I’ve pretty much spent the entire weekend working on an essay in true Carie Mac style, which consists of frantically trying to organize the thoughts and quotes scattered across six color-coded pages in Microsoft Word, listening to the Wake-State football game with half an ear and ignoring Ted Nugent scream about cat-scratch-fe-verrrr, with the occasional Youtube break. That’s how I do it. Needless to say, after stringing together a thousand words on whether or not the Nazis succeeded in their policies toward youth during wartime Germany (answer: it depends on who you ask), I needed a break for something a little more uplifting. So Nora and I went to the Christchurch Cathedral for the evening service. It’s an Anglican church, but it’s also a tourist attraction. The floor is patterned with Stars of David and there’s a huge menorah in the corner, and there are candles and a small fountain for meditation purposes. Walking in, I assumed that it would be a church whose leaders pride themselves on “tolerance” at the expense of the truth. Looking over the liturgy, I saw that all the Scriptures and anthems were about love and all the mushy stuff that churches tend to emphasize over God’s more serious characteristics. I settled back in my comfy seat, ready for another useless sermon about feeling rather than doing. I judged the church and its members before hearing what they had to say, so clearly I had something to learn. And God never misses out a chance to deliver in a situation like that.
The New Testament lesson was Matthew 10:1-22, about Jesus talking to his disciples before sending them out with nothing but their faith and his Spirit. It’s not a terribly cheery passage, unless you relish the idea of being flogged and betrayed by your loved ones. The priest’s words caught my attention, as did his admission that he’d much rather be chilling in his comfortable, beautiful church in his spiffy vestments than out on the road for Jesus. Then he said something that struck me: that the church’s elaborate architecture and extravagant trappings aren’t in place to honor God or for his edification. Instead they serve to illustrate his greatness so that his people remember who he is. We get so caught up in the rush of our lives and allow God to recede in importance among our own priorities and fears, and the beauty of his house reminds us, or at least the priest and me, that God is still in charge. Christ with me, Christ before me, Christ behind me, Christ in me, Christ beneath me, Christ above me. And so on. So much so that he took what was basically a study break and used it to smack me over the head with his sovereignty again.
The sermon also made me think about how terrible we are at remembering all the things God’s done for us. We’re a lot like the Israelites, who had the worst memories in recorded history. I’m sure that the part about the whole miraculous escape from slavery in Egypt that really stuck in the Israelites’ minds for years after was that they had to eat the same old, same old manna every day. I mean, if God’s going to drop food out of the sky, it could at least be like Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs, right, and he could mix up the menu sometimes? What was he thinking? And the thing is, we’re just like the Israelites—we focus on the bad things that have happened in our lives rather than the miracles God has worked on our behalf. It’s typical of us to complain rather than rejoice. But when I listened to the priest speak today, I felt like the extra rubbish in my heart was melting away. That priest knows his stuff. As he said, the beauty of the church is a “vehicle” for our connection with God. Maybe that sounds idolatrous. But in that huge space, I can’t help but feel very small and remember who I am in comparison with the one I’m supposed to serve.
Well, those are my deep thoughts from New Zealand. It’s a good priest who can speak for five minutes and have me thinking about his words the rest of the night. But it’s bedtime. I have GOT to stop waking up at the crack of dawn to get on Skype.
love-
Carie Mac
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