Spring Sprung - Springer

The mysteries of the onset of spring have always evaded me. Having grown up in tropical (or sub-tropical) Natal, and despite the gynecological form of that province's very name (having been "discovered" on Christmas Day way back by an avid Portuguese chappy in a boat), one could never really be sure there of the changes in seasons.
Roll on Rustenburg. Our life there, a brief sojourn, did produce some natal activity, both in the birth of our second son (beloved by name and in practice) and in the curious ability to actually tell that the seasons were turning. When it came to noticing Spring, I refer primarily to a very small stick-like fig tree that dominated the back lawn (there were no other bushes or the like in the area) - a tree which like in Jonah's account was a doubtful starter in terms of shade provision (with or without worms) as it was simply too tiny and scrawny.
The good thing about this tree? Not having Google calendars (or Outlook equivalents that mattered) and even when you couldn't find a paper calendar (one with flowers, scenery, or any other dodgy images) you could check out the fig tree around September 1. With seasonal certainly the little plant produced a green leaf. One was enough to know that it was time. And of course this hopeful specimen reminded me of Habbakuk 3:17-18. And boy did I need that assurance.
I still do of course. The Spring has not been that obvious. It may well have sprung at some point in the last couple of weeks. Any exciting shoot would be unnoticed as we have endured buckets and buckets of rain.
The passage in the above-mentioned somewhat unpronounceable Bible passage has its writer declare his commitment to rejoice in the LORD - a word which in Afrikaans ( a Dutch dialect of the country of my birth) is jubel, but in Dutch itself comes out as van vreugde opspringen. I love it. Neat. The springy nature of such rejoicing reminds me of my dear mother who when speaking of more buxom creatures of the female gender had this curious yet kind descriptive saying when referring to such largely endowed ladies: "more bounce to the ounce". You get the picture.
Joy requires some energetic expansiveness in spirit and temperament. And my nickname at school: Springer of course. I wonder if my curious scholarly colleagues remember that. Did I bounce or jump for joy? Too many decades have gone by to remember that with integrity.
Alas I confess that I have lost some of that energy. Yes the demise of youth, you mutter politely. The joy I am finding is a much richer thing. When the fig trees in my life take a LONG LONG time to blossom, and when the produce of the olive fails, and our fields seem barren - yet we still rejoice in the Lord. And the verse which follows in Habbakuk 3 is even more energizing: The Sovereign LORD is my strength; he makes my feet like the feet of a deer, he enables me to go on the heights.
So there it is then. Spring Sprung. Yes of course as we age our springs, like those in an old chair, can go haywire. But it's what's in the heart that really matters.
So while the nation seems to go nuts over its current issues (most of which are strangely drawn out of Parliament's ballot box of chance) - and the world is in its present turmoil of rage, down here in the south on the edge of the earth Spring has sprung in more ways than one. And its rich tapestries are being painted in all the facets of our spiritual and emotional journey.
I trust that you find some energy from within too - perhaps in your travels of heart and mind you can also explore this rich joy from our most delightful Saviour and God. For what is within that generates real life comes from without. We are not abandoned.

Winter

I googled my name and the city of sails - Auckland. Look at that - I have a blog page and last wrote something in June! Such a busy life! How quickly the winter has whistled along. It's been a bad winter. Mind you summer was pretty bad too. One hopes that something will be normal again, but Auckland's climate is quite odd. There was a cereal advert some time back that went "I got it all this morning". It may have been bran or corn flakes, but actually it's just weather. In one day we have it all. So if you live in South Africa where I was born, best not moan that it is snowing. It is after all winter!
When I wrote in June I confessed my role as pianist at church. This too continues, and what a fascinating job it is. I really don't mind leading from keys. I do have to practice more of course! I took a five year break from that kind of thing. Our local church continues to shiver through the cold months with a lot of flu and sick people here and there. The heaters help of course! Our house on the other hand is vacuous and damp downstairs. So we do tend to move from warm room to pre- heated next rooms, if that makes sense. Roll on summer.
The last weeks have been preoccupied by various athletes doing amazing things in London. The kiwi teams have done pretty well considering how small the country is. And we have revisited watching too much TV - only those with Sky sport have multiple channels with all the events. And of course there have been some great South African successes too.
Our only break over this period was a weekend back in Wellington. The windy city was sunny and calm for three days of our four, and the fourth was mild. We enjoyed "Fame" - a joint musical between Scots College and Queen Margaret College. Great talent and amazing energy - and it was brilliant to catch up with so many people. And there were various meals over the weekend with all kinds of friends. A real treat.
Sixteen months down the track I have only had one week's leave. Thankfully we will escape in September for a two week break! Crossing the ditch has never been so attractive (and believe me our Australian trips are always wonderful).
So what great pearls of wisdom do I have for you this August 12th? Probably very little that's new. I'm thinking that there needs to be a publication coming up called "Chicken soup for the Pastor". At a particularly challenging point I asked a friend what kept him going. He referred me to Peterson's latest book "The Pastor - a Memoir". Worth a look if you are into this kind of thing. Here we go then:
http://www.christianitytoday.com/ct/2011/march/petersonpastorsjourney.html
I will get to finish it this time - unlike many books I start. I am rediscovering something of the essence of this pastor thing - in that I am slowly getting to know people in their place. It takes time of course. The pastor's job is less about performance and entertainment, less about planning and control - and more about responding to the interruptions in our living and looking out for what God is doing in our lives. That takes time - and off course you simply have to set the tone and direction as a leader. Sheep - in theory - will follow.
On the national front, we have had a long spell of recovery from earthquakes (which for our friends in Christchurch is mainly too long) - and our latest traumas are coming from volcanoes rumbling away. We have two busy mountains right now. And of course the very nice man on TV (a vocanologist I believe) - when asked about the volcanoes under this city, proceeded to mention that we are more likely to have a new one form, for example, popping up under our main street. They seem to love their work, of course. The shaky islands are actually quite capable of flipping their lid, as it were.
Well I am sure that should one of our rumbling giants blow their stacks, you will hear about this. On a daily basis we carry on undaunted. And likewise one has to carry on undaunted by the challenges of life in general. Within a few weeks Spring will be here, on paper anyway. Daylight saving will kick in at the end of September and the long summer days will change our lives for a while (assuming that in the multi-climatic days of our beloved city, summer will break through). And then it will be Advent before you can say Christmas! What an exciting prospect!
Stay safe and keep warm! Kia kaha in the mighty power of God!

The heat is on

Yes yes - an odd title as the middle of winter is so close to us. Auckland, luckily for us, remains quite pleasant while others around these wobbly islands are shovelling snow and battling horizontal rain as is the practice. The sun remains a feature in our daily routine and I can still walk the dog and chat to the silver birches down the road without being drenched or attacked by savages.
The heat is on in all kinds of other ways. My work has involved some interesting challenges which have kept me on my toes, so to speak. The pastor can never claim the immunity of the pianist ("don't shoot me, I am only the pianist" etc), but there it is then. There are these special moments each week - like the little children at mainly music on a Friday (I have my favourites of course and most of them are quite indiscriminate in their affection) - and a visiting lady from Korea who thanked me today (long after many had gone and not in that obligatory and old fashioned way). There was an amazing sense that an angel had crossed the threshold. Her words were a balm and an encouragement.
In terms of the heat being on, I am reading another of NT Wright's books (Surprised by Hope) in which some untertakers' stories are told as he introduces the modern take on death and dying. I do commend it to you. http://www.amazon.com/Surprised-Hope-Rethinking-Resurrection-Mission/dp/0061551821
In the narrative he tells of various artifacts placed in coffins of the deceased by family members including a lady who put two aerosol cans in with her late husband - spray cans of glue which he had used to keep his toupee on. Naturally the explosion in the crematorium oven was quite severe and bent the door of the furnace. Perhaps there is a lesson there somewhere about something. I'm not sure what but it is rather interesting. As the book develops it re enforces my suspicions that we have missed the point in our folksy views on heaven and the modern happy-death experiences espoused by many. Hopefully I finish this one (the book of course). I love the theme of hope too - I need lots in my life.
So why is my work such a challenge? That's a good question. I suppose in a sense it's the change in routine. So much of the week is spent preparing for one day of the week! I also miss the hordes of teenagers I encountered in my former role - young people who not only told it the way it is (or seemed to them at any rate) but also came to get help with admirable courage and honesty. I do miss that!
What's next as winter comes our way? I will keep you posted if there are any major developments. The sun has wandered off and some impertinent drizzle is attacking my window. The dog, dear friend that she is, has crawled under the bed and thus remains close to me as I write. For those of you who pray - your prayers are always valued immensely. May you find strength and grace in your journey if you too find that the heat is on.
For now I will keep reading NT Wright. I mentioned over Easter that the paradox of the resurrection story is that the future breaks into the present. Tom Wright seems to be moving in the direction of that kind of thinking. I might have to change my will at some point and opt for burial rather than cremation. Not that Wright insists that this is the logical consequence of his views. But it seems so decently orthodox and restful. And of course there will be no explosive consequences should anyone choose to pop something in the box before it slips out of sight.
Ah well. Then we shall see face to face. It will all make sense, according to 1 Corinthians 13.
Blessed be the name of the Lord!

40 Hour Famine • World Vision • Robin Palmer's profile

40 Hour Famine • World Vision • Robin Palmer's profile

Hi everyone - please have a look at this and consider some support for World Vision this year. The Famine here in New Zealand is for development in drought stricken West Africa - in Mali and Niger!

I am challenging the combined total of our youth group who are working on this project as well!

Greetings from Auckland!

Robin

Anzacs and other random bits and pieces

We don't have poppy day. That is reserved for the 11th hour of the 11th of the 11th. In countries that remember that day anyway. We have Anzac Day.
The national identities of New Zealand and that large island we sometimes call the West Island were born on those messy Turkish killing fields. It seems we realised that we were not just servants of the Empire but people of our own something or other.
So I wore a poppy at church Sunday. I am not sure it did anything for my presentation. Maybe the red blob kept some of our sleepy ones awake. The powerpoint would have helped too as the text was mainly purple. We will see if the masses become witness as a result of the message. Oh yes you can have a look there if you want - at http://robinpalmer.wordpress.com/.
A journalist has thrown a cat amongst the proverbial Anzacs this week by asserting that the Australians overstate the national identity thing - and another alleges that the Australian soldiers were all a lazy bunch of thieves. They do pick interesting times for battle don't they - in the week we remember those who have sacrificed their lives for others. Now that Anzac Day has arrived the mud slinging is over. While some programmes on TV make too much of the development of national identity (apparently even the Irish got on for a while with a common Turkish enemy but then reverted to killing each other across a religious divide thereafter), many give credit where it is due to the many brave men who gave up their lives.
Thinking about their courage - how badly trained we are for the battles we face. Being a pastor and all that, I've noticed how domesticated the Lord's army has become. We don't know the rules of engagement very well in the spiritual battle we face. How easily we fit God's agenda into a controllable spot in our lives ruled by the dollar and other demanding powers. Even sports teams practice more than our dear parishioners read their bibles or get together to share and encourage one another. Having been in an army, I think I have some idea of the distinction I am making.
Having had that little moan, I am delighted to have had a holiday today. And full marks to my bank who fixed the problem that many had today (as did I) when my stipend did not arrive in my account. They put in some extra hours to sort it, so to speak. Yay for ASB. It's a very Anzaccy bank really - being the local manifestation of the Commonwealth Bank (of Australia). How connected we still are across the famous ditch.
Stipend? you ask. What is that? That's the fancy term for the living allowance pastors receive as they serve in the army of God. It always reminds me of horse racing somehow. The stipendiary steward is a very important person in that industry. They have the power to inspect stables AND check that horses are not doped! Apart from making sure that everything there is done with integrity. I wonder if pastors do that in some way? Nah, probably an unrelated business altogether.
So this weekend I will not wear a poppy at church. Won't even be there as I have a weekend off - which is intended to refresh the pastor by enabling him - in the minds of some parishioners anyway - to sneak off to some other church to get new and fresh ideas - hints and tips etc. Funny thought really - when community should be that which sustains you. How odd that pastors build community and in some places are compelled to move away when they retire.
I digress of course. But that's exactly what happens in these so called "blog" entries. We reflect on peculiar things and then post our inner confusion on a virtual notice board to see how many countries are represented in our list of "hits".
This Anzac day then - a grateful thought for those who sacrificed their lives for our peace and security - and for those who serve still today.
In the words of Laurence Binyon:
They went with songs to the battle, they were young.
Straight of limb, true of eyes, steady and aglow.
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted,
They fell with their faces to the foe.
They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning,
We will remember them.
We will remember them!

Talking to trees

I've always been nervous of these tree hugging types. I remember living in Port Shepstone when our national church was building retirement homes for ministers up the road from where we lived. Never mnd the problem of ministers not being able to afford the homes. They rented one out to a retired minister and the others to what are now termed "randoms". And when the Moderator consecrated them (an interesting thing to do) he used a service for consecrating churches (in the absence of another obvious service in the book). Who knows whether it improved the singing in the showers of the four homes.
The point is that when the land was cleared a local American lady of Buddhist persuasion objected to the trees being cut down (they were exotic if I recall). She wrote to the local paper and intimated that she would ordain the trees so as to preserve their sanctity (and prevent them from being turned into something else). She must have thought that ordained people and thus trees would be safer (which I have discovered over 25 years of ordained ministry is not necessarily true).
So I've been nervous of tree loving souls who elevate trees beyond their actual position in the order of things. Here's the irony. My mother used to sing "I talk to the trees" when we children did not listen to her. (The song continues - "and they don't listen to me..."). Well I now stop and engage trees most nights. Yes I have succumbed. I am the ordained one and they don't answer back when I say hello. Mind you neither do the sparrows I greet (clearly I have no direct line dating back to St Francis of Assisi).
I walk the dog you see. I talk to her all the time. She doesn't say much as she is too busy reading messages left - you guessed it - on trees. So our fast walk (intended to exhaust her and get me fitter and looking less like a tree in girth terms) grinds to a halt when her nose discerns a message at the base of a tree. Which happens often as the trees (exotic I suspect) are fairly evenly spaced in the street. So I have taken to look up at the trees and question them on what they have seen in their lives. I mean, like parishioners, they are here when you arrive, and unless some other "random" chops them down and incurs the wrath of the city council, the trees are there when you leave. As are many parishioners.
Which is exactly my experience in every church I have served in. Key people watch the pastor come and eventually go. It's a kind of life tenure. The same applies to headmasters of course!
Well I have started engaging trees in this peculiar fashion - something like the old milk train that used to stop at every station. There are trees that are very very old. There is a particular tree called Tane Mahuta for example that is estimated at 1200 years old and is 51 metres high (and 14 metres wide!). Agathis australis - the Kauri of course. These relatives of my humble street trees clearly have a story to tell!
Well I will persist in my new conversations. My dog does listen at times - and is improving in her stop-start ways. But she can't help stopping at these trees. So I stop now as well. And look up. They may not listen. Neither do some people. But I do give them a chance!
Stop. Look up. It sounds like a great sermon title.

Easter and beyond

We're still in the Easter season in church life - all the way to Pentecost. I guess that should be at least 7 weeks. The $28 million spent on Easter eggs must have made some people happy on these happy islands we call New Zealand. I gave it my best - is what some people say in their persuits. Exams, motor racing, surfing, preaching. Preaching? What an odd pastime! Well it's really my job - as an ordained minister I "preach" on a sunday to people who choose to show up and listen. At the same time I advocate that people should not preach AT each other. Something weird here. Preaching can be dullish monologue and pretty boring to boot. I "preached" at a funeral today. The lovely people said I did a good job! And that it was a lovely speech that I gave!
Easter and beyond. I spoke on the resurrection last Sunday. Again. For decades I have spoken about this new life and at umpteen funerals spoken of the hope we have after death.
So what lies beyond your Easter? Another long wait to the next long weekend? The next party, celebration, birthday or even Christmas? Do we really lurch from Friday night binge to the next on these our islands? To each new reason to drown our sorrows or eat some exotic new something to boost our energy and lagging enthusiasm?
What really keeps us going? A quest for something better? A new cure so that we can live longer? A new holiday so that we can escape again? Or as in my case a new Monday to recover from the mysteries of my job - preaching to people who volunteer to listen politely and forget quickly.
Easter and beyond. We will continue to reflect on the resurrection appearances of Jesus - the new community that He established which kept on telling more people about that same resurrection.
Life after death does not seem to excite this generation. Their "other" world is primarily a cyber-world - so connected are they across the wireless networks, copper wire families and fibre-optic friendship circles - their "otherworldly" life a present utopia. Or so they tell me.
But wait. Just a minute is the old way of waving a conversational flag or pressing a pause button in our thinking. I am talking to you, dear reader, using this same network of keyboards and screens. How few of you talk back. Comments do not abound, despite my readers who have a little look from all over the globe at these mutterings. Blogging is it? I had a 7 year old asking me this week to help him blog - to set up a place where he can write.So like me he sounded - words wanting a place to sit for just a minute.
Words - my food, my blood, my drink - they run around this aging brain and kick away in depths of conscience and in my thumping heart which for a reason known only to greater authority bangs away in my head and ear in the silent hours of the night. Next thing the adverts on my Facebook page will shout "tinitus" alongside nagging requests to share in new gout trials. How perverse you are the ism of consumer. Forever twisting these old arms to buy or test some new source of sickly sweet corporate profit.
Beyond Easter? So much awaits us - the calming and inspiring lines of new songs and tunes we could write. More poetry that waits to paint vast new landscapes of rythmn and lexical cohesion or subtle confusion. Or the animated conversations over coffee on street corners in predictable cafes with their unpredictable chatter. Perhaps there await new hours of solitude in which we reach far deeper - nearer that place between soul and spirit in our very depths - those prayers that creak and groan in agonising rooms of doubt and hope all jumbled up together.
Easter and beyond. The shiny wrappers tossed away and tonnes of chocolate processed and forgotten - what joys could there waiting be for you and me - beyond.