits which recorded the protestations of the non-Catholic missionaries and their concerns about the antichrist. Either way the French were lurking here and in Akaroa.
I can happily report that we sailed back to our base in Paihia. Waitangi is just down the road and we were able to have a quick look yesterday at the place where our founding document was signed in 1840. Tomorrow to Kerikeri where we will visit the mission station. I promise to continue my report thereafter on the local history and the burial ground of the Rainbow Warrior.
The evening of this Sunday ended with Dory and chips from the local fishing and chipping people –served by a Kiwi person man at the counter and a very English fishing and chipping cooking guy deeper in the recesses of the facility. All were talking about rugby, as was the conversation at lunch time in Russell – as we had a pleasant meal in York street with seagulls and sparrows vying for the crumbs at the table.
The point of these weekends away is a rest and restoration. I think the aforementioned three year matter is still lurking as I find myself dozing off during one of the better movies on TV for some months. I would prefer not to feel weary and to have the energy to engage the history of Mission that we have found here. A pile of books in my study still keep bothering me to that end.
Postscript Sunday 25th – three months to Christmas.
I have to add this peculiarity about today. The local Anglicans are on one end of the spiritual spectrum for the day. In Russell there was this added twist on the other end of said spectrum. Or somewhere on the spectrum. Walking along the beach road in the direction of the Pompallier Mission site and printing press we turned left at the sign which read TOILETS. A deceptive route indeed as we walked up a ramp on the side of what turned out to be the town hall – mislead by another sign above a door at the end of that room or passage also reading TOILET. The very nice lady redirected us down the ramp again and behind the building. We had stumbled on the end of a Christian meeting – the third wave it seems (neither Papal Roman nor ostentatiously Protestant, but probably Pentecostal as there was some serious ministry of prayer being applied to their attendees). Jacob and Bethel all over again – God was in the place.
Kerikeri
Monday in Kerikeri is not exactly your overwhelming experience of masses of people frantically shopping. The town is pleasantly quiet, and if you keep going down the main street you find that the road ends. The river seems difficult to cross without a bridge, although if you park in the allocated parking you can walk across the footbridge to the other side. The old stone Mission house is still standing – the oldest it seems of its kind in the country. And Kemp house is still there too. The local historical society has worked hard to preserve the integrity of the area and there is a reconstructed village – “Rewa’s village” where you can see what it was like for the early pioneers.
The Mission history is fascinating and the people were a fairly rugged and courageous bunch. The town itself is a bit too small for my liking although I could retire there and write one day I suppose. In short the trip reminded me of our journeys to the Lowveld – to places like Pilgrim’s Rest. The countryside is beautiful – we will post some photos on Facebook for all to see.
Looking back… (written in Browns Bay on Tuesday!)
The weekend has been good – getting a sense of the beauty of the place, and also trying to get a sense of the courage of those early settlers. The large pot at Pompallier’s place (back in Russell) was an ominous reminder (to me at least) of the cannibalism that was rife during the war years – how risky things were (mainly for weaker tribes who were conquered and consumed literally). The sadness of the story – how the nation has lost its heritage in many ways. The conquests of the All Blacks will never match what God has done for us – His amazing gift of life in Christ and life on these islands. Have a listen to the New Zealand National Anthem again during this World Cup and think about the heritage again.
And if you want to read a bit of fascinating history look at the lives of Henry Williams and his younger brother William. It was moving to walk through Paihia in the place where they lived and worked. And get a sense of the distances the early missionaries travelled on foot to get their work done. Strong men and women indeed.
So I am back in my books – reading “Bible and Treaty” by Keith Newman”. More on that another day.
Robin
