Sunday, 19 February 2017

Another Sunday

I led worship and preached in Knox Presbyterian Church today, and felt unnervingly at home. The music was polished and beautifully presented while remaining accessible. I like the building. It soars skyward and gently embraces all in the right places. It's large enough to seat 800 people, but even with today's congregation of  150 or so it didn't feel empty.  In my time I have been a member of the South Canterbury and Waikato Presbytries, so I have know the minister of Knox, Kerry Enrright since the mid 1980s, and ever since he has been here we agreed that one day I'd make this ecumenical gesture. Well, today was the day.

This afternoon Selwyn College opened again for business. All Saints, which functions as the college chapel was full to bursting with the 190 nervous students and a far greater number of their even more nervous parents. I preached (for the seventh and last time!) and inducted the new warden, Ashley Day. We all trooped out into the sunshine for speeches and then the waiata and haka. It is always a spine tingling moment, seeing last years students lined up to challenge and welcome this years' freshers. These are some of our country's brightest and best and they are all about to be immersed in Selwyn's rich, supportive, arcane, congenial, sometimes baffling, always self assured traditions.


Monday, 13 February 2017

Riding Off Into The Sunset

You've seen the movie a thousand times. The town is full of baddies and no one knows what to do, especially the very pretty school teacher/widow/shopkeeper who the chief baddie seems to fancy. In rides a lantern jawed bloke, who after a few initial setbacks,  makes the moderately bad guys look silly, shoots the really bad guys, and fights the really really bad guy up and down several flights of steps and on the top of something moving before witnessing his catastrophically inventive death. Then the the lantern jawed bloke tips his hat, says something self effacing and leaves, usually at sunset, and in the company of the very pretty st/w/sk, and the credits roll.

So what happens next? By which I don't mean what happens in the sequel, which is the same film with the same plot but with more explosions. I mean what would happen next, really? What happens when the lantern jawed bloke and the pretty widow get over the horizon? When they start to feel a bit peckish, or when they need somewhere to stop for the night? Where are they going to go and what are they going to tell their respective parents, and where can they find a cheap mortgage and what do they each feel about having children? What happens in the town when people have got to come out of hiding and clean up all the blood and patch up the bullet holes and bury all those bodies? How do they fill the power vacuum left by the really, really bad guy and how do they get the commerce of the town rolling again, what with the saloon and the general store being blown to smithereens and everything?

The ending of the film may seem like a satisfying place to leave things, tying up, as it does, all the  contrived bits of the plot, but really, it's not an ending at all, it's the beginning of a whole lot of other, less easily scripted, messier stories. In fact, when you think about it, the structure of an action/western/gangster film is a hopelessly unsatisfactory cliche with no decent application to real life, but that doesn't stop it being prescriptive for much of our public life. We see so many of them that we start to believe them, not so much the plot details as the overarching pattern. We begin to see public life, and foreign policy as though they were movie plots, with prescribed movie endings.  The gulf wars were run like this: the arch villain with his WMDs was holed up in the desert town so the good guys stormed in and blew him away. Woohoo!. Cue the sunset and happily ever after. But of course the plot didn't work out then, any more than it did during the presidential election.

Trump framed his election as the defence of the once peaceful place which had fallen into disrepair and corruption because those rich folks who lived up on the hill were running everything and making it tough for the poor honest cowboys. The goodie , the straight talking stranger from out of town, rode in from nowhere and squared off against the baddie, the moneyed representative of the corrupt cabal who ran the show, and by dint of bravado and a quick trigger finger, blew her out of the water. Game over. Yippee! Roll the credits.

But just as in the movies, life ain't like that. When the sun rises again after the sunset which had been so lately ridden into, there is a still smoking town and some devastated people and a couple just beginning their first major argument. When the sun rises again the Middle East is in a turmoil that only seems to be worsening a decade later. Movie scenarios work only when the world is simplified and condensed. In other words they only work in a fictional universe, and never in that other one: the one one containing tears, sweat, semen and menses, i.e. the one in which we all live. If we don't get that distinction right, we wake to the terrifying reality of an illiterate, narcissistic buffoon holding the most powerful office in the world.

Sunday, 12 February 2017

Starting Young

 
What do you do when children want to handle valuable and fragile things? Forbid them and make the object all the more attractive? Let them handle it under supervision and and so familiarise themselves with it? Noah Picked up my number 1 camera. My heart sank as I watched him totter under the sheer weight of it, but I could see he was curious about this thing which he associated so strongly with me, and I would love him to have the gifts a camera can bring: the ability to see; the ability to make something beautiful in a fraction of a second.  So I opted for the latter, and gave him his first photography lesson: Always put the strap around your neck. Never put your fingers on anything made of glass. Look through this bit. Press this one.

When I uploaded the results today I wish I hadn't left it set to continuous shooting. There were a lot of frames, but amongst the many mis-shots were several I would have been proud to have taken myself.  True, the camera did a lot of the work for him, but it's interesting to see what he chose to point it at. All portraiture is about what's going on between the photographer and the subject. Sort of like found poems, these found pictures speak profoundly of him, and his relationships with those who love him.
 
 
 

Thursday, 2 February 2017

Eden to Patmos. Week 9.

I am in Queenstown. Back on the job, back on the road. Still reading my way through the Old Testament.

I like this part of the Bible, these stories of David as he rises to power and tries to keep one step ahead of the varied and vociferous and villainous band of relatives who make up his court. There's all the bits we were told in Sunday School, of course, such as Jonathan firing his coded arrows and the clear eyed shepherd boy squaring off against the armoured behemoth, but now, late in life its the other bits I notice. Such as Joab and Abner, ruthless, amoral and intemperate, locked  in a years long duel to the death from the shadows of their respective kings. Such as the ephemeral villains, each with his wonderful name: Doeg, Shimei, Natash. I notice the seams where the narrative has been stitched together from its various sources. I notice the women, the very few of them who make it into the story, and try to guess at the alternative history which is occasionally breaking the surface.

I try to slide past the ferocity, the wanton unconcern for human life, the savagery.

It is all so raw and unpolished. It's easy to see the genesis of this text: the aging companions of David, sitting around a table drinking far too much wine and roaring with laughter as they remember and retell and relive, while all the time a young scribe sits soberly by and makes notes. The Books of Samuel tell how the fearless and beautiful young man, attractive to both men and women, moves through middle age to become an emperor before sliding into ineffectuality as the debaucheries and miscalculations of youth catch up on him. It's the story of how twelve separate cultures are welded into a nation and held together by the personal force of one man, before fragmenting again under the leadership of his lesser descendants. It's the story of the human race as it perches on the edge of so many monumental changes: the shift into cities and the use of iron, and the invention of writing. It is the story of God.

For sounding through all these often told or wilfully ignored stories is another voice, faintly heard at first, but rising more clearly, and seen only when this long text is read as a whole. It is the call to depth; to reflection; to justice; to righteousness. It is the realisation that buried in this very human story is an eternal one. It is a voice that David himself, despite himself, seems sometimes to have heard clearly. It is a voice that sounds most fully in that one of his descendants who said you shall know the truth and the truth shall set you free. 

It is that voice which I have spent all these years trying to hear. it is that voice which I have tried so hard, and with such limited success, to make heard.