Peter Smith … not his real name.
One of the regional towns I found myself in was a town called Bullamanka. Not its real name. And one of the senior elite gentlemen of the hoypaloy of the Bullamanka was Peter Smith. Not his real name.
Peter did a lot for Bullamanka and, for a while, was even chief Poobah (not the real title) of Bullamanka. He painted the local footy shed, mowed the grass outside the Senior Citizens building and even visited the Rest Easy retirement home on the first Thursday of every second month. What a guy!
Well, you know how these regional towns all have their own folklore…and all the characters have their stories… Well, Bullamanka was no different, and Peter Smith was no different.
But Peter Smith, like all of us, was flawed in more than a few ways, and one of the legends about Peter went like this.
On the evening of a significant birthday, Peter Smith (not his real name) was driving home when he was stopped for a routine breath test. To be fair, the policewoman was only doing her job when she flagged Peter down and asked him if he had anything to drink. Peter never lied and confessed to having a few raspberry milkshakes. Peter dutifully blew into the breathalyser that was offered, and the policewoman kindly explained that he was over the legal limit and courteously asked if he would mind stepping out of the vehicle and producing his licence.
Peter could see that his illustrious reputation would be in tatters if the matter proceeded any further, and it is alleged that he said something, kind of like this.
“You can’t arrest me. I’m Peter Smith” (not his real name). “I’m terribly sorry, Sir…” the policewoman began. But Peter was quick off the mark. “Peter Smith has done this for Bullamanka, Peter Smith has done X Y and 3.4 for Bullamanka, I’m the local Poobah and president of the Really Intelligent Peoples Club. I’m Peter Smith, rock and pillar of this community.”
The sorry tale tells of a deterioration in the quality of communication and it is alleged that Peter Smith finished his travels that night in quite a different vehicle, to quite a different location with his name and photo appearing on the front page of the Bullamanka Express the next day with a rather more fulsome article and two more photos on page 3. In fact, there was some fear that the story might diminish the size of the sports report… let it never be said.
Peter Smith could easily have been a figment of my imagination, or he could easily have been like any of us here and especially like St. Peter of old.
In fact, Peter Smith very much reminds me of St. Peter of old. Dashing about with voice and deed, always willing and wanting to do the right thing, but secretly or perhaps not so secretly, his brashness getting him into strife. ‘You are Peter, the rock on which I will build my church’ says the Master, but the briefest of looks at Peter Smith or St. Peter of old, or especially in our bathroom mirror will show us that we are actually just shale and rubble.
That we are a little bit crumbly and flaky around the edges. There are flaws and bumps that embarrass us. And when, like Peter Smith, someone points these fractures out we can easily ark up, toss the toys out of our cot, and offer a litany of our attributes and plusses.
A quick look around at the other apostles and those who join us in worship reveals a puzzling but lovely anomaly. It seems that with a giggle and smirk, The divine rolls up his sleeves and delights in choosing the Peter and Pam Smiths of this world to do some of his most important work knowing that their hearts will be broken as well as filled with joy. The flinty and the shonky are our friends and fellow worshippers. Our bibles are choc full of some of the shadiest characters you could ever hope not to meet.
It is always a privilege to worship and enjoy the company of those who are actually not plaster saints. I identify so strongly with and have much more in common with those who come from places like Galilee or Bullamanka or Nazareth. Can anything good come out of Kalangatuk west or Sheephills?
It is in and through the shonky characters that I see God working most powerfully and exquisitely and beautifully. God does some of his finest work through the Peter Smiths of this world. Our tumblings are His opportunities to reach out with his pierced hands, hold us and say again ‘Peace be with you’. Trips in the white van with the pretty lights on top are the beginning of an exciting new adventure. I would be intimidated and abashed by a church full of perfect people. I would not fit in and belong. Give me a church full of St. Peters, of Peter Smiths. Give me a wounded Body of Christ who shows off his ruptured hands and feet. This is where I belong. With the grubby, the needy and the redeemed. May St. Peter and Peter Smith and you and I continue to pray for each other Amen.