Te whare karakia matua o Pita Tapu ki Waikato
I recently attended a service of spoken (i.e. not sung) eucharist (or, communion) at St Peter's church.
St Peter's is the Waikato Cathedral, perched atop a hill in the centre of town.
St Peter's is the Waikato Cathedral, perched atop a hill in the centre of town.
Knowing not one person there, I was able to just be my self by myself, responding to the experience of what, years prior, I would have described as a musty, dull and uninteresting service.
For me, the service itself became a carrier of beauty and truth, a truly divine encounter: beautiful, in its words, its symbols, its place and via the connection to God through his spirit and through the beauty of scripture.
A homily (the sermon) asking the question posed by Christ himself, "And yet, when the Son of Man comes, will he find faith on earth?".
This became a truly special space, curated and inhabited by the clear, real presence of the Creator.
I found myself struck - in fact, blessed - by the practice and liturgy of communion itself, laden with symbology, colour, art, beauty, sacrifice and Truth.
For me, the service itself became a carrier of beauty and truth, a truly divine encounter: beautiful, in its words, its symbols, its place and via the connection to God through his spirit and through the beauty of scripture.
A homily (the sermon) asking the question posed by Christ himself, "And yet, when the Son of Man comes, will he find faith on earth?".
This became a truly special space, curated and inhabited by the clear, real presence of the Creator.
I found myself struck - in fact, blessed - by the practice and liturgy of communion itself, laden with symbology, colour, art, beauty, sacrifice and Truth.
This, for me, was a deeply, deeply moving experience.
But as central and special as the service itself was, I was impacted by another moment.
That moment came about simply during the communal reading of the Lord's Prayer, as I overheard its recounting in an indigenous tongue; a truly beautiful thing on so many dimensions, both timeless and time-bound.
In indigenous Maori tongue of te reo, the Lord's prayer closed with
Ake ake ake. Amine.
That moment's message to me?
The utterly decompartmentalised cultural mandate of King Jesus, over all of his creation.
That mandate speaks powerfully of freedom and beauty, of speaking Truth to power, of Christ's very real compassion and practical concern for the poor, destitute and all others of those who exist on the periphery of our communities.
It is a challenge that Christ himself lays down in the Sermon on the Mount, provoking me, sometimes awkwardly and often in upside-down-ness, toward other-ness beyond a zone of comfortableness.
Thank God for his beatitudes.
But as central and special as the service itself was, I was impacted by another moment.
That moment came about simply during the communal reading of the Lord's Prayer, as I overheard its recounting in an indigenous tongue; a truly beautiful thing on so many dimensions, both timeless and time-bound.
In indigenous Maori tongue of te reo, the Lord's prayer closed with
Ake ake ake. Amine.
That moment's message to me?
The utterly decompartmentalised cultural mandate of King Jesus, over all of his creation.
That mandate speaks powerfully of freedom and beauty, of speaking Truth to power, of Christ's very real compassion and practical concern for the poor, destitute and all others of those who exist on the periphery of our communities.
It is a challenge that Christ himself lays down in the Sermon on the Mount, provoking me, sometimes awkwardly and often in upside-down-ness, toward other-ness beyond a zone of comfortableness.
Thank God for his beatitudes.
[If you're interested in the calendar of Christian seasons, the day was marked as the 29th Sunday in Ordinary Time]
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