On a wedding in Himeville

 I conducted a wedding in Himeville yesterday.
 

It was at St. Michael's, a quaint Anglican church nestled in the heart of Himeville which, strangely, neither Mary nor I could recall though we have visited this area on countless occasions. We decided to make a weekend of it.

I love old churches. I have this romantic notion that one day, in my ministry, I will move to a small town and look after a small congregation who worships in a beautiful, old church. I reveal this longing every time I do a sermon series on church – I inevitably use an image of a small country church set out in a field somewhere. A strange thing to do as no church that I’ve served in has ever looked like that. I also imagined this church peopled by a significant number of young families, slightly Bohemian, deeply committed and free thinking. (Like I said, a romantic notion).

St. Michael's is a beautiful, old-stone building, built in the grand-style of old churches, with two vestries serving as part of the transept.The granite font is placed traditionally and quite correctly, at the back of the church with the words, ‘Suffer the little children to come unto me’ inscribed on it. Baptism, the entrance into church, as it should be. The walls are covered in banners, a range of Bible quotes each a lesson in itself – really, you can get the Gospel from churches without even having to listen to the sermon. I fear many people do. The pair of stained-glass windows up front depicted St. Francis of Assisi reflecting on nature’s delight. This pair stood in symmetry with a pair of tall, thin candles at the raised altar, holding within them the sacred gold-cross attached to the wall up front. It is a serene, beautiful little church.I know the church is not the building but sometimes you can be forgiven for thinking it is.

The groom was particularly anxious and doing a poor job of attempting to hide the fact. The bride was by this stage running decidedly late; having scoped out the church before the wedding I decided to inform the groom that, if he was having second thoughts, the exits are ‘here, here and here’ pointing with outstretched arms in the fashion of an air hostess indicating to her passengers how to exit on the event of an unforeseen earlier-than-intentioned landing. This drew nervous giggles – should the dude with the collar really be joking in such a fashion?

This couple are a mature couple which, to be honest, I find a little harder to marry. Young people are easy; now that I have the wisdom of a well-thought out thirty eight years, I can put on that sage-like look of someone with something meaningful to impart. But older people? Those wrinkles? Their story? They’ve forgotten more than I’ve learnt.

So I spoke about being thankful, for the bride, in preparation for this day, spoke about how she saw the entirety of it as one big gift. I like that. A gift. And what is the correct response to a gift? Well, thankfulness.I forget who it was who said that, in life there are really only two prayers one need pray, ‘Help me, help me, help me and thank you, thank you, thank you.’ I would tend to agree, with the second usurping the first in place of importance. And maybe making space for ‘prayers for others’.

The bride was as nervous as the groom. There are two types of brides in my book: the first type you pray with before the service - just before entrance into the church - really as a reminder that this is an act of worship. Some brides look so unbelievable, feel so special, have smiles that could light up a medium-sized city for an entire weekend, and are so ready to walk down that aisle and kick some wedding-day butt that a short timely reminder that God is holding this whole thing together is not an unimportant point. Other brides though, like this bride, look like they are one inch away from capitulating before a flood of emotions they are ill-equipped to handle. In this instance, prayer is a desperate cry - hopefully peacefully spoken - that God would, by God’s good grace, just lend a Divine shoulder for us all to lean on. It always works.

Help me help me help me.

We wobbled through a hymn, meandered through a sermon (I had written down some thoughts but then left them up on the altar, a good ten metres from where the sermon took place – one of the few downsides of a cross-shaped church) so, just too far to skedaddle – so it was down to meandering.

We got to the vows. There was much emotion. Sometimes the tears are the occasion and sometimes they are the culmination of everything that has gone before, and I mean everything; I sensed here emotions gathered over a lifetime of joys and tribulations, a coming together of past hurt and a strange future-longing - that things could be better moving forward than they were looking backward, even if all evidence sits as opposing counsel.

You know, we carry our hurt with us. Sometimes our hurts heal. Sometimes they go away. But in my experience, they stick around and we have to manage them, to speak to others about them, to speak God’s saving work into them and ultimately, if we play our cards right, to find healing through them. But still, for the most part they linger in some form. Nobody wants to be hurt, but God, the great Alchemist, can make us profoundly better people through it. This might seem like small compensation for all that we are called to carry. But there it is.

I sensed that this day. These tears were tears of past pain and future hope. When the bride hugged her mother once the congregation had exited the chapel - a tight, all-emotions-in hold – I had that sense that often accompanies me in this work: that what I am seeing is something quite special, something sacred, an enacted, not just spoken, hope.

Dr. Selzer has this amazing line he writes in reflection on something he witnesses. As a doctor he had to cut the nerve on a young woman’s face. Her young husband comes in and kisses her and, as the doctor notices this from a distance - from the shadows as it were - he notices that the young man remarks on how he likes this new strange look on his young wife’s face, he changes his kiss to suit her mouth. Dr. Selzer notes, ‘All at once I know who he is. I understand, and I lower my gaze. One is not bold in an encounter with God.’

You know my job has many benefits but few come close to those moments where I get to see this kind of thing; the vulnerable triumph of the human spirit. One is not bold in an encounter with God.

Incidentally this chapel also had a bell; the organist showed it to me on the penny tour of the building. With rope and all extending into the ceiling, she asked me to ring it before the service started. This was an awkward logistical request as I was preparing myself to meet the bride at the entrance on the other end of the chapel – I was considering strategies in my mind as I really wanted to ring that bell: Okay, tug hard and move after that swiftly to the entrance. If need be bend over for a few seconds to re-gain breath and then welcome bridal party to the chapel.

The organist though was that kind of organist, not to be messed with, here from the very beginning, laid the cornerstone in the 60s (1860s that is). She was insistent that the bell be rung properly as she was insistent that modern music was detrimental to worship. To be honest, I no longer know, in the mind of an organist, what modern music is: is that kum ba yah? My Jesus my Saviour? 10 000 Reasons? Either way, ‘she vonted to hear von chime!’ So, once you have pulled the rope you must hold it so the bell doesn’t chime endlessly, understand? We were saved by a young man who came in willing and wanting to ring the bell. We gave the job to him. I felt slightly hard done by but, with great godliness, refrained from looking at him and saying, ‘I’m wearing the dog-collar so I’ll ring the bell.’

As the congregation was exiting the church and the bride and groom were coming down from signing at the altar and before the bridesmaid kicked me in the bum (a story for another day) I caught eyes of the bright young boy, holding the rope and itching to tug it. I grinned and nodded at him and he grinned and leapt into motion. In his delight he forgot to hold onto the rope and so that single bell rang over and over instead of just once. I imagined it chiming through Himeville over and over as guests poured out from this beautiful, most sacred of places.

Saying in a language all of its own: thank you thank you thank you.

On the passing over of the little people

Our home group shared the Passover meal the other night. For those unfamiliar with this, Passover is an act of remembrance of part of Israel's turbulent history as it embarked on an otherworldly exodus.

Of course, as Christians, we remembered this event in light of Jesus and his own Passover, the night before his death.

A creation by one of the children.

 I have mixed feelings about Passover meals; I view them a bit like foot-washing in that I appreciate the profound symbolism and moving re-enactment of key Judeo-Christian themes but would much prefer someone else get on with it. In truth I’m coloured by bad experiences in both. Once upon a time I was convinced to do a foot-washing. For some inexplicable reason the person preparing the water had mindlessly made it super-hot. This was not too problematic for the first person. He didn’t complain. I don’t know if, at the age of ninety, he had lost feeling in his legs but the water poured over him easily. Which was strange as in any other circumstance this elderly gentleman complained bitterly. He had an ear horn and would shout ‘What!? What!?’ aggressively anytime a comment was made or direction given. (You can ask anybody in church, whenever you try to do something profound somebody with an ear horn and a bad attitude will pitch up). But as I said, with boiling water he was fine - speak to him casually and he will yell back, pour scalding water over his feet and he sits contented; some people are funny like that.

The next in line though was the most gorgeous young boy, and when I poured the scalding water over his feet he looked at me as I imagine Jesus looked at Judas upon hearing the tinkling of thirty silver coins in Judas’ pocket. He looked at me bewildered, and said softly, 'That's really sore.' As he spoke this in front of an entire church watching this deeply, deeply meaningful re-enactment unfold, I whispered back, 'Chin up buddy, its hurting me as much as it’s hurting you.' As far as I’m aware, none of this exchange was true to biblical narrative. He hobbled away from that ceremony sporting something close to third degree burns.

The Passover meal? Our first year in Hillcrest we shared the meal with a home group. It was dark and I mistakenly poured chocolate sauce over my lamb and rice. Charoset be damned! Apple and walnuts step aside! You want sweet? Melted Bar-One on lamb is the way to go!

So yes, I'm plumb out of luck at this time of year. Also some Passover dinners have been unbelievably long - each detail painstakingly spoken through, like a wedding where the speeches are interminably long-winded and the buffet table a distant dream seemingly never to be realised. At these Passovers you find yourself longing for a slice of lamb while munching through broken bits of unleavened bread and parsley dripping in salt water, almost succumbing to an attitude of yeah-yeah-move-it-along-a-bit while someone is reading about the genocide of all those without blood on their doorposts. So more than the requisite amount of guilt is felt come meal-time.

But this year was different. We did it as a home group and it was led by a good friend of mine. He moved through it deliberately, intentionally and, thankfully, also rather quickly. The most telling improvement on the story, which someone else in the group picked up on, was the presence of actual children at the meal.

We managed to find a few and made them sit at the table with us. These children, the offspring of other members at the table, brought about a godly change. In past Passover celebrations we've hinted at the possibility of children maybe being involved:  ‘This is the part of the ceremony where children would now ask a question,' someone intones while loosely waving an arm around indicating where children might have been found in this otherwise completely adult crowd - as if children are as hard to come by as a 14th century BC Egyptian on horse-back. As I recall children didn’t attend these past meals because this is serious stuff and they won't enjoy it.

And so it goes.

But we stepped out. Kids were involved and they did what kids do, they acted irreverently. They gulped down their juice when they should have been sipping symbolically, they ate the matzos in a manner that brought to mind pigs and troughs. They asked for wine. They repeatedly shouted out the wrong answers to questions till I became suspicious that they might have been doing this on purpose. They started by sitting on their chairs, then they were kneeling on their chairs, then they were standing on their chairs, then they were standing on their heads while kneeling on their chairs; that’s the thing with kids, they still have enough innocence for civil disobedience to come naturally to them. You can see why everyone but Jesus might have a problem with children - they're just a tough audience to control.

But they were present and engaged. When my friend was telling the story of the Passover - the blood of the lamb on the doorposts - the children were all wild-eyed with wonder. No way! They really did that! And me? Equipped with this mind? Well, being the liberal progressive that I am, I took to deconstructing the image of the violent god. Listen, nothing destroys a story like a good dose of deconstruction. This is the child's great gift is it not? There are zero degrees of separation between themselves and the story and they get the kingdom because they're the only ones who haven't thought their way out of seeing it.

Rumi once noted, 'Sell your cleverness and buy bewilderment'. The thing about being a kid, and why we should carry one everywhere we go, is that it is not even a trade, it just is. Watch kids closely. There’s something about them. I’m increasingly convinced our Creator is surreptitiously winking at the little people all the time for the simple reason that they are yet to capitulate to that most mean-spirited of sins: an over-appreciation of cleverness that breeds a horrifyingly incompetent inability to appreciate the simplicity and beauty of the story. As Chesterton once noted, as he considered the nature of a God who seems to delight in repetition like a child who wants an action they enjoy repeated over and over again, 'We have sinned and grown old and our Father is younger than we.’

On avocados and neighbourliness

We have these noisy neighbours.

We haven't always had them, in fact they’ve only just arrived. They’ve replaced the owners of the house, who were a missionary family I believe, though I'm not certain as I’ve never actually seen them. I know they’re missionary based solely on first-hand account of others, which is a rather Biblical approach to the whole idea of knowing. I suspected they were missionaries though when, once a year, they invited a bus-load of children to swim in their pool; the whole thing had a mix of fun-in-the-sun with baptismal overtones – there were whistles involved, loud instruction and a couple of life-jackets. I suppose one can’t be too careful. We never really stuck around choosing the first blow of the whistle as our queue to go inside, turn on the TV, and wait it out.

Apparently the missionaries have gone back to the States for a season.

So these new neighbours, well, we’re not too sure. We’re not too happy with this development as these guys are far more demanding. The other day we were out back throwing a baseball and chatting as we are in the habit of doing on warm summer evenings when the woman had the nerve to interrupt the game to introduce herself.

rock pool mirage. Ansteys.

This was startling.  She introduced herself, her daughter, her son and so on. They came to the fence - smiling, polite, handshakes all round.

She then did the unforgivable: she asked for avocados. Now we have a huge avocado tree. We rarely eat them, though they produce an embarrassment of fruit in season. They only serve to make our already overweight labrador even fatter. All summer this labbie parades around the garden with one firmly ensconced in her mouth: look dad I can carry fruit! Her face a delightful mix of pride and stupidity. So mostly we just pack the half-rotted avocados into the trash.

So it was not like we were wanting for avocados, as if the request came at the precise moment we were down to our last one. No, they were all around me. I was having to step around them to retrieve a wide variety of ill-aimed throws from Mary, which happens far too often for my liking - 'Sorry!' and off I go. So the request came as I stood knee-deep in avos in various stages of decomposition. But still, they are my avos and, well, who are you again?

So I did what anyone resenting the intrusion would do, I scampered around collecting as many really nice avocados as I could, driven by guilt and a desire to get back to my baseball game, but mostly by guilt. Mary of course was nowhere to be found. Upon their introductions I attempted some of my own, 'Well. I'm Andrew and this is my wife Mary,' turning to introduce her only to find that she had completely disappeared, like a magician sweeping a cape over a see-through container that, not two seconds earlier, had held a human body; I noticed Mary deeply concerned in this moment with investigating some dog poop in the corner, behind a tree, far from the neighbours. As bad as I am, Mary is worse. Mary is really vocal but only with those she knows. To the unknown she is ninety percent demure mystery I hardly recognise her. 

Shadow hallelujah

In fairness, we carry hurt from the past. New neighbours moved in when we lived in Pinetown. Every other Saturday they would throw these pool parties. They must have had a diving-board or something because there would be this bouncing sound followed by a loud shout of ‘Hallelujah!’ and ending with a Tsunami-forming dive. They looped R. Kelly's ‘I believe I can fly’ every second Saturday for a year; when I should have been writing sermons, I was googling methods of cyanide poisoning through pool floaters.

Still, we are horrid neighbours.

This past Saturday, while having a party, the avocado tree - or part thereof - came crashing down. It fell a distance, weighed down by fruit and old age; it fell slowly, loudly, arresting conversation as everyone present, drinks in hand, turned to witness the event. Falling such a distant took a while and was in some ways terrifying. It drew the usual array of insightful comments one would expect from a relaxed saffa braai: ‘Chees bru! Looks like part of your tree broke and fell’. You think.

The thing is, that tree also blocks our neighbours from seeing us and us seeing them. When it fell I went to investigate and ran into our neighbour again. I gave a generic ‘Hello!’ having already forgotten her name. She spoke about getting branches cut away but I think she may have been angling for more avocados, now blanketing the ground even more fully than before.

 

Pink sky

The ailing tree is a worrying development: if any more branches fall we'll have no choice but to sit on our verandahs and stare at each other. If only I had picked those avocados and shared them around the neighbourhood, I might have been able to keep my distance.