Skip to main content

Fair's fair



Every year we have a parish fair, usually on the first Saturday in November, but this year for reasons I can no longer remember we had it a week early.Not that the timing seemed to make much difference, as it all went off as smoothly as ever. There is a long history of holding parish fairs and a lot of people who know how it all works. People have their alloted jobs to do, and they know the steps in the process of making that bit of the process happen. I have my own particular contribution to make. There is a circuit of local schools and churches who all borrow trestle tables off each other, and, on the day before the fair, they have to be visited in turn by cars towing trailers, one of which is mine. There is a barbecue of formidable weight to be collected from the naval training base - why the Royal New Zealand Navy would own such a thing and why they would lend it to us are mysteries now lost in the fogs of history. There is a marquee to be erected and this involves a lot blokes in late middle age hammering large bits of metal into the ground using a mallet of prodigious size. We take turns and sweat a lot. Tables are erected and stacked with stuff. Old electrical appliances are tested to make sure they work. Cakes and sweets are baked and packaged. Local businesses are canvassed for contributions to a raffle table and to a silent auction. Signs and balloons and streamers are hung up about the place. A crowd gathers and a bell is rung and then it's all on. In about three hours the parish makes $17,000 and then we pack everything up, traverse the circuit of table suppliers again - only this time in delivery mode - and discuss how we can make next year's fair better than this one.

On the face of it, running a fair doesn't seem like a Gospel activity, but on the face of it is wrong. Pretty much everyone in the church community is involved in some way or another and at the end of the day, there is the expected deepening of bonds that come from performing any absorbing activity together. The general public seems to like coming to our fair. It is a cheap, safe outing for families and there's always the chance of picking up a bargain. Our parish is filled with interesting people with interesting and, sometimes, well paid jobs so the contents of the basements, garages, wardrobes and bookcases which fill our stalls are well worth picking over. We are providing a greatly loved and eagerly anticipated social service to the neighbourhood.

But wait, there's more...

This year the proceeds of the fair will be divided between some as yet to be decided charity outside the parish - some group who needs the cash - and the restoration of our hall . We can come up with all manner of erudite expositions of the faith, and make all the plans we like for imaginative ministry, but for any of them to be more than just a happy thought requires money and, usually, a place for them to happen. There is a lot going on at St. John's Roslyn: people are taught and grow; ministry happens; God is encountered. And, the people who on Saturday quietly got on with the business of making the fair happen were participating in that. Extraordinary happenings of lifesaving and sometimes cosmic significance finding a focus in small, everyday deeds. It's called incarnation.

Comments

Anonymous said…
You forgot to mention God's gracious gift of a WONDERFULLY SUNNY Fair day sandwiched between days of rain, rain, drizzle and more rain (yes, yes, good for the garden!)
It was a fantastic effort by all the parish community and supporters.
Thanks be to God for bringing us all together.

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 incomp...

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 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...