Postscript

When I grow old and mad, I will collect telephone directories, and develop a devotion to ancient Greek pots, badgers, and murder mystery stories. That’s how I will be able to tell that I’m mad – because at the moment I am fairly indifferent to pots and badgers, and I loathe detective fiction with a passion. It’s something about the cosy settings and the convoluted plots all directed towards the purpose of finding out whodunnit. And it’s usually the unlikeliest person in the story - the postman in the potting shed with the antique barometer, or the vicar at the kick-boxing tournament with the electric kettle. Whodunnits are popular because there is a compelling urge to discover. We have to find out why and who and how, until we can put the story to rest. (Of course, we could just turn to the last page of the book first, but that’s never really taken off as a popular option.) We start with questions and injustice. We press on till we have answers and a
judgement. So it’s weird that there’s one murder mystery that breaks all the rules and yet it outsells every other book ever written Perversely, it starts with certainty. We know the person who was done away with. We know exactly who did it, and why. We know when He died, with surprising accuracy. And how. A professional guard was even mounted on pain of death, just so no unsettling rumours could start. And that’s where the mystery began. Why did the guard sleep on duty? Who opened the heavy tomb? Where did the body go, and how? Where is it now?
What was the explosive event that persuaded His friends that justice had at last been fulfilled? Most mysterious of all perhaps, why did so many people subsequently believe an impossible explanation to be the least improbable?
Ven Lynda Patterson

I was trying to describe to somebody at Clergy Conference this week the experience of worshipping in Christ's College Chapel. They weren't really getting me until I said, "And sometimes there's the faint whiff of testosterone and well-scrubbed adolescent about the place." "Ah", they said, and their face lit up with a knowing smile. For me, smell is by far the most evocative of the senses. Every time I smell Bovril I
am transported 30 years back to tea times on wet summer seaside holidays with my grandparents. Pipe tobacco takes me back to tutorials at University, reading essays about the Early Church Fathers as my tutor hung half-in and half-out of the window, smoking with a kind of frantic concentration. I recall a trip to Czechoslovakia in the early 1990s with the lingering odour of overcooked cabbage and the reek of petrol. I'm not alone. Marcel Proust re-entered his childhood with the smell of a madeline, and this week, scientists in the UK unveiled a scent stick designed to help those with dementia remember. After my grandmother's death, my grandfather gradually lost his appetite with his memory. I remember my mother coaxing him to each mouthful and each sip. Then, in an inspired moment, she gave him a bottle of lavender perfume which had been my grandmother's favourite. Before each meal he would sniff it, and you could watch as he suddenly moved in his mind to a time when he shared picnics and Sunday lunches and
extravagant high teas with his wife. His appetite gradually returned. Jesus was sharing a meal with his friends, when, unexpectedly, one of them took a pound of pure nard worth a year’s wages, and poured it over his feet. It filled the house. The cost could have saved the starving, said one of the pious people who sat lemonfaced in the corner. “Leave her alone,” He said. “The starving will always be with you. I will soon be
gone.” Jesus said many shocking things. Was the wild extravagant celebration of a scent really more important than saving lives? But this was someone who wined and dined for pure pleasure; who considered gladdening of the heart so vital that his first miracle turned necessary water for essentials into quality vintage for the party. If my grandfather were still alive, I would certainly buy him a smell stick. The absurd,
ridiculous opulence of mere scent ... yet designed to save life with a luxury.
Ven Lynda Patterson

It has been a week of remembrance and looking back to the past.  The deconstruction of the Cathedral tower began, with the expected reaction from those opposed to the work.  However, far more importantly, the Cathedral community again hosted the ANZAC Day Citizens’ Service and had a role in the Dawn Parade.  At a time when those who fought with the original ANZACs have gone, and those who fought in the later world war are fast disappearing, the crowds at these events grow, and grow significantly. “We will remember them” and “Lest we forget” are the emotional lines recalled this week.  On ANZAC Day we remember those thousands of people who fought, who were injured, and who died so that we may live in the society we do today.  These people have largely gone now, but in no way are they forgotten and if current trends are anything to go by, the younger generations will ensure that they never are.  ANZAC Day, although a time for remembering, is definitely looking to the future.
Whereas the loss of bricks and mortar can never be compared to the loss of human life, will it be the same with a Cathedral?  Will we be able to remember the old Cathedral, just because it is no longer there?  Of course we will.  Anyone who suggests that just because the building is gone from our presence, means that it is also gone forever from our memory, our hearts, our psyche, is ignorant.  A glorious new Cathedral will rise again in Cathedral Square.  It will not be the old one, but it will be beautiful and it will allow us to remember the old.  Time to move on … to embrace the new.  But that doesn’t mean we have to forget all that is passed.
Chris Oldham

Chinese Whispers is a novel game and so close to life. A story clearly told, in the retelling, takes on a life of its own. In the heat of battle, sometime during WWII, a British Major instructed his subordinate to pass on the following message to High Command: “Bring reinforcements, we’re going to advance...” By the end of a string of repeated orders down the line and a garbled call on the field telephone, the General at High Command was somewhat perplexed when an underling walked into his office and said: “Message from the Front, Sir. It’s an unusual request. Apparently we’re to bring three and fourpence, we’re going to a dance.”
The Transitional (Cardboard) Cathedral message seems to be taking on just such a whispery life. Though the story of this unique and beautiful structure is as simple as it is stunning, it warps and wanders through a mix of emotion and other’s agendas. As an eternal optimist, I’m more intrigued than concerned. In the end, the first told story will win out. When built, the Cardboard Cathedral will speak plainly and clearly and
without ambiguity. Human nature often seems hell bent on diverting from the truth. Perhaps it’s through a belief that nothing is ever as simple as it sounds. We embellish and add. Religions historically have been particularly prone to this urge. But the truth is plain and simple. Jesus was supreme at narrowing it down. Those around him were forever padding it out, adding clauses and sub clauses. There’s a beautiful  llustration of simplicity winning out in the story of Jesus healing a man blind from birth (John 9:1-25). The authorities, learned in religious observance, tradition and order, interrogated the healed fellow twice following the event. Also his parents. Their questions were many and complex. How did this happen? Who was this Jesus? What did he do? Not knowing quite how to respond to this barrage, he conveyed
the truth of his experience. The story as he new it, pure and simple: “One thing I do know. I was blind but now I see!”
End of argument.
Truth wins out.
Revd Craig Dixon

I’ve never really understood this country’s devotion to Coronation Street. I suppose you could argue that the stories of the mean streets of industrial Salford have a kind of universal appeal - a kind of 21st century version of the medieval morality play. But what gets to me most is the histrionics. Much of the drama consists of people standing across from each other in bedrooms or shops or pubs, and simply shouting. It seems like a spilt drink or a bad haircut is the end of the world. And I’m not sure how this relates to that underrated Kiwi virtue of extreme stoicism in all circumstances. Spill your drink? Apologise, and buy another one. Truly awful haircut? Smile tightly, pay up, and learn to love hats. Just conquered Everest? Mumble shyly to the watching world that you just knocked the bugger off. This morning’s Gospel reading tells the story of Jesus’ resurrection appearances to the disciples and to Thomas, and what’s shocking is how little drama there is. It’s like a story told by a Kiwi. Jesus appears in a locked room, and he breathes on the disciples and gives them the gift of the Holy Spirit. There are no tongues of fire, as in Luke’s story; no rushing of mighty winds, or people racing around engaged in unruly preaching in outlandish tongues. Jesus simply says, “Receive the Holy Spirit. If you forgive anyone’s sins, they are forgiven; if you do not forgive them, they are not forgiven.” The Holy Spirit: it does exactly what it says on the tin. Thomas is even more Kiwi in his approach. He comes back to the room after Jesus has appeared, and he simply won’t believe it unless he can put his fingers where the nails were and put his hand in Jesus side. Hmm, you can almost hear him say, pull the other one, lads. And then Jesus appears to him too, and says, well, on you go. Here are my hands and my side. Stop doubting, and believe. Thomas takes one look at him, and makes one of the simplest and profoundest statements of faith in any of the Gospels - “My Lord and my God.” I’d hate to see us adopt the Coronation Street approach to human relations, where the person who shouts loudest about trivial things wins. But sometimes our hardnosed stoicism doesn’t go far enough. There are times when you encounter God in Christ acting in the world, and the only sensible response is silence and contemplation. But there are times when you have to declare publicly, “My Lord and my God.”
Ven Lynda Patterson

When I first visited New Zealand nearly 10 years ago, I found myself - with a certain inevitability - on the backpacker trail in Queenstown. I’m not much of an adrenalin junkie, so I decided to forego bungee jumping or zorbing and go instead for what sounded like a relatively sedate jet boat ride on the Shotover River. There we were, a boatload of us suited up with waterproofs and life jackets, when the driver decided to give us a safety talk. It was fairly concise. “If you fall in”, he said,” keep your feet up, your head back and enjoy the ride.” Then he started the engine, and 15 of us clutched the handles with faces the colour of cottage cheese as we shot off down the river thinking of health and safety regulations. There are times when the movement of God in the world seems to be a bit like that. God is moving and working at God’s pace, in God’s time, and in God’s direction. We’d like the action of God to be more sedate, or predictable; certainly we’d like to control the speed. But the only thing we can really do is keep our heads up and enjoy the ride.
On the morning of the resurrection, John’s Gospel tells us, there were three witnesses. The beloved disciple saw the empty tomb and believed. Peter peered in, looked at the grave clothes lying in a pile, and saw nothing. Mary recognized Jesus only after he spoke her name. The power of the resurrection doesn’t depend on our ability to “get it”, thank God. Because the story of Christ is not a triumphant epiphany, but the
shipwreck of one particular human life, in which God willingly endures the emptiness of history; resurrection is more than we ever imagined, every bit as strange and unique as the creation of the world from nothing. We don’t ever really get it . As GK Chesterton said, the resurrection is like the sun; we can’t look at it directly, but by its light we see everything else. That is the good news of this story. God brings resurrection because of who God is. The reality of the empty tomb reminds us God is at work in the world doing what only God can do. In all humility, without much fanfare, and certainly not dependent on the
response of people, God goes about God’s business; our lives and the life of the world will never be the same again. So this Easter, in the midst of all the chaos and uncertainty, let’s try to keep our heads up and enjoy the ride.
Ven Lynda Patterson

I never really appreciated coffee until I was in my early 30s. I just didn’t get it – it was sludgy brown bitter stuff and I couldn’t understand what people saw in it. Now, of course, I gulp it down in buckets, the words
“a double shot extra milky soy cappuccino with cinnamon” leap to my lips, and I think fondly of the days when I didn’t need a cup to get going in the mornings. And when I could sleep. It was the same with Shakespeare. The critic Harold Bloom says that Shakespeare will speak to as much of yourself as you are able to bring to him, and at 15 years of age in Mrs Ince’s English class, I brought very little. But this week, as a kind of Lenten discipline, I re-read King Lear again – slowly and meditatively. It was a revelation. There is a dark relentlessness about the whole play. I no longer think of it as being an uninterrupted chain of violent acts, or basically about the shipwreck of one human life. It pans out to reveal the sheer mammoth scale of human tragedy. But as the bodies of Lear and Cordelia are carried off at the end, we are left with all the small people in the play – the poor and the hopeless and the ruined and the refugees – who will somehow go on living in this “gored state”, in this dark and blighted world. Now it seems to speak about the imperative of patience, of sheer human endurance in the face of meaningless tragedy. And I’m glad I didn’t see any of this when I was 15, when I had no idea what a great, beautiful, tragic, appalling thing it is to
be alive. Faith is a relentless fidelity to the world as it really is. As we approach the start of holy week, we rehearse again how God redeems the world through the darkness and dereliction of the cross. I know I can barely grasp what that means. We can’t escape the hard truths, much as we’d like to. Love emerges when we can look the world straight in the face and see it as it really is. And then, bruised and limping, we align ourselves with the redemptive power of God.
Ven Lynda Patterson

The other night I was lying in my garden on a cardboard box looking at the stars. There was a residue of the day’s heat in the ground still, but alongside it was the unmistakable smell of autumn in the air – a hint of frosty nights and fog, of freshly made soup and the bonfires of Saturday afternoon gardeners. And as the Southern Cross circled patiently above me, I thought about the passing of time. The last year has gone by, with all its anxieties and its anger; the old battles have been fought over and over again, and new conflicts have arisen; we have had more earthquakes than most of us can take and still, for some of us, no resolution for munted houses and businesses and lives held in suspension. And yet, with the old inevitability, time passes, the seasons turn, and it is autumn once again. The New Testament has two words for time. The first, chronos, is clock time, seasonal time, the time we are most familiar with. When you punch a time card at the start of a shift, or when you celebrate a birthday, you’re on chronos time. We strap small clocks to our wrists and call them “watches,” because with them we can watch chronos time coming and going. But the New Testament also speaks of kairos time, which might be roughly translated as “the right moment.” The most significant things in our world exist only in kairos time, when the time is right. And though this time can’t be planned or mapped, we wish it could be. So many of the questions we ask are desperate attempts to control kairos time. When should I tell him that I love him? When will I hear from the insurance company or from EQC? When will God answer my prayers? Time is easily mapped, but these things don’t figure on any predictable schedule. There is a season for love and birth and creativity, and for loss and uncertainty and inevitable partings. You know when the season has come, but you could never have forseen it. In the play Our Town by Thornton Wilder, after Emily has died in childbirth, she asks the Stage Manager if she can return home to relive just one day. Reluctantly he allows her to do so. And she is torn by the beauty of the ordinary, and by our lack of awareness of it. She cries out to her mother, “Mama, just look at me one minute as though you really saw me… it goes so fast we don’t have time to look at one another.” And she goes back to the graveyard and the quiet company of the others lying there, and she asks the Stage Manager “Do any human beings ever realize life while they live it?” And he sighs and says, “No. The saints and poets, maybe. They do some.”
Ven Lynda Patterson

When Benedict of Nursia put together his Rule for monastic life in community, he attended to every aspect of domesticity. He detailed everything from the amount of food allowed for meals to the footwear a monk should wear, but in a commentary on the Rule it is the chapter headed “Those Who Are Commanded to Do the Impossible” that catches my attention. It comes just before the section “Monks May Not Presume to Strike One Another at Will.” When it looks as though an impossible task is not going to disappear off the radar, St Benedict advises the community of monks to listen, to obey out of love, trusting in the help of God.
With endless possibilities for the rebuild of our city it is the time for entrepeneurs and ideas people. In the midst of it all we are called to the mission of the Church and we respond: “Let’s get a transitional cathedral off the ground, reach out in faith to a city in need of some good news, and have it done by Christmas.” It would be fair to believe we are about to go hand in hand with the impossible. Yet, we only have to look outside ourselves to be humbled by the company of others courting the impossible too. The stories this week from Japan show us whole communities starting again from the ground up, gathering a history of total devastation and loss and courageously planning a future. Closer to home, we see people around us in the city getting on with the impossible – facing challenges they never imagined would be part of their lives, and finding a way through. It may take us some time, and we may well need to take some of St Benedict’s advice, but, in the narrative of the Cathedral rebuild – in whatever form it takes – overcoming the impossible will only be part of the story.
Nicky Lee, Volunteer Manager

It’s been a week of phone calls - some irate, a few supportive, many confused, and one opportunistic one from someone who was offering to take the copper from the Cathedral roof off our hands - if we paid him. The story about the deconstruction of the Cathedral has saturated the media. Some people have accused the church of acting rashly, and others of sitting in a closed room twiddling our thumbs and waiting for a
kind of demolition by neglect. Let me assure you - the decision about the future of the Cathedral was not taken lightly. It was a careful and painstaking one. Actually, it was agonizing. I loved the building. In the early morning, before the Cathedral opened, the Dean and I would say morning prayer as the chancel echoed quietly around us. Sometimes I’d pause before the day’s onslaught and watch the light play over the nave floor from the Scott Window. There were quiet midweek communions in the Memorial Chapel which always smelt faintly of beeswax and furniture polish, and then those grand occasions like Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve when the building was packed to the gills with excited, enthusiastic people. I never climbed the tower - I am irrationally afraid of spiral staircases - but I wish now I’d hardened up and done it. I loved the building. I will miss it. Some of the undoubted fury out there is because so many other people loved the building too. I have to be careful here - I never feel more of a foreigner than when I try to interpret the relationship of the people of Christchurch to their Cathedral. It’s part touchstone, part familiar and partly like a well-loved and gently neglected older relative. I don’t understand all the nuances, but I know that for many people the Cathedral is Christchurch. And it looks as if the church is preparing to wash our hands of it. The earthquake on 22nd February changed everything. Even if we could afford the sheer hard cash to put the building back again, stone by stone; even if we were prepared to pay the price in workers lives if there is another quake, a reconstructed building or a replica doesn’t wipe away the last year’s worth of history. Much that is familiar in our city is still gone; our homes are still munted; some of us have lost the people that we love, and the whole of our mental geography has changed irreparably. Having the Cathedral
look like it did won’t change the reality of the hard slog ahead of us. The thing I’ve always admired most about Kiwis is their quiet stoicism and their sheer guts. It’s a kind of heroism of the most unassuming variety. There are things that would break us, but we say, “She’ll be right” and just carry on. So I believe. We will get through this, build a Cathedral in the Square that acknowledges the past and tells the story of who we are; it will look to the future and tell the story of the people we want to be. It will be different enough so that we never forget that the trauma of the earthquakes changed everything. I can’t tell you what it will look like, but I promise you, it will be magnificent.
Ven Lynda Patterson