... I feel
If someone said on Christmas Eve,
“Come, see the oxen kneel
In the lonely barton by yonder coomb
Our childhood used to know”,
I should go with him in the gloom,
Hoping it might be so.
Thomas Hardy’s wistful lines. I knew that Christmas morning at the local community church at Snells Beach would be deleterious to my poise and fragile tolerance, so somewhat to the disappointment of my wife and daughter I headed off to 8 am at the Anglican church in Warkworth. Surely that would be a simple, unadorned following of the liturgy which, after all, speaks for itself.
Oh dear, oh dear... I don’t know where the vicar was, but the service was conducted, if that’s the word, by some kind of geriatric clerical comedian who hadn’t actually prepared a damn thing. That in itself is insulting. The congregation was mainly elderly (like me), but what they were experiencing was evidently what they expected – a string of unfunny jokes, some of the familiar carols very badly sung, and some kind of “sermon” which was more an embarrassing quiz on the details of the Lukan story, with mild telling-offs for “not listening”. All this was to the unrelenting accompaniment of small children who had not the remotest awareness of where they were or why, yelling, running, fighting...
I had gone searching for some thoughtful statement of love and incarnation, grace, peace, pardon. It wasn’t to be. Once before, some years back, I had gone to Christmas morning communion at the same church, and that time the vicar at least admitted that he had prepared nothing, and so he told us about his dog. A couple of years ago, Mary and I attended 8 am Christmas Day communion at the Anglican cathedral in Auckland. Old Paul Reeves officiated – and so help me he had prepared nothing. He had to ask the organist what the next hymn was. A major Christian festival, and these blokes don’t even try. Once again I came home, got on the web and found the sermon of Rowan Williams in Canterbury Cathedral, and thus a bit of actual nourishment, some thoughtful and scholarly message from the fact of incarnation.
This morning we were not ten seconds into the service but we were talking about food. The local churches are obsessed with food. They can do nothing without first ensuring their food supply. They have committees on food. Confronted with the mystery of incarnation this morning, this chap began by telling us the food arrangements for the New Year’s Eve barbecue, while various women in the congregation jumped up to correct him. Mary says they’re good people and they mean well.
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On National Radio I heard some business luminary commenting lucidly on the economy: “The big driver going forward is the reverse of the one we had to start with.”
Saturday, December 26, 2009
Saturday, December 19, 2009
Seasonal Seizures
The clergy buffoons at St Matthew-in-the-City in central Auckland put up a large poster showing Joseph and Mary in bed, with a silly offensive caption. Of course it provoked an immediate reaction from all sorts, who then got sprayed with general abuse from the vicar, Glyn Cardy, and his offside, a dim and angry chap called Clay Nelson – people who objected to the poster, they announced, were narrow and humourless, and so on. Well, I am neither narrow nor humourless, but this poster was by any decent standards obnoxious, and it certainly wasn’t funny except to those many who think anything to do with sex must be entertaining.
Someone then obliterated the poster with brown paint. So the buffoons erected a copy of it, while informing us that these things cost $250 a pop, and the replacement got slashed with a knife by an elderly woman.
Thus the church goes about celebrating Advent and Christmas. Inspiring, is it not? Cardy and Nelson, silly gits, are still fighting battles most of us retired from ages ago when we grew up. St Matthew’s has long been a centre for gays and for what some see to be liberal attitudes and all that. So there are always people running around there with chips on both shoulders. A little while back someone started teaching in the Christian gay community that one of the tyrannies under which they suffered was the constraint always to be nice and polite. But Jesus wasn’t always nice...etc. So now we get some pretty angry stuff emerging.
The local Anglican bishop, who should have firmly and without fuss instructed Cardy to remove the poster, instead made some anaemic comment that he didn’t like it. News and publicity of Cardy’s crassness went around the world, and reactions flooded in from Canada to Costa Rica. Yet again we are made to look pathetic – but then, I guess, that is what we are. It’s only one step higher from being boring.
Meanwhile, the miracle of Advent and Christmas is being quietly passed along in other ways altogether, heart to heart, in love and beauty, in justice and peace, in understanding and forgiveness, in silence and stillness.
Someone then obliterated the poster with brown paint. So the buffoons erected a copy of it, while informing us that these things cost $250 a pop, and the replacement got slashed with a knife by an elderly woman.
Thus the church goes about celebrating Advent and Christmas. Inspiring, is it not? Cardy and Nelson, silly gits, are still fighting battles most of us retired from ages ago when we grew up. St Matthew’s has long been a centre for gays and for what some see to be liberal attitudes and all that. So there are always people running around there with chips on both shoulders. A little while back someone started teaching in the Christian gay community that one of the tyrannies under which they suffered was the constraint always to be nice and polite. But Jesus wasn’t always nice...etc. So now we get some pretty angry stuff emerging.
The local Anglican bishop, who should have firmly and without fuss instructed Cardy to remove the poster, instead made some anaemic comment that he didn’t like it. News and publicity of Cardy’s crassness went around the world, and reactions flooded in from Canada to Costa Rica. Yet again we are made to look pathetic – but then, I guess, that is what we are. It’s only one step higher from being boring.
Meanwhile, the miracle of Advent and Christmas is being quietly passed along in other ways altogether, heart to heart, in love and beauty, in justice and peace, in understanding and forgiveness, in silence and stillness.
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Atheism on the omnibus
Only one aspect of the “God probably doesn’t exist” promotion on buses actually bothers me. It is that Garth George might feel called to leap to the defence of God. Or worse, “Bishop” Brian Tamaki. (For those who don’t know these gents, Garth George is our resident Christian bigot who writes a weekly column in the NZ Herald; and Brian is a self-appointed and anointed bishop who requires his followers to support him even when he’s wrong, which is just as well because it is usually the case.)
The news since is that the local atheists who asked for $10,000 to put their slogan on buses have received a flood of donations. They can now do more buses than they thought, and have other slogans.
C’mon, punish the church, write a cheque... Get right up the nostrils of those sanctimonious hypocritical Christians. It’s also a little sad that their slogan is unoriginal, as though there were no creativity whatever among the godless. They copied it from the London buses.
Well, I saw the leading atheist on TV the other night, and he’s quite a decent bloke who needs to cheer up a bit. He didn’t seem fazed by the observation that he’s actually having a bob each way – “God probably doesn’t exist...” He thought that it was time the rationalists, humanists, agnostics, atheists, got their say, as though the boring monochrome old NZ Rationalist Society has not existed here for about a century already.
How come these atheists think they have some monopoly on reason and rational thought?
I agree with them, however. The god they say doesn’t exist, in my understanding isn’t there at all. Never was. Neither is the god of Garth George, sad old bloke. Garth’s god turns out to be spookily like Garth. I have my doubts too about the gods of Presbyterianism, Anglicanism and Catholicism – although they are so obscured by the churches that it’s difficult to be sure. I suspect that in biblical terms they’re idols.
Faith for me has simplified with age. About all that is meaningful to me is the picture of God that Jesus offers, Jesus the Jew, the person the New Testament calls the “icon of the invisible God”. So it’s just as well perhaps that I don’t have to preach sermons now. Faith and prayer for me are best expressed in silence and stillness, and simplicity. Certainly not chatter or dispute.
The news since is that the local atheists who asked for $10,000 to put their slogan on buses have received a flood of donations. They can now do more buses than they thought, and have other slogans.
C’mon, punish the church, write a cheque... Get right up the nostrils of those sanctimonious hypocritical Christians. It’s also a little sad that their slogan is unoriginal, as though there were no creativity whatever among the godless. They copied it from the London buses.
Well, I saw the leading atheist on TV the other night, and he’s quite a decent bloke who needs to cheer up a bit. He didn’t seem fazed by the observation that he’s actually having a bob each way – “God probably doesn’t exist...” He thought that it was time the rationalists, humanists, agnostics, atheists, got their say, as though the boring monochrome old NZ Rationalist Society has not existed here for about a century already.
How come these atheists think they have some monopoly on reason and rational thought?
I agree with them, however. The god they say doesn’t exist, in my understanding isn’t there at all. Never was. Neither is the god of Garth George, sad old bloke. Garth’s god turns out to be spookily like Garth. I have my doubts too about the gods of Presbyterianism, Anglicanism and Catholicism – although they are so obscured by the churches that it’s difficult to be sure. I suspect that in biblical terms they’re idols.
Faith for me has simplified with age. About all that is meaningful to me is the picture of God that Jesus offers, Jesus the Jew, the person the New Testament calls the “icon of the invisible God”. So it’s just as well perhaps that I don’t have to preach sermons now. Faith and prayer for me are best expressed in silence and stillness, and simplicity. Certainly not chatter or dispute.
Tuesday, December 08, 2009
Fleeing the football
Today they announced that seats at Eden Park for the 2011 Rugby World Cup final start at $350, and the premium seats will be $1250. Apparently they are not making this up. About 25,000 seats total will be available for locals, by ballot. The other 35,000 seats in the park are all allocated to the International Rugby Board for sale around the world and for giving to their mates.
There are zealots here who will tell you instantly, day by day, if you ask, how many days are left before the NZ 2011 RWC begins. Don’t ask. We saw a clock in Christchurch Cathedral Square which exists for exactly that. Presumably it is going to remain there in the Square, counting down the days, hours and minutes, until the glorious apotheosis of Rugby Heaven.
Major public works are scheduled to be completed for the RWC, as though that were their entire raison d’être. A plan to integrate all fares and tickets on bus, rail and boat transport services in Greater Auckland must be ready, they demand, for the RWC. Presumably were it not for that incentive it would never get done.
It daily becomes clearer to me that the 2011 Rugby World Cup is something to be strenuously avoided. The game is of no interest to me whatever. Should it be?
Someone tried to tell me that, up here at Algies Bay, the tranquil waters of normal life will remain unruffled. Indeed he said, Algies Bay might be just the place to be. Like smoke it will. The highway from here to Auckland will be unpassable. TV, radio and the newspapers will be obsessed. Global warming will be speeded up. Thousands of drunken British rugby yobboes will descend on the land and spread their foulness everywhere. The police will be completely occupied elsewhere and burglaries and rapes will thrive.
That most execrable and objectionable of all the manifestations of Kiwi “culture”, the haka, will drive us all nuts.
So I am plotting to escape. Somewhere far away. Mary is not so sure.
There are zealots here who will tell you instantly, day by day, if you ask, how many days are left before the NZ 2011 RWC begins. Don’t ask. We saw a clock in Christchurch Cathedral Square which exists for exactly that. Presumably it is going to remain there in the Square, counting down the days, hours and minutes, until the glorious apotheosis of Rugby Heaven.
Major public works are scheduled to be completed for the RWC, as though that were their entire raison d’être. A plan to integrate all fares and tickets on bus, rail and boat transport services in Greater Auckland must be ready, they demand, for the RWC. Presumably were it not for that incentive it would never get done.
It daily becomes clearer to me that the 2011 Rugby World Cup is something to be strenuously avoided. The game is of no interest to me whatever. Should it be?
Someone tried to tell me that, up here at Algies Bay, the tranquil waters of normal life will remain unruffled. Indeed he said, Algies Bay might be just the place to be. Like smoke it will. The highway from here to Auckland will be unpassable. TV, radio and the newspapers will be obsessed. Global warming will be speeded up. Thousands of drunken British rugby yobboes will descend on the land and spread their foulness everywhere. The police will be completely occupied elsewhere and burglaries and rapes will thrive.
That most execrable and objectionable of all the manifestations of Kiwi “culture”, the haka, will drive us all nuts.
So I am plotting to escape. Somewhere far away. Mary is not so sure.
Tuesday, December 01, 2009
Rodney Writes
The Rodney public libraries system has what it calls its annual Rodney Writes Writing Competition. I knew nothing about this until, behold, on the counter at our freshly renovated Mahurangi East branch, free copies of the 2009 prizewinning entries in a quite handsome little booklet.
Now one’s whole inclination is to lend solid support to our local efforts, both in writing and in publishing. It is really amazing after all that we actually have such a light and airy and helpful library branch at Snells Beach (Mahurangi East), with all the on line systems and pleasant staff. But, in fact, there are a few questions about the Rodney Writes Writing Competition.
The three judges are named, one for each of the three categories – Premier, Novice, and Young Writer – but the names mean nothing to me. Why not introduce the judges? I am sure they are excellent people, and probably well known among the potters and vignerons and pickle-makers at the Matakana Farmers Market. I needed to know something about their fitness to judge. And there are no judges’ comments. What did they think of the standard of entries? Why did they like the winning entries, because I didn’t.
This year participants had the choice to “write on any topic of your choice. You may write a short story up to 2,500 words about anything you wish! Write to inspire, provoke, excite or entice your reader. We encourage you to be creative in your thinking.” Well, in those terms it was something of a disaster, it seems to me. That was far too wide a brief. Why not ask for a short story, or a brief biography, or something that required some research? So much NZ writing, journalism, these days, somehow defaults to what happened to me one day and how I felt about it, sometimes artfully but not successfully disguised. Michelle Hewitson and Garth George in the NZ Herald are prime examples.
But enough about being critical…! My first encounter with public libraries was at the stylish brick Remuera Public Library in Auckland, which is there to this day. Behind it, and all of a piece, is the Remuera Library Hall – where I once, to my everlasting shame, featured in a Meadowbank Primary School concert as a Nigger Minstrel, my face blackened, and singing “Massa’s in de cold, cold grave”. I don’t recall ever giving my permission for any of that.
However, back in the library, as a barefoot 9-year-old, I discovered Arthur Ransome. Remuera Public Library had a Children’s Section, in which children who dared to appear were subject to constant surveillance, and required to Make No Noise. I knew how to become invisible – a skill of increasing value in subsequent years – and could hide myself there, on the floor at the back, and read Swallows And Amazons and many other amazing books.
Libraries are what liberated me. They had ideas and experiences which were not described, authorised or explained by my seniors. That is always why libraries matter. Of course, there were also librarians. I still fight with them sometimes. But, clearly, there is a new generation, dedicated to facilitating things for people. We are well served at Mahurangi East.
Now one’s whole inclination is to lend solid support to our local efforts, both in writing and in publishing. It is really amazing after all that we actually have such a light and airy and helpful library branch at Snells Beach (Mahurangi East), with all the on line systems and pleasant staff. But, in fact, there are a few questions about the Rodney Writes Writing Competition.
The three judges are named, one for each of the three categories – Premier, Novice, and Young Writer – but the names mean nothing to me. Why not introduce the judges? I am sure they are excellent people, and probably well known among the potters and vignerons and pickle-makers at the Matakana Farmers Market. I needed to know something about their fitness to judge. And there are no judges’ comments. What did they think of the standard of entries? Why did they like the winning entries, because I didn’t.
This year participants had the choice to “write on any topic of your choice. You may write a short story up to 2,500 words about anything you wish! Write to inspire, provoke, excite or entice your reader. We encourage you to be creative in your thinking.” Well, in those terms it was something of a disaster, it seems to me. That was far too wide a brief. Why not ask for a short story, or a brief biography, or something that required some research? So much NZ writing, journalism, these days, somehow defaults to what happened to me one day and how I felt about it, sometimes artfully but not successfully disguised. Michelle Hewitson and Garth George in the NZ Herald are prime examples.
But enough about being critical…! My first encounter with public libraries was at the stylish brick Remuera Public Library in Auckland, which is there to this day. Behind it, and all of a piece, is the Remuera Library Hall – where I once, to my everlasting shame, featured in a Meadowbank Primary School concert as a Nigger Minstrel, my face blackened, and singing “Massa’s in de cold, cold grave”. I don’t recall ever giving my permission for any of that.
However, back in the library, as a barefoot 9-year-old, I discovered Arthur Ransome. Remuera Public Library had a Children’s Section, in which children who dared to appear were subject to constant surveillance, and required to Make No Noise. I knew how to become invisible – a skill of increasing value in subsequent years – and could hide myself there, on the floor at the back, and read Swallows And Amazons and many other amazing books.
Libraries are what liberated me. They had ideas and experiences which were not described, authorised or explained by my seniors. That is always why libraries matter. Of course, there were also librarians. I still fight with them sometimes. But, clearly, there is a new generation, dedicated to facilitating things for people. We are well served at Mahurangi East.
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