Skip to main content

Anniversary

It was 39 years ago on Thursday that I was ordained deacon. I don't have any photos of the ordination - people didn't wander round with cell phones back then, nor take their box brownies to significant events, especially in somewhere as intimidating as Christchurch Cathedral, so I found this shot, taken by Clemency, obviously, at about the same time. I'm holding our son Nick, whose birth happened a little later, and was an event even more life changing than the ordination.

Some events make for significant memories - starting school. Graduating from university. First time asking a girl out. First kiss. First job. The day Princess Diana died. The day President Kennedy died. Other events change your very being. Baptism. Marriage. Parenthood. Ordination. I remember two or three days after my ordination, walking through Cathedral Square in my brand new black shirt, black trousers, black shoes and sparkly white collar. I walked past a group of gang members in their patches and tattoos and chains. There were about 8 of them, all big guys, laughing and joking and clowning around. As I walked past they fell silent and looked at the ground, and I walked on, heavy with the realisation of what had been laid on me. There are many times I've wanted to be free of the burden of it; many times I've thought about choices not made and paths not taken. But this is the path I followed from then until now, and it has been rich and full and blessed. 

I was ordained alongside John Marcon and Alec Clark. All of us stayed the course: John  retired a year or two back and I attend Alec's retirement function this coming Friday. When Christ calls a man, he bids him come and die, said Dietrich Bonhoeffer. I guess that night, kneeling in the cathedral with Alan Pyatt's hands on our head we, all three of us died. As we have all done many times since, I suspect. But I for one, and I think probably the others as well,  have spent the 39 years since with an abiding sense of resurrection. It has been wonder full. I am so grateful.

Photo: The camera I had back then was a Canon FTb, and I expect it was used for this. Clemency is always better at photographing people than I am and she's framed this one nicely.

Comments

Merv said…
Beautiful.
"... Still live in me this loving strife
Of living Death and dying Life.
For while Thou sweetly slayest me
Dead to my selfe, I live in Thee."
Richard Crashaw, 'A Song'

Popular posts from this blog

Ko Tangata Tiriti Ahau

    The Christmas before last our kids gave us Ancestry.com kits. You know the deal: you spit into a test tube, send it over to Ireland, and in a month or so you get a wadge of paper in the mail telling you who you are. I've never, previously, been interested in all that stuff. I knew my forbears came to Aotearoa in the 1850's from Britain but I didn't know from where, exactly. Clemency's results, as it turns out, were pretty interesting. She was born in England, but has ancestors from various European places, and some who are Ngāti Raukawa, so she can whakapapa back to a little marae called Kikopiri, near Ōtaki. And me? It turns out I'm more British than most British people. Apart from a smattering of Norse  - probably the result of some Viking raid in the dim distant past - all my tūpuna seem to have come from a little group of villages in Nottinghamshire.  Now I've been to the UK a few times, and I quite like it, but it's not home: my heart and soul belon

Kindle

 Living as I do in a place where most books have to come a long way in an aeroplane, reading is an expensive addiction, and of course there is always the problem of shelf space. I have about 50 metres of shelving in my new study, but it is already full and there is not a lot of wall space left; and although it is great insulation, what is eventually going to happen to all that paper? I doubt my kids will want to fill their homes with old theological works, so most of my library is eventually going to end up as egg cartons. Ebooks are one solution to book cost and storage issues so I have been  using them for a while now, but their big problem has been finding suitable hardware to read them on.  I first read them on the tiny screens of Ipaqs and they were quite satisfactory but the wretchedness of Microsoft Reader and its somewhat arbitrary copyright protection system killed the experience entirely. On Palm devices they were OK except the plethora of competing and incompatible formats

En Hakkore

In the hills up behind Ranfurly there used to be a town, Hamilton, which at one stage was home to 5,000 people. All that remains of it now is a graveyard, fenced off and baking in the lonely brown hills. Near it, in the 1930s a large Sanitorium was built for the treatment of tuberculosis and other respiratory ailments. It was a substantial complex of buildings with wards, a nurses hostel, impressive houses for the manager and superintendent and all the utility buildings needed for such a large operation. The treatment offered consisted of isolation, views and weather. Patients were exposed to the air, the tons of it which whistled past, often at great speed, the warmth of the sun and the cold. They were housed in small cubicles opening onto huge glassed verandas where they cooked in the summer and froze in the winter and often, what with the wholesome food and the exercise, got better. When advances in antibiotics rendered the Sanitorium obsolete it was turned into a Borstal and the

The Traitor

A couple of people have questioned me privately about the Leonard Cohen song The Traitor , and about Cohen's comments on the song, "[The Traitor is about] the feeling we have of betraying some mission we were mandated to fulfill and being unable to fulfill it; then coming to understand that the real mandate was not to fulfill it; and the real courage is to stand guiltless in the predicament in which you find yourself". What on earth does he mean, and why am I so excited about it? For the latter, check with my psychiatrist. For the former, my take on the song is this: The Traitor is another of those instances, as in The Partisan , where Leonard Cohen uses a military metaphor to speak of life in general and human love in particular. Many of us hold high ideals: some great quest or other that we pursue. These are often laudable things: finding true love, finding the absolute love of God, becoming enlightened, spreading the Gospel, writing the great novel or some such

Camino, by David Whyte

This poem captures it perfectly Camino. The way forward, the way between things, the way already walked before you, the path disappearing and re-appearing even as the ground gave way beneath you, the grief apparent only in the moment of forgetting, then the river, the mountain, the lifting song of the Sky Lark inviting you over the rain filled pass when your legs had given up, and after, it would be dusk and the half-lit villages in evening light; other people's homes glimpsed through lighted windows and inside, other people's lives; your own home you had left crowding your memory as you looked to see a child playing or a mother moving from one side of a room to another, your eyes wet with the keen cold wind of Navarre. But your loss brought you here to walk under one name and one name only, and to find the guise under which all loss can live; remember you were given that name every day along the way, remember you were greeted as such, and you neede