Is that all there is?

No matter how much I try to spiritualise Advent and Christmas the results are always the same. When it finally arrives I heave a huge sigh of relief knowing that I have once again made the midway marker that divides the end of the silly season from the beginning of the Great New Zealand Melt Down. A sort of religious half way house where I can momentarily catch my breath before packing up the camping gear, squashing the family into the car and heading north - the only direction one can go by road if one lives in Wellington. That’s how Christmas has always been for me, but this year I found myself sympathising with the sentiments in Peggy Lee’s song, ‘Is that all there is?’[1] . . . ‘Is that all there is?’

Long before there was a Christmas day, the 25^th of December was the mid way marker between the dark days of winter, and the promises of spring. It was a mid winter feast the Romans called festus solis invicti, - the festival of the unconquered sun. When Christianity became the official religion of the Roman Empire, the imagery of the invincible sun breaking forth out of winter darkness, and the invincible Son breaking forth out of the darkness of sin was obvious. The symbolism just seemed to shout it without the necessity for words to join up the dots. The festival of the unconquered sun became the festival of the unconquered Son, and nature underscored the theology it implied.

Personally I’d love to do Christmas like that, but the truth is I live in a capitalist culture, in the land of the ‘Upside-down Christmas’ [2]where the seasons give me a very different message. So, try as I might to exempt myself from the Santa Claus face of Christmas and immerse myself in purist liturgy, I can’t. Unless I spend Advent in a monastery, I’m probably doomed to be washed along with the commercial Christmas tide (no pun intended) and to repeat my previous Christmas failures again and again – like Ground Hog Day.

But if I can’t change the culture or the season, perhaps I can change the focus of the feast. What if, for example, instead of just celebrating the memory of the birth of a child, I celebrate the eternal gifts, which that child’s birth guarantees? Gifts of light (Lk2:10-14), gifts of joy (Jn1:3), and gifts of liberation (Mat 11:2-11), to name but a few.

Doing this, won’t change the commercial chaos and general holiday-mania from going on all around me, but focusing on what Jesus brought, rather than simply recalling his coming will change my perception of it. It will change my once a year ham and turkey feast into a 365 day a year feast. One that celebrates an ever-present lighting of my way, an ongoing sense of joy and gratitude for the good things God has given me, and a growing awareness of my personal responsibility to ensure that the society in which I live is just. A society where all can share equally in the good things Christ’s birth guarantees.

By all means let us enjoy and celebrate our ‘Upside-down Christmas’ holidays, but let’s not forget what we are celebrating, and that the message of Christmas extends well beyond the festive season.

For me, I need to remember that the commercialism surrounding Christmas is not all there is, just a pointer to the greater reality of the festival of the unconquered Son who brings light, joy and liberation, not just on Christmas day, but 365 day a year.

Yes Christmas is a feast, a feast of Light, a feast of love, and a feast of liberation for all.

1] Is that all there is – written by Jerry Leiber and Mike Stoller Recorded by Peggy Lee August 1969.

[2] An Upside down Christmas, A New Zealand Christmas Carol by Shirley Murray

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Perfect peace is at best fleeting and at worst, an illusion!

It was lunch time, so I found myself a sheltered spot in the garden and sat down to enjoy a few moments of autumn sun. The weather over the last several days had been less than perfect, and the busyness of the lead up to Holy Week had caught up with me. The peace, the quiet and the warm sun on my face were the perfect antidote to the stresses and strains of everyday life.

Like someone who had just climbed to the top of a high hill, I decided to sit down and enjoy the view (metaphorically) for a few moments before moving on.

Perhaps it was the pastoral conversation I had just had with an elder lady in hospital who was looking back over her life because of declining health, and facing some tuff decisions about her future. Or perhaps it's just something one does naturally relaxing in the noon day sun, but pretty soon, like Alice, I found myself falling down the rabbit hole and to day dreamingly review my own past, looking at where I'd come and who had traveled with me. As I did the years (and decades) fast forwarded themselves: like the individual cards did when you turned the handle in a 'what the butler saw' slide show in an old amusement arcade. Individually they were all still shots, but viewed in succession they appeared as a movie.

It's something I've done often before but this time it was different. For the first time the memory cards seemed to show a seamless integration of past and present. There were no bits that I'd rather have left as 'cuts' on the editors floor, no bits I'd have wanted to send to technical boffins in post production to 'gloss up' on, no scenes I'd rather have re shot. There was no hierarchy in the actors cast either, big part or small part, all were significant and deserving of an Oscar. In short, nothing I would have changed.

Was it a daydream, or was it reality? Only time will tell, but in that moment all the pieces of the jig saw called 'My Life' seemed to fit perfectly, from as far back as I can remember, to as far forward as I can imagine.

Having put the world to rights an unexpected series of phone calls, unscheduled visitors and an assortment of interruptions has left me once again feeling scattered and in need of a fresh daydream.

Seems perfect peace is at best fleeting and at worst, an illusion!

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Wating for a wave

My Great Uncle Jock was born in Clairville, a small south Wairarapa town in the house his father Charlie had built in the late 1800's. A home from which he went to school, met and married his childhood sweetheart, took over the small family farm, raised his children, played with his grandkids and where he finally died: all within a few hundred meters of the house he was born in.

He was a Wairarapa man. He know who he was and where he belonged.

I on the other hand , was born of depression parents eager to take every opportunity that presented itself, no matter where. By the time was 10 I had lived in 6 houses and attended 4 primary schools. Just as I was beginning to fit in and make friends I moved on. By my very early 20's the number had grown to 7 schools,10 houses and I had visited more than 12 countries. By 60 it was more than 50 countries.

I knew where I was born, but unlike Gt Uncle Jock, I had no real sense of where I came from or where I belonged.

One of the most settled periods in my early life were my teenage years which I spent in Otaki and where I learned to surf during the summers of 59-63. As a surfer I would spend hours sitting, often alone, just beyond the breaker line, watching the swell and waiting for 'the' wave. I learned very quickly that waiting for the right wave, as opposed to taking the first wave, vastly improved my level of success and my enjoyment of the ride. I would watch as the waves began to form a few hundred meters away from me and try to pick the one that would be capable of taking me up in its swell and delivering me all the way to the shore. Timing was everything and when the right wave showed up I would paddle furiously, and If I had chosen correctly, the ride would be worth the wait. All waves were not created equal, and more ride for less paddle was my aim.

Like my youth, Otaki became a diminishing speck in the rear view mirror and lost in the blurr of life. But the sense of timing I learned surfing had become part of me and the analogy of 'waiting for wave' became one I resorted to often, even when my surfing days had long since ended. I would often describe my situation as waiting for a wave'; a wave of energy, a wave of inspiration, a wave of enthusiasm, support or what ever. Waiting for the right moment seemed to shorten the odds and meet my criteria of more ride for less paddle: but there was a price to pay. Because of this approach I spent more time on the outside of life looking in than on the inside of life looking out: and I spent much of today waiting for the right wave I knew would come tomorrow.

I had become very adept at sitting just beyond the breaker line of life, often alone, waiting for a wave. It had become a way of life. The paten continued and I became very good as spotting the potential in a situation, often long before others did, and in knowing how and when to paddle in time to catch the natural swell that would ensure I could ride it , , , right to the shore. Im not complaining, the 'talent' I had developed allowed me to do more things than most people would ever dream of doing. I was supremely happy, but unlike Jock I didn't really know where I belonged . . . except possibly in a place called 'mid life crisis.'

I was emotionally stateless, just an elderly surfer waiting for yet another wave.

The Otaki school reunion last October turned out to be a bigger wave than I expected, in fact, I hardly noticed the 'swell' that just visiting old haunts and meeting old friends had begun. But a swell it was, and I noticed bits of my identity floating all around me. There was no cohesion, no clear sense of anything like Jock's identity with his place of origin, but slowly over the last several months, I've watched the 'swell' gathering together the fragments of my whakapapa (?): I am John, I come from Otaki. my people are those I knew and grew up with in the late 50's and early 60's, my whenau are my wife, my children and grandchildren, my mountain is Hector and my river the Otaki.

It's not as strong ad Jock's identity, but its a beginning, an anchoring point, a point from which I can begin to grow.

It may have taken sixty something years but I now know who I am - and where I'm from.

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