Judge Not.

Judge not, that ye be not judged. For with what judgment ye judge, ye shall be judged: and with what measure ye mete, it shall be measured to you again. Matthew 7:1-2

FOUR HUNDRED AND FORTY men and women professing the Christian faith would appear to have imperilled their immortal souls. The second of the Ten Commandments could hardly be clearer: Thou shalt not make unto thee a graven image. And yet, in their open letter to the nation’s legislators, these 440 clerics have made it equally clear that, by their adoration of te Tiriti o Waitangi, idolatry is precisely what they are guilty of. Worse still, by publicly bowing down before te Tiriti, and serving it so aggressively, they have called down upon their heads the wrath of a self-confessed “Jealous God”, whose punishments extend – even unto the fourth generation.

Then again, citing the Old Testament probably cuts little ice with these Christians. They do, after all, introduce their attack on Act leader David Seymour’s, Treaty Principles Bill with a quote from the Gospel of Matthew:

Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called the children of God.

A fine old Presbyterian once described the Beatitudes (from which the above verse is taken) as “Jesus’s marching orders”. Such a pity, then, that what the clerics put their names to evinces so little in the way of elucidating the paths of peace. Counselling men and women to use their power to silence the voices of others smacks more of violence and repression than peace-making.

Certainly, David Seymour’s epistolary assailants have given him cause to seek solace in the ninth beatitude:

Blessed are ye, when men shall revile you, and persecute you, and shall say all manner of evil against you falsely, for my sake. Rejoice, and be exceeding glad: for great is your reward in heaven: for so persecuted they the prophets which were before you.

For Christ’s sake? Who among the 440 clerics would aver that David Seymour’s Bill is infused with Christian purpose? Not many, if any. Which is disappointing, since the Act leader would appear to have a firmer theological grasp of the issues at stake in this matter than the professors of theology who signed on to the open letter.

“I am not a religious person,” David Seymour tweeted. “However, I do have an enormous respect for the core Christian principle of imago dei – we are each made in the image of God. I like it because it automatically means we all have equal dignity. It is one of the foundations of liberal democracy and whether you are Christian or not, you have to be grateful for the freedom and dignity that idea has given us.”

Well, yes, it does, and we should. The idea that each soul approaches the throne of God naked and alone, no longer cloaked in the pretentions of class, or race, or gender, but only in the artistry of the Creator’s hand, is, perhaps, why the carpenter from Nazareth warned us:

Judge not, that ye be not judged. For with what judgment ye judge, ye shall be judged: and with what measure ye mete, it shall be measured to you again. And why beholdest thou the mote that is in thy brother’s eye, but considerest not the beam that is in thine own eye?

A beam in the eye of 440 clerics? Surely not?

But what else are we to call a letter which so clearly divides the people of New Zealand into sheep and goats – an exercise in separation considered by most Christians to be the privilege of Jehovah alone.

The letter’s depiction of te Tiriti as a “sacred covenant” is also troubling. No deities of any kind are invoked, or included, in the Treaty’s text. It was a document made on earth, by men, and in the nature of all man-made things its meaning has proved as difficult to pin down as quicksilver.

Is it really such an awful sin to ask the voters of New Zealand to validate, or repudiate, David Seymour’s attempt to define the essence of te Tiriti o Waitangi? After all, God leads us through history towards the future, not the past. It is surely blasphemy to suggest that he has forever bound New Zealanders’ imaginations to the confused deliberations of 6th February 1840.

Is a referendum really so unthinkable? After all, as another wise cleric (not one of the 440) memorably declared: Vox populi, vox dei. The voice of the people is the voice of God.

This sermon was originally published in The Otago Daily Times and The Greymouth Star of Friday, 13 September 2024.

The Shimmer: A Christmas Short Story.

“Flee, Joseph, flee! Turn west and travel south to Egypt. Keep the sea at your right hand. Do not wait for the sun to rise. Flee to the land from which Moses fled. Word will be sent to you when it is safe to return. You must not tarry – not for a moment. Herod’s men are searching everywhere. Go now! Save yourself! Save Mary! Save the boy!” - Painting: The Flight Into Egypt by Luc-Olivier Merson 1879

IT WAS GOOD to sit and share the flat brown loaf. Father and son, tearing off the warm chunks of bread. Passing the wineskin from hand to hand. Washing down the food with mouthfuls of rough Galilean wine. They had been working all morning on a yoke: carved from a single block of cedar; the little workshop’s specialty.

“You have a rare gift with wood, my son. It’s as if you can see already the piece that lies within; as if you’re calling it into being. And your yokes are easy – everybody says so.”

The son, smiled.

“Did I see you talking to Esau’s youngest daughter earlier today? How is she bearing her trouble?”

“All the better for the words you exchanged with her father. She told me how you sat with him the night before last. How changed he was afterwards.”

“Villages can be cruel places, son. A young woman with child and not yet wed – it brings out the worst in people. All I told Esau was that every child is a gift from God. And that it is not given to us to judge the purposes for which He brings life into the world.”

“Wise words, father.”

“Not mine, alas, my son. They were spoken to me a full score of winters ago. As now, this village was rife with rumour and spite. People looked sideways at me. Laughed in their sleeves. Hissed evil words to my back.”

“Concerning my mother?”

“Concerning your mother.”

“Who was it, then, supplied the wise counsel you shared with Esau?”

“To tell you the truth, son, I do not know. I was wrestling with the choices before me in the upper olive grove. It was dark, a new moon hovered above the trees, and he was suddenly there beside me. His tunic was of white wool and I swear it seemed to shimmer – as if masking a light of unbearable brightness.”

“And what did he say, father?”

“That I, and your mother, and you, son, were part of a story that had been written long, long ago. That you were precious beyond the measure of mortal longing. That the world would be changed, changed utterly, by your presence in it. That your mother was the vessel of humanity’s salvation. And that I must keep her safe.”

“Did you ever see him again, father?”

“Just once. It was during those dreadful days following your birth, when the King sent his soldiers to kill all the new-born male children. Those three Parthian wizards, the ones who found us in that Bethlehem stable, they’d told Herod how far they had come, from the eastern lands beyond Rome’s reach, to witness the birth of a king. Not a clever story to tell in a murderous tyrant’s court.

“Neither your mother nor I were aware of the danger. In fact, we were on our way home. I had gone into the trees to gather wood for the fire – and there he was. The same white wool, the same unearthly shimmer.”

“And what were his words this time?”

“Flee, Joseph, flee! Turn west and travel south to Egypt. Keep the sea at your right hand. Do not wait for the sun to rise. Flee to the land from which Moses fled. Word will be sent to you when it is safe to return. You must not tarry – not for a moment. Herod’s men are searching everywhere. Go now! Save yourself! Save Mary! Save the boy!”

“And, you did, father, you did – for here I stand. Safe and sound. For no grander purpose, seemingly, than to whittle yokes for the necks of our neighbour’s cattle.”

“Do you mean to test me, son? By making light of the wondrous circumstances of your birth? Or, do you mean to test the patience of that providence which delivered you? Think you that I have forgotten that your mother came to our marriage bed a maid? That all your life I have called you son and loved you as my own – though mine you are not, and never will be?

“Forgive me, father.”

No need, my boy. You are what you are. Though what that might be remains to be seen. Suffice to say that when you pray, under the stars in the upper olive grove, I cannot help noticing the shimmer.

This short story was originally published in The Otago Daily Times and The Greymouth Star of Friday, 21 December 2018.