The Lord is here

 

 

My friend Anne has been in charge of rural chaplaincy in the Dunedin Diocese for some years now. Often she has talked about the challenges and joys of this ministry and I have listened and  (hopefully) supported, but have been quietly thinking "None of this makes sense. Why wouldn't you just close some of these churches down and combine them?"

This weekend I headed down to Dunedin to spend a few days with Anne during Electoral Synod. The plan had been to just potter around Port Chalmers, eat good food, knit, and chat. But when humans plan God laughs of course. Michael (Anne's husband and priest in charge of the Queensland parish) had organised cover for the wedding and two services scheduled in Queenstown/Arrowtown for the weekend, but his cover had unfortunately come down with a chest infection, and Anne was the only priest not at Synod. So Anne met me off the plane in Dunedin and we drove to Queenstown.

 

The countryside between Dunedin and Queenstown is .... take your pick of superlatives. Sweeping green spaces, a turquoise river, tiny villages, the stones and scorched earth of Alexandra, and the (truly) Remarkables mountain range dominating every scene. The trees were as green as an English spring, with elder and hawthorn bushes in full flower along every country lane, peonies, roses and irises in every garden. We must have talked, because when Anne and I get together, we never stop - but I felt as if I spent the whole drive with my jaw dropped. The beautiful, beautiful south. 

 So much about the weekend was wonderful, but there's something in particular I want to remember. On  Sunday morning we were up early and driving through quiet country lanes to Arrowtown for the first service. We arrived at this tiny church, which seemed like an echo of another era, set amongst swaying spring trees. Inside, the church glowed: one exquisite stained glass window behind the altar made patterns of light on the glowing timbers. Everything was perfectly cared for, from the linen on the altar to the polished pews. 

We were warned that only around 8 people might show up (an important rugby match was scheduled for the same time ) but instead a community of 18 gathered - newcomers invited by the regulars, recent emigres, people whose families had lived here for generations. The service began - as maybe it had begun for a century - with the ringing of the church bell. 

And there was this moment in the service. Anne stood facing the congregation in her white alb and stole patterned with pohutakawa blossoms. With a fluid upward movement of her arms that felt like an embrace, and a voice ringing with joy, she proclaimed words I have heard a thousand times: "The Lord is here!". And my eyes filled with tears. 

On the way home, we took our time, stopping in small settlements to visit small churches, with their well-tended gardens, mouse houses, beautiful windows, labyrinths, mosaics and ancient organs that require the organist to pedal constantly to keep the sound going (Anne demonstrated in the church at St Bathans). Some of these churches still have regular services; in others worship is a special occasion which gathers the entire community. These small buildings are carefully tended and I saw in that constant care such faithfulness, such an expression of love. 

The Lord is here. Throughout this beautiful region in the most southern part of the most southern land, the Lord is here. And people are gathering in their small communities to bear witness to this astounding truth. A pattern of light.

It's important not to be too starry eyed, of course. These congregations are elderly and the diocese is struggling to find ways to resource them. And such communities are made of human beings who doubtlessly squabble and struggle for power. But when those flawed human beings come together for the Eucharist, they all face forward, they all bear witness to the truth of God's presence among us. And who am I, I wondered, to so carelessly think about  amalgamations and efficiencies? What made me think those things mattered at all? So much would be lost if just one of those lights were dimmed. 

In my own church, I am constantly reminded of little lights, shining across the world. Several times a week, I head to the Cathedral for exposition of the sacrament. I race up the steps of the church, so eager to be there. And I ponder sometimes - especially when it's raining, and it seems to have been raining forever - couldn't I just stay at home and pray? But it would not be the same. What draws me - apart from the sacrament itself - is being with others, all facing forward, all bearing witness. 

My most recent joy is saying the daily office on my phone. What I love is knowing that all across the world, people are saying those exact same prayers, that there isn't a time when someone is not praying the office. That we are all saying the same psalm of lament, grieving over Gaza and Ukraine and lost children and the plight of the poor, over and over, as the earth spins. That we are all saying the same psalm of joy, celebrating the love and power of our God. Saying the same Benedictus to bless the world. In every place and in every time, light upon light upon light: The Lord is here.