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Showing posts from April, 2017


Last week, about a year after I had ordered it, my copy of Bibliotheca arrived. Bibliotheca is an edition of the Bible produced by Adam Lewis Greene. He aimed to restore a way of encountering the Biblical text which we have lost as our approach to the scripture has become more encyclopaedic and more cerebral. So here is a beautifully produced piece of the bookmaker's art, printed on fine paper and in a clear, attractive font, with a sewn binding and cloth covers so that it opens flat. It is printed in four volumes, with one extra containing the Apocrypha, each volume being 400-500 pages, and each about the size and weight of  a hardback novel. There are no chapter of verse numbers, and no textual apparatus of any kind; there is just the text, beautifully bound and printed on paper which is as lovely to touch as the firm covers. I am already part way through a reading of the whole Bible, so immediately swapped to Bibliotheca and unwittingly and gently brought myself face t

Monday, Monday

There's still a few things to do. Tomorrow I return the car, a couple of croziers and a book or two. I'll clean out my office, and do goodness knows what with the contents. No great drama there. Holy Saturday, I lit holy fire and flicked water over people in the candle lit haze of  All Saints, North Dunedin. Easter day I preached and sat in that ridiculous chair one last time, before driving slowly home to change and then to sleep the afternoon away. Today I took some stuff to the dump, cleared my in tray, trimmed a hedge, cooked a stir fry for dinner, cleared out my filing cabinet, and read a bit. I need to buy a car and there are a couple of promising ones in Auckland. On Wednesday I might spend some of my great wadge of accumulated airpoints, and then drive something plain and red and Japanese down the length of the country and back home again. So this is what being retired is like. Ordinary.   

At Last

Last hour Last set of minutes Last fill of the tank Last gasp Last call Last cab off the rank Last synod Last Christmas Last year Last Easter in a few days Last time under the pointy hat Last time I'm Last in the procession Last smile Last glance Last straw Last chance Last toss of the dice Last night Last time to be Last one out Last time to switch off the light Last book Last chapter Last page Last word Z Last thing I heard Last thing I knew Last thing I thought of Last thing I do Last will Last testament Last resting place Last seen Last time with you was the Last at Last. Nothing Lasts forever

The Last Week

A sunrise or a sunset, who can tell? It has been a month of endings; of acknowledging the severing of relationships, with no particular expectations of what might happen next. Last Sunday I preached in my local parish church. The people of St. Michaels were kind and generous in what they said over morning tea as they farewelled me as bishop and welcomed me into their congregation. Right in the middle of the Fourth Gospel, chapter 11 of 21, the author has placed the story of Lazarus. Right in the middle of the story of Lazarus the author has placed the story of Jesus' conversation with Lazarus' sister Martha, as she tearfully upbraids him for not doing more to save her brother. Martha speaks of Jesus as her hope, but she locates that hope in some other place, far removed from the  monumental rock right beside her and the putresescence of her brother's decaying body sealed behind it. Jesus is a little more material. He asks for the stone to be moved. Hope is here an