A weekend away - in Northland

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

The three year sleep

I did say I would write about this one. It's about the tiredness that comes from stress - and from living on the edge of burnout and flirting with PTSD. I have this hospital chaplain friend in Wellington. Before we left the capital (Wellington is in New Zealand - I am sure you've figured that out by now especially those about to invade these islands for the Rugby World Cup), I went to visit my friend to say goodbye. It was he who told me about the three year sleep. His friend, a Roman Catholic priest who had been a school chaplain for about the same length of time as me, also went back into church (parish) work. My friend (the hospital chaplain) mentioned this to me as he wondered how I would cope with the move. His friend (the catholic priest) informed him that in his recovery process from school chaplaincy he had slept for the first three years of his parish "job".
No sleeping on the job, they say. I have to say that my plan was to hit the ground "praying" rather than "running". I read a book with that title before coming here. I ended up reading another book on arrival on grief and clergy. Clergy grief - that rare privilege of being able to grieve when you are regularly conduct funerals, for example, of people who are close to you, and you're the one who can not publicly express your emotions. One can understand why - watch the more than unhelpful pastor in the movie 'Eulogy' who falls apart at the grandfather's funeral. It's more than hilarious but also close to the bone.
An astute leader in the church here has mentioned more than once her concern about our grief. When you move you experience grief - the death of an old lifestyle and the loss of relationships that once energised you and brought you joy. She's right of course. We are grieving many losses - through immigration, relocation, and the death of many aspects of innocence - and of course the loss of the exhilarating southerly winds of Wellywood. I jest of course.
The post traumatic stress has eased. A siren today fired up the process again as a reminder that it hasn't totally gone. The things that I have left behind in Wellington which caused deep pain have been a good farewell. My five years at Scots did much to contribute to profound levels of stress. At the same time there were so many highlights and reasons to celebrate along the road. The grief of loss of the energy of the inspiring young men and boys of the College is offset by the occasional call or on-line conversation I have where they tell me how life is going and share some pleasant memory. I will always celebrate their successes.
What does one do about the tiredness? Sleep, mainly. I know I have to pace myself and not be the author of my own demise.
The simple joys - a six month old puppy who shares our journey and happily chews too many things for our good. The coming spring - the sound of the doves in the garden in the morning and the warmth of the sun. Having all my children at home with us - and watching them find their direction and energy again. The discipline of weekly prayer and preaching - trying to open God's word in a community of faithful people. There are many joys as our new life unfolds on this North Shore. And sleep - such a blessing which we are reminded of by the Psalmist: It is in vain that you rise up early and go late to rest, eating the bread of anxious toil; for he gives sleep to his beloved. (127:2)
I can't sleep while speaking in public. I can leave the things too hard for me in the hands of my gracious Father. I tend to leave many things to others now - knowing that I am long past a futile belief that I have some messianic role in the world. I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me, but not everything is my responsibility.
So I will be sleeping for the first three years. And beyond. Our keeper neither slumbers not sleeps (Psalm 121:4). We can afford to let go and rest each night - for even if we never wake up in this life again, we are still His.

Stress

I've been back in this line of work for five months. Work is a strange word for it. We are called to a vocation, we are in service - and ordained to preach and baptise and break bread (Holy Communion in our tradition). I left a very rewarding but highly stressful job to come here.
Naively I thought I could leave stress behind. I was wrong. It's a funny old life. Without any stress we would get nothing done. No expectations - and no results. They say we need good stress. Like deadlines, assignment dates, exams, and goals. Good stress. I was told that going back "into the church" would bring enough pressure to bear that I would be driven to my knees. People stress!
It seems to me (not that I have great expertise here) that we should be on our knees anyway. And I am sure that people in war zones or attacked daily by the shakings of earthquakes or other threats have much more stress than we could imagine - and are more prayerful as well. I am sure that God by his grace gives them strength to cope.
I like the Bible's prayers because they are more honest than many of ours. The beauty of these prayers is not just in their poetry or wisdom, but in the way in which the writers spit it out. They are quite direct with God as they wrestle with their enemies, their doubts and their impatience. It's quite refreshing.
So how will I deal with my stress? The good old "balanced life" philosophy demands exercise and rest, proper diet and boundaries around my work - so that I can manage to juggle the balls and spin the plates.
God's way seems to be to rest in Him. Wait on Him. Depend on Him. Cuddle up to him, sheltered by the shadow of his wings, as one old song goes. I think that I should be a little child again - happy to ask Him and trust Him fully.
That sounds more restful than stressful to me. I think the three year sleep sounds quite attractive after all. (That story for another day!)

Memories

Mum would have been 86 today. She's been dead for 14 years. It seems just the other day that we were at her bedside for those final moments as she breathed her last. I shared a profound anniversary of someone's death this weekend and felt the pain of those who lost their dad just a year ago. Words, poetry and music all helped to carve out a memory and paint a fresh canvass of sorrow. It was a measure of progress for that family, a hurdle which when clambered over at least brought a step forward.
The idea that grief is a process was a step forward too in understanding how people muddle along that path. Attempts to make the process linear and neat were useful in the sense that people could try to see where they were along the track, but of course deceptive as it's neither neat nor linear. A heart torn by loss remains wounded and dismembered really.
Jean Palmer was a brave woman. Her aristocratic mother was probably too dominant in the worst possible Victorian sense. Her father died when she was very young, thus depriving her of that special anchor. Her husband, my father Ernie, was only with her through fourteen years of marriage when she was robbed of her man by his inevitable death. And as a widow she did a pretty impressive job raising my sister and I through the tumultuous teens and the pains of our school years.
She took no nonsense from us, and always told us not to cross the proverbial bridge before we got there. She believed in us when we didn't, and managed to navigate us through a fairly simple and frugal course which was grounded in a secure and welcoming home. When mother arrived, we were always forewarned by that raspy cough. Her humour was infectious, and our friends enjoyed her cheerful disposition. She would yell for us on the sideline (not that I had too many of those) and support our activities and organizations with zeal. She was prolific in her catering, producing all manner of goodies for various events, and a bit to liberal with the salt pot.
Over many years of living away from her because my work and vocation took me to other cities, a morning phone call to her would always be an inspiration and give warmth and courage. She would quip at times that it was just as well the phone didn't have a camera if we called too early. She never did get the chance to skype us. But she wrote long and newsy letters, and kept us up to date with all kinds of clippings from the local papers.
At the end of her life the poster that I found with signatures of her buddies at the back summed it up quite succinctly. φίλος πιστὸς σκέπη κραταιά, ὁ δὲ εὑρὼν αὐτὸν εὗρεν θησαυρόν. From Sirach 6:14 it reads: A faithful friend is a sturdy shelter: whoever finds one has found a treasure.
Such wisdom indeed from the sage. What a treasure she was.I mourn her still, and give thanks for her life and all she invested in her children and grandchildren.
Blessed be the name of the Lord.

Good grief, or maybe not

I've been reading a profound book about grief, loss and death. It's subtitled "the shadow side of ministry" and it's by a catholic priest. I haven't really processed the losses of our most recent move from chaplaincy to parish ministry. I do know of a catholic school chaplain who was also in a school for five years. He reported some years later that he slept for the following three years in the parish. Recovery, or grief? Probably both.
I remember when a friend died when I was a youth leader."Back in the day" is the kiwi term here for many long years ago. Well Duncan died when he crashed his bike on the way to a piano lesson. He was about 18. It was my first grief experience in which I thought I saw him a couple of times. After his death, that is. It was quite weird and yet I believe not unusual. I keep having the same experience - seeing people from my previous work at the school. No I am not seeing visions, but rather expressing my sadness at the losses I am still experiencing. I was blessed greatly by a skype call this week from a student. It was so nice to chat and share again in the life of a young man who not so long ago was mourning my departure.
My book is challenging. We hide behind our profession - priests and ministers tend to be a problem if they cry at funerals when they are supposed to be comforting the bereaved. And people prefer it that way. They don't want our doubts - rather they like our faith and hope expressed in the face of darkness.
So I do most of my weeping alone. It would be better to have angels with skin on helping me in those places of deep groaning. But it's not like that. I will read some more and share more later. Spare a thought for the parents around the world who mourn the death of their children at this time.
My losses are not that grim. With the exception of one tragic death my clients are still alive. I have lost the privilege of sharing their stories. I will still have many in my heart and memory, and I can still pray for them. May the seeds sown in those years still bring the delight of fruit that endures.

The light went out for a while

I started my Christian journey as a Methodist in the city of Durban. So I was baptised in the Methodist church as a baby.
This evening we travelled to Mount Albert and attended the Methodist church worship service for the Synod of the region. What a lovely evening.
Am I still a Methodist? Great question.
So why did the light go out during the sermon tonight? It was only during the preacher's second point - where he was trying to explain the treasures that he held to - his second being that he was Evangelical. The light went out. Not sure whether that was the radical nature of the statement for today. Or was it because he tried to explain his theology of inspiration of the Bible?? What an interesting thing. A sign? :-)
Well the light above the pulpit came back on when the man started his third point. Hmm. A sign perhaps that things were back on track...
Great singing from the choirs tonight.
The question as to whether I am still a Methodist is still up for grabs! And the mystery of the light above the preacher going out during that part of the sermon remains intriguing.
I must check whether there is a light above the place where I speak from on Sundays. Worth keeping an eye on it.
Vocatus atque non vocatus, Deus aderit

Winter

I have only one follower of my blog. That in itself should not be too depressing. When I look at the statistics I have more readers from the Netherlands than any other country. That is fascinating. Well put it this way - they are my audience, but do they really read what I say? Americans and Kiwis follow them in terms of numbers.

So if you are reading this now - say hello will you!

Winter here would normally be a suitable topic for complaints and groaning on my part. This week has been a very pleasant one however - with real sunshine and temperatures of up to 15 degrees in the City of Sails.

A friend remarked this week that there is just SO MUCH WATER. Indeed this is true. We are surrounded. Mind you we are an island nation!

How's this for something exciting - let's see if there are any Israelis reading this. There is a bit of a buzz here over allegations that some of the people injured and killed in the Christchurch earthquake were Mossad spies. Well I never.

What this nation should be agonising over is really the spiritual state of the place. Here we are trying to get people to believe again - the whole place has a strong Christian heritage which has been systematically jettisoned.

Now all you Dutch readers - what's happening in your part of the world? You too had a great reformed history which was exported to South Africa our old country.

So get to your local Presbyterian church will you and discover the real life we share!

Greetings again from the wobbly islands. Let's see if my one follower has anything to say on this winter night!