Skip to main content

On The Road

Last week was an extraordinary one. It ended brilliantly, with an invigorating, inspiring, intelligent discussion with the Archdeaconry of Southland, before a slow trip up SHW1 with a ton of English fiberglass bouncing along behind me.

Then, on Sunday, it was icing on the cake, with the slightly anarchic bonhomie of Port Chalmers in the morning and St. Matthews in the evening. I attended the 5:30 service in St. Matt's hall where some of the people not often see in Anglican churches gather for a meal, prayer and a gospel message. I was a stranger and probably a little too well dressed, so I was warily avoided until some of the folk from Friday Light recognized me, and by speaking to me let the others know I was safe. Afterwards it was into the church for the ordination of David Booth to the diaconate. The service was somewhat different than the last ordination, the 2 hours of glorious pageantry when James Harding was priested in the Cathedral a few weeks ago, but no less moving and in its own way just as grand. David is a fine man with just the sort of analytical and practical mind we will need as we reshape our world in the next couple of years. I am intrigued and excited at the calibre of people - exemplified by James and David- God is calling into orders at the moment. To me it's a sign that something big lies ahead of us.

This week doesn't seem to have slowed down much. Tonight I am parked beside St. Andrews Cromwell, the first church in our diocese to have been inspected for earthquake worthiness and the first to be given the unsettling news about its condition. The lovely little schist chapel outside my window meets only 15-20 % of the building code when it needs to meet 67%. Bringing it up to scratch will be expensive, beyond the immediate resources of the small congregation, but this well kept, much loved little church is just too precious to easily let go of. Tonight I dined with Noelene, the church warden and was moved by the ingenuity and imagination the congregation is putting into thinking through their predicament. There is no need to make quick decisions on the direction for the future, and there are some interesting possibilities.

Tomorrow early I will pray in the church then drive to Wanaka for a meeting about the proposed community house mooted for the land beside St. Columba's. Then I will meet a few parishioners in that end of the parish before returning here to pick up the caravan and trundle home. Life is nothing if not interesting.

 

Comments

Peter Carrell said…
There seems to be a pleasing increase in posting, +Kelvin, due to the use of the caravan!
Kelvin Wright said…
Ill probably write less frequently when I get the jacuzzi and the home theatre system installed.
Denis Bartley said…
and the gym or perhaps you could get a bike attached for visiting in the parishes!

Popular posts from this blog

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

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

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

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

Return to Middle Earth

 We had a flood, a couple of weeks back, and had to move all the stuff out of the spare bedroom, including  the contents of two floor to ceiling book cases. Shoving the long unopened copies of Sartor Resartus and An Introduction to Byron into cartons, I came upon my  copy of The Lord of the Rings . Written in the flyleaf are the dates of its many readings, the last one being when I read it aloud to Catherine, when she was about 10 or 11, well over 20 years ago. The journey across Middle Earth took Catherine and me the best part of a year, except for the evening when we followed Frodo and Sam across the last stretches of Mordor and up Mount Doom, when we simply couldn't stop, and sat up reading until 11.00 pm, on a school night.  My old copy is a paperback, the same edition that every card carrying baby boomer has somewhere on their shelves. The glue has dried and hardened. The cover and many of the pages have come loose. I was overcome with the urge to read it again, but this old