Get on Board…

She came to me in a different parish, in a different time. It transpired that her mortality was beginning to pinch. Things were not quite the same as they were when she was 27 and a half. There was a doctor's appointment, a referral, a test and the first wisps of fear snuck into the conversation.

We discussed the options. She could do nothing. Simply walk away from the medicine train that was waiting patiently for her at the station. Or, she could get on board and see where the train took her.  The confronting part was that she did not know her first station. There was no question about her final stop where the train terminated, but the platforms in between were downright terrifying just because they were unknown.

And who to tell. Who could keep confidences and how would young nephew *Billy (*not his real name) react? It was a bubbly, complex cake mix that could very easily turn out icky and toxic.

We talked through the options but ultimately there seemed only one thing for it.

To stride towards the train, leave the cumbersome baggage of fear and the unknown on the platform, and entrust the ride to those who had sacrificed their youth on the altar of medical school and internship.

It transpired that the ride was not quite as bumpy as feared, at least not this time, but having ridden this train once, the next time, and there would inevitably be a next time, it would not seem quite as ferocious.

My thinking is that many people, every day, get on this medicine train for the first time. I applaud your courage! Ask the staff lots of questions. Leave your surplus baggage on the platform where it belongs. Just get on board. You are not alone.

Your next appointment with the Bogey Man

In that ambiguous parish, in that mythical year, a person of no specific gender and forgettable name came to me. Over a cuppa, or was it a glass… This person poured out in delicious and refreshing honesty their ongoing relationship with the Bogey Man. That’s right! The Bogey Man does exist.

It transpired that at 3:15 am precisely, the Bogey Man had snuck into this person’s home, stole silently to their bedroom and roused them from their slumber. They whispered only two terrifying words. A  phrase and a question that The Bogey Man knows will strike horror into anyone’s heart and steal vital hours of therapeutic and essential sleep. “What if…?”

That’s all it would take for The Bogey Man to do his worst, effective and cruel he was.

So we listened and chattered. We allowed gentle dollops of silence to massage us. We eventually realised that the weapon of The Bogey Man was a futile bent stick, likely to break under the swiftest of logic’s glare.

Between us and the teapot, or was it a bottle, we phrased the whole encounter in a slapstick format which, from my dodgy memory, went something like this.

Your next appointment with the Bogey man is scheduled at 3:15 am tomorrow morning.

To prepare for your appointment, you should bring every fear, qualm and possible scenario that might cause you discomfort, grief and panic. Upon arrival, present them with your medicare card, your credit card, your driver’s license, together with 3 references. You can expect the side effects of sleep deprivation, cold sweats, irrational fear and impaired judgment. There is no medicare rebate for a consultation with The Bogey Man. He is cruel and greedy.

To kill the Bogey Man, you only need two words. First word.. sounds like…

Easter 4

Who is the Good Shepherd?

The fourth Sunday in Eastertide is traditionally set aside as Good Shepherd Sunday.

When I think of The Good Shepherd, my mind goes straight to three Shepherds. The Master who is THE Shepherd. The other two are our Diocesan Bishops, Bishop Scott and Bishop Gary.

Most of their ‘Shepherding work’ lies hidden from us and that is absolutely right. The heavy duty pastoral and admin work is none of our business. Thank Goodness!

So a better question is who are they? For Shepherding is not just something you do, but a shepherd is something you are.

For Bishop Scott and Bishop Gary, one of the most important things they do is simply turning up and being there. It doesn’t sound a lot, but it is. Subconsciously you and I come to understand that they are reliable, accessible, available, and infinitely approachable.

At their very finest we will come to know that we are loved by them even when they have to nudge us uncomfortably down a path that is strange, new and bewildering to us. Bishops and The Master must always say the hard things graciously. While patting us on the head and encouraging us and leading us to the feast, they must also ground us firmly and pastorally in what is best for us. The things that God wants for us are sometimes not altogether to our liking.

I know my sheep. A good Shepherd knows their sheep, and the Master Shepherd knows us really, really well. When the gospel writers wrote these words, the shepherds did not have kelpies and collies to help them. The sheep knew the shepherd’s voice in much the same way I imagine that the kelpies and collies know their owner’s voice.

But there is voice recognition and there is knowing. One of the great privileges of serving a diocese and region like this is the connectivity and the ease of discovery of other people, but it does come with its trickiness. Sometimes there are people who are shy, and it takes a long time to get to know them. Others, they will never really know. Mixed into this seething, bubbly cauldron is the secret ingredient that people are always evolving, changing, being uplifted and transported, being dashed down and maliciously scarred.   We are not the same people as we were when Bishop Garry first came among us 14 years ago, and he is not the same either. We have aged, matured and continued to be transformed. Getting to know a flock is an ongoing and unending process.

Something also needs to be said about the thorny issue of when the clerical shepherds fail the people under their care. The briefest look at the Royal Commission in 2013 would remind us that some of our Shepherds were not good Shepherds at all. What do we say when we see the huge cavernous gap between what the gospel says, and their faults, actions and inaction?

People of all faiths seldom live up to the high ideals that they aspire to and sadly Christians are part of this mix as well.

I would have to start by saying that if a crime has been committed, then… It’s obviously a police issue.

There are processes and an organisation within our church called the Professional Standards Boards that assess each case and determine the appropriate action.

Finally, when the perpetrator dies, the Church will always bury her dead. On the other side of the grave, they are now God’s problem, and while we might be tempted to hang onto our angst and disappointment, we must always ask How does God see this person?

A happier note to finish on

This word ‘good.’

The original meaning was actually "beautiful,” and only later did it expand into a personal/moral direction. So, Shepherds should aspire to be beautiful? Hmmm, now there’s an interesting thought. Probably not the same sleek, glamorous, sort of beautiful that you would find on the cover of a glossy magazine.

For me (and I hope that you might be able to relate to this), the most beautiful shepherds are the zany, crazy ones. The ones that are just a little out there.

But more than that, they are the bruised ones, the fallible ones, the flawed shepherds, the ones who got it wrong, who knew they got it wrong, asked for forgiveness and moved on. The good shepherds on this side of the grave Fr. David, are always sinners.

And I have been thrilled to know and walk alongside many of these shepherds. They are infinitely relatable, for in their many colourful eccentric quirks and faults, I easily see a mirror image of myself and if they have given me great hope and… thus there is great hope for you as well.

So the role as shepherd is not limited to clergy type people at all. Many of them are just like the people you see in the mirror. Every one of you is called to be a good shepherd. I have watched you, Shepherd, and I have been delighted and thrilled. You have encouraged, prayed, cajoled, rejoiced, prodded and shoved each other and me down the road and on towards the heavenly banquet. So the take home today is to keep on with your Shepherding. Don’t be embarrassed by your piercings, sniggers and tears for they are some of your most excellent credentials. We are all responsible for each other and for those who are not of this fold.  Turn up, listen up and enjoy. You are the Good Shepherd.

Procrastination = BIGGER NUMBERS

Those of you who read my reflection last week would be aware that my Lenten challenge this year was to get on the bathroom scales on Easter Day and look at the numbers 68.5. How hard can it be, right? So, how did I go?

Not too bad as it turns out. The numbers I saw on easter Day were 68.8, which was close, and given that the scales always weigh heavy on a Sunday, I thought that was pretty good.

During Lent, I learnt that if I just did an extra kilometre of a morning (so 6 kilometres instead of the usual 5), my weight got down to an acceptable level and stayed there. It was much and extra, and my sense of ‘What a good boy am I’ was elevated. Not to do this extra bit or to miss the shuffle around the Lake altogether had dire consequences and saw a completely different set of numbers appear on the scales.

So I learnt what I had to do, what would work, and from now on it’s just a matter OF doing it whenever I need to. This is also true of a lot of other things. I know what I have to do. I know I need to do it, and if I really want to achieve A, B, and 3.5#@, then what I really need to do is take a deep breath and get on with it. Sometimes this means making that uncomfortable phone call. Or it might mean going to the ‘sad people’ or raking the leaves or drafting that carefully worded email. Stuff I know I must and need to do, but for whatever reason, I’m a bit reluctant to go for it. I conclude, therefore, that Procrastination = bigger numbers on the bathroom scales.

Tsk Tsk Thomas

The usual homily for Easter two is often a bit of a slap on the wrist for poor old Thomas.

He was obviously snoozing and snoring when the Lord first appeared, and thus, the self-righteous preacher will warn his flock against the sin of sloth.

Then, when Thomas is told about the mind-bobbling appearance that he missed out on, he disbelieves. So there is a bit of a clip around the brow about the sin of disbelief.

But hey, it’s OK because Thomas gets a second opportunity to believe in the one who in turn, gives us a second chance to own up and confess ‘My Lord and My God’. We come to see the error of our way and fall down in Easter adoration My Lord and My God. We can all go home and say, “Whew! That was a close shave. But it all came right in the end. Roll the credits and turn up the lights.”

But I strongly suspect that there was something else going on with Thomas. I suspect this because I see a lot of me in Him.

Yes, I can be slothful, yes, I can be doubting, and yes, I have been given far too many 2nd chances. I also believe that in the long run it will be OK.

But let me give you another reason why I am like Thomas and Thomas is like me.

It’s not clearly spelled out, but consciously or subconsciously, I reckon there is a bit of Thomas that goes like this.

The other 10 disciples had this remarkable and extraordinary experience … What about me? How come they get front row tickets to the resurrection on opening night and I don’t?

Do we detect a slight tinge of jealousy creeping in here?

His line “Unless I see in his hands the print of the nails, and place my finger in the mark of the nails, and place my hand in his side, I will not believe.” is almost as if to say . Well, did you really see this chaps? Are you sure weren’t just seeing a ghost? You’ve made that mistake before you know.

I won’t feel so bad missing out if it was just a hoax after all.

This envy of Thomas slides easily into a deeply hidden but very potent insecurity. What if I missed out because I am not good enough, was not good enough, will not be good enough?  Is there something inherently wrong with me that I didn’t get the viewing of the Risen Jesus that the others got? Or put another way. What have they got that I haven’t?

All this I know well from first-hand experience and reflection and if we are all honest…if we search our hearts and souls, we might discover that perhaps there is a bit of Thomas in all of us.

Something also needs to be said about those wounds. Without a flinch of hesitation, Thomas will point to the wounds and say. There, in the nail holes and in the pierced side that is how I will know that it really his him. He doesn’t say unless I can see the colour of his eyes, his stature and or hair colour. No no no. It is wounds that are exhibit A in the proof of the resurrection.

And the Risen Master when he returns to quell Thomas’s tantrum has no hesitation in agreeing with Him. Yep. You guessed right, Thomas. It’s all about the wounds. Prod and poke all you like, sunshine. It… is… me. And what would happen if we learnt to look first at the inner wounds of the other, instead of all the outward stuff. Would we not see significant beauty in their piercings?

So we should never be swift and harsh on Thomas. For it is precisely in the wounds of our doubts and struggles and disbelief and our pondering and our wrestles and grumpiness, it is precisely in the mess of our mistakes that he comes most potently and most powerfully and with unmistakable love says to you and to me.

“Put your finger here, and see my hands; put out your hand, and place it in my side; do not be faithless, but believing.”

Or in Fr. David's paraphrase ..See.. me touch the nail holes. You know that you want to. You don’t actually have to be envious at all. You need never be insecure or doubt yourself again. Ever. You were always loved, always wanted, always mine. I put my wounded hands into yours. I clasp your whoppers to my pierced side.

Without wounds, there is no healing. Without doubts, there is no faith. Without death, there is no life. St. Thomas knows this, and he knows that we are just like him and indeed, like every single disciple waiting in an upper room for resurrection. May St. Thomas continue to inspire, encourage and pray for us, until that day when we see what he saw and with unhesitating Easter joy, say what he said. My Lord and My God.

Setting the Bar at 68.5

This year, I tried something different for Lent. My dream weight has always been 68.5 kilos. It’s what my doctor says is about right, and my clothes fit well. Each morning, I weigh myself, squint and mutter unrepeatable words. Certainly, words that do not belong here in the cyber / community world. So, with the grace and opportunity of Lent, here we go.

The goal was that I should arrive on the scales, first thing on Easter morning, and the scales should be than 68.5 Kilos. There’s a bit of a trick here because the scales always weigh heavier on a Sunday than, say, on Saturday after I have completed Park Run, so leading up to Holy Week, I need to be super disciplined.

The first couple of weeks I tried really hard and got down to 68.5 easily. It meant that I went without some yummy stuff, but it also meant that I went just a little further on my morning jog. Taking up something, giving up something. It’s part of the old familiar Lenten pattern, but seen through a different filter this time. The gruelling bit has been maintaining the pattern and not allowing insidious habits to sneak back. Surely that candy bar, just one lonely solitary chocolate-covered confectionery, wouldn’t do that much harm, would it? Or if I just shaved off this last little bit of my run… that would be kind of OK… wouldn’t. Hec! No one would know… would they? But these minuscule, inconsequential things do make a significant difference. The scales tell me so… brutally.

We all need to set the bar somewhere. Somewhere where it’s not too easy, so we don’t have to try. And not too high that we give way to despair. The bar for me has been 68.5… and for you?

Easter Day April 20

‘See you there’

Dear Mary Magdalene,

The bizarre events on Friday afternoon must have been bewildering and excruciating for you. I did notice that you were there and while you may not think that you were doing much you just being there meant everything to me. Sometimes it’s just a matter of turning up and being there. It’s the timeless and true principle of just being seen to be there. Nothing much needs to be said and even less needs to be done. I did see you there just as surely as you saw me there.

I reckon you went away at the end of the day thinking that was it. It was all over. That you would never see me again. Ever! If I could have spoken to you as you tottered away, I would have said just three simple words.

‘See you there.’ As simple, as puzzling, as profound as that. Just ….’See you there’.

But this morning you have learnt what those three words really meant. You came to the tomb and found the massive stone rolled away. The tomb itself was empty. And when you looked there were angels inside. While it might not have felt like it, you were exactly in the right place at the right time. You were there. You were simply being the superb Mary Magdalene that I have always known you to be. You were pummelled by your grief, but all that was about to change because I saw you there and you saw me there. You just didn’t quite know it … yet. But you would.

I asked you why you were crying. Who is it that you are looking for?

And thinking I was the gardener, you replied “Sir, if you have carried him away, tell me where you have put him, and I will get him.”

Part of what you were asking was simply this. Am I in the right place? Is this where I should be because, what I am looking for, what I came for is not here and if he is not here, then where is he?

And so with my own tears of joy, I told you in one swift word that you were exactly where you should have been. You were there.

“Mary”

The one word said it all. You are here. I am here. And it was marvellous for us to share these few, fleeting, exceptional seconds where both of us were where we should be.

But there was work to do and I sent you off to the other disciples. See you there.

There would be a few times more when I would ‘see you there’. Unexpectedly, without preparation, palaver or fanfare, just turning up and seeing you there.  It would take some time and reteaching to understand what the empty tomb, your name, the angels and my three little words would mean for you, for the disciples, and for the world.

See you there Mary

Rabboni

It’s a simple little letter that was never written but I hope will be helpful for you. Perhaps the following might also be helpful.

To you and to all people I offer a simple treatise on Resurrection 101.

‘See you there’ means that the tomb is not the cold, hard, bitter end that we had all once feared. That death itself is transformed and transfigured into something else entirely. Tantalisingly just beyond our comprehension, but all the more alluring and exciting because we simply can’t squish it tightly into a bottle and sell it. We can’t break down, measure and list the ingredients of the heady brew we call resurrection.

And from there you see, it’s a simple but comforting little puddle hop to the realisation that when it comes your turn and my turn to close our eyes in death, The Teacher will speak to you just as spoke to Mary, by name., his little words. At that moment … when everyone else is in floods of Mary Magdalene-type tears; weeping with all the passion that she exuded,… “I will see you there”

For every one of us there are moments in our life when we wonder… is this where I am meant to be? What on earth am I doing here? And the answer is often a cement pylon of silence which is code for Yes! You are exactly where you are supposed to be. Here again those three simple words. ‘See you there.’

Every time you are confronted by death. Sudden or expected. Tragic and unexpected, a sweet release from a twisted cancerous body,  at every funeral you attend into the future, the subtext is there for you to grasp tightly. Often it isn’t quite as clearly enunciated as we would like. Sometimes it is hidden in the photos and the eulogies and the tears. But as you leave the funeral and wonder ‘What’s it really all about?’ …The tagline you can hang onto is the simple message of the Risen Christ on the very first Easter Day. He will call you by name and encourage you to go and spread the good news of the angels and the mysterious gardener. And he will whisper to you and you will hear his words tickling your ears ruminating in your heart. Massaging your soul. ‘See you there.’

Good Friday 18/4/25

3 cheers for the grumpy crim

The usual path for the preacher when contrasting the two criminals on the cross is to side with the good/bad guy. You know… the one who called out the grumpy crim and asked to be taken to paradise. Here are the good/bad guy’s lines

“Don’t you fear God, since you are under the same sentence? We are punished justly, for we are getting what our deeds deserve. But this man has done nothing wrong.”

 Then he said, “Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.”

All tickety boo. The good criminal does all the right things for himself and for his colleague in crime.

But today is an upside-down sort of day. The prince of life is consumed in death. A convicted bandit is released and the innocent one receives the death sentence.

So today, instead of saying ‘Well done sunshine’ to the good crim, I want to go into bat for the grumpy crim.

The one that roars “Aren’t you the Messiah? Save yourself and us!”

And that’s all we get. That’s all we know about this guy. He just gets this one little line in the drama and then disappears into obscurity.

Once again we are left with more questions than answers and with a wide, open, generous invitation to come tumbling into the cave of his back story. In the process not only speculate about him but also open up the very real possibility that we might learn something about ourselves. Actually, we find ourselves, as we splash about in an unending and ever-deepening mystery.

When you examine Grumpy Crim’s little tantrum closely, you’ll discover that we are left with three short phrases.

First

‘Aren’t you the Messiah?’

Clearly this chap comes with some preconceived notions of what the Messiah should look like and how they are to behave. A powerless and very much bloodied palliative care patient, is not exactly the Messiah this bandit had in mind. This is not the Messiah he was looking for. And where pray tell, did he pick up the rumour that the squashed gentleman beside him might be the Messiah. Perhaps from the inscription over Jesus’ head. ‘This is the king of the Jews’.

The second phrase is just two words

“Save yourself”

It seems simple enough and follows logically on from the previous question. So if you are the Messiah, really are the Messiah why don’t you save yourself? Avoid the pain and shame and go on for a long and illustrious career of saving the universe and sorting out the Church of God. If you saved yourself now, think of all the thousands you could go on to save. And what is more, think of the example you are setting for those who would gleefully follow you. What sort of career prospects are you offering them?

Finally

‘Save us’.

And this is where the crim has been heading all along. If you are the Messiah and if you can save yourself, then it ought to be a cinch to save us as well.

And all of these things are very understandable.

The desire to see the Messiah in action; to save himself and to rescue us from our own messy entrapment and entanglement. The mushy messes that have encircled us, clutched us and held us close even before we knew they existed.

And if we are brutally honest this chap's questioning prayer is not that much different from our own. The messiah comes to us in brokenness, pierced and humbled. Riding on a donkey and rejected by popular demand.

He doesn’t seem to be able to stop the heinousness of sin in our world and in our lives.. he doesn’t seem to intervene. Today of all days and at this time in history, what we long for is what Nick Cave called an interventionist God. A God who intervenes. But.. we want him to intervene in our way and on our terms and bring about the change that we think would be the mind blitheringly right thing to do.

We do however believe in an interventionist God. Ask Jonah who didn’t want the parish of Nineveh. Ask the Blessed Virgin Mary about how God intervened in her life. Ask St. Paul about the interventionist God who stopped him short on the way to Damascus.

Like the Grumpy Crim we have failed to see that our God is an interventionist God who intervenes most powerfully in the most unlikely scenes, in the most unlikely ways with the craziest of people.

The grumpy crim is just like you and me because we fail to see what is right before us. A God who is already intervening and transforming the world even when and especially when, we think we are seeing something completely different. On the cross and on this day, God intervened and death, and you and I, can never be the same again and our death will never be the same. We just don’t know it… yet. But we will.

I conclude with some words of Nick Cave that I hope you might find helpful. They might also be the crim’s words, or your words or mine.  In some flimsy way I hope that they will make sense of this messy homily and the messed up man on the cross.

And I don't believe in the existence of angels
But looking at you I wonder if that's true
But if I did, I would summon them together
And ask them to watch over you
Well, to each burn a candle for you
To make bright and clear your path
And to walk, like Christ, in grace and love

And guide me into your open arms

15/4

Somewhere, theres a coffin with my name on it

One of the enormous and undeserved privileges I have is to offer eucharist and prayers at a funeral. Sometimes I haven’t known the person for all that long and certainly never as Iong as I would have liked. Sometimes a relationship has been established and the occasion becomes particularly poignant and piercing.

Towards the end of the service I honour the departed with incense and holy water. Frequently the name plaque on top of the coffin stares sombrely back at me. There it is for me to see and there is no getting around it. I can’t somehow wish it away.

Once upon a time it occurred to me that there will be a funeral with  a coffin and there on the lid of this coffin will be a name plaque. On that name plaque in lovely cursive writing will be my name. David Robert Oulton. This was quite an unnerving and disquieting and confronting truth to grapple with. I knew it to be true, but I didn’t want it to be true.

This coffin probably hasn’t been made yet. I’m feeling pretty perky and I managed to shuffle around lovely lake Hamilton this morning so hopefully the engraver need not  double-check how to spell my surname just yet.

But there will come a day. Promise.

As we hurtle into the crazy events of supper, denial, betrayal and an empty tomb, it is comforting to know that someone else has already blazed a trail before me and will be there to greet me when I slip through into the next dimension and beyond.

I am not alone. We all must do this. Somewhere there’s a coffin with a lid with your name on it. It’s not a matter of if… it’s only a matter of… when.

Palm Sunday 13/4/25

To Rupert Studmaster
Purveyor of fine beasts for sacrifice and personal use
Bethphage 

Dear Rupert,

I thought that I had lost you forever because of our conversation.

But my fear that I might never see you again was actually unfounded. I have glimpsed you in the crowds from time to time and you were still listening. Sometimes excited and enthused about what I had to say. Sometimes you scowled and seemed to be furious. But you kept on turning up! And each time you did you gave me such a lift and simply by turning up, you encouraged me, especially when I had a bull droppings sort of day.

I remember the first time I met you. You were a wealthy young man who had great possessions and were so keen to justify yourself. You even addressed me as ‘good’ and I had to remind you that there is only one who is good. Even then you were trying to be charming and persuasive. It was almost a “look at me” opening line to what would turn out to be a rather difficult conversation. Undaunted, you pressed on and you asked me what you must do to inherit eternal life. It was almost as if you had ticked all the commandment boxes together with the appropriate tax bracket and now there was just one last teeny-weeny thing to tidy up. After that, you could rest easy. For you Rupert everything was a business transaction. I’ll do all of these things thus buying my way to eternal life. You knew my answer even before you spoke the question. Yes, of course, you had kept all the commandments. You had followed the law perfectly, but… the one thing you still lacked was a spirit of generosity and selflessness. A respect for the poor and marginalised, even those you particularly don’t like.

So I found myself trying to say the hard things graciously … again.

My response must have seemed abrasive and disappointing to your ears.

“One thing you still lack, go sell what you have and give to the poor.”

I could see the look of appalled horror that came over your face for I knew your share portfolio was substantial to say nothing of the real estate and livestock you had acquired.

Your reputation for high-end quality donkeys, mules, oxen, turtle doves, horses and sheep was unmatched in the surrounding countryside and your efforts to self-publicise on social media have been highly successful.

I had frequently walked past your station on the outskirts of Bethphage and admired your livestock, the size of your property and the homestead with its ever-increasing number and size of barns and storage sheds.

So I appreciate that I might well be the last person you want to hear from, but the reality is that I now need you much more than you think you need me.

So I thought I would chance my arm and ask you for a favour.

For reasons that you might come to understand sometime in the future, I need a donkey on Monday next week. The beast is only for a loan and will be returned to your stables before sundown the same day.

If you are agreeable I would send a couple of my friends to come and collect the donkey and its baby colt. My friends will want the beast to have a glamorous shiny coat. A well-fed brute but what I really need is a skanky manky beast. Something that you think should be slaughtered quickly and put out of its misery because it is a waste of your precious time and limited resources. You know the sort of beast I have in mind. The donkey that is shedding hair, is temperamental and bestial, whose ribs are almost visible.  The more unattractive, embarrassing and repulsive the better. Something you would be pleased to be well shot of and has never been ridden before.

I appreciate that there might be very good reasons why you cannot, or will not be able to help but please know that you are not forgotten and indeed you never will be.

Kind Regards

Jesus Master Carpenter

Dear Jesus,

Thank you very much for your inquiry about the possibility of hiring a colt and ass on Monday.

We would be pleased to supply the same available for collection from sunrise at our property reception and to be returned by sunset on the same day. The beast is to be returned fed and watered and in the same condition as when collected.

We require photographic proof of identity before collection and indemnify ourselves against any injury or accident that might be caused to any person or property due to the beast’s behaviour.

We look forward to establishing a close working connection with you going into the future.

Regards

Rupert Barsabbas Esq.

Please find below the amount owing. We accept all major credit cards and direct debit.
Cost 27 pieces of silver plus GST. Total owing, 30 pieces of silver.

Of The Spire

If you have looked skywards then you will have noticed that on church hill there are two very serious-sized spires. There they stand, soaring, almost rocketing their way towards the stratosphere.

One of them belongs to our brothers and sisters of the Presbyterian faith and the other belongs to the Anglicans and it is the Anglican one that I am the most qualified to speak.

The Anglican Church that sits beneath the spire is a building for all people in our community and is open every day for visitors to come and admire the Church and/or spend some time in quiet reflection. The ministry of significant life events continues for any one who seeks consolation and celebration in their life. One of the hardest COVID things I had to do was to lock the Church doors. It felt like I had killed my mother and in a spiritual sense, to shut off the place of nurture and welcome from the community, was a type of annihilation.

The Church Spire that folk see is a significant symbol and sentinel for all to see and like all historical buildings is in constant need of maintenance.

It is also striking because it points us beyond the day-to-day grist of our daily life. There is something more than what we see at ground level. The spire reminds us to look outside ourselves. We are not the centre of the universe no matter how seductive that line of logic might be.

Our church spire inspires folk and it is a reminder that we aspire to be great and to view things from the ‘above perspective’. Not to get lost in the confusing forest of the big/little insignificant things. Spires are not just grandiose monuments. By their silence, they have much to teach us.