CHAPTER SEVEN: Days Bay and the New Zealand Church Council
It was another Sunday – after church.
Mark Blake was glad to be home. Climbing the internal steps from the garage to the hallway, he wearily made his way to the kitchen and dumped his Mercedes keys on the table. Selena was somewhere behind him, scurrying away to her bedroom – he let her be.
Mark kicked off his shoes, and wandered into the lounge. Before him, through tall and wide windows, was a massive expanse of Lower Hutt and the Hutt River to the left, and Wellington Harbour to the right. The day was clear, the water of the harbour sparkling in the distance, while a slight wind whistled around the house. He drew in a deep breath, and sat down on the leather couch – reaching for the paper.
On the front page was an article, ‘Parliament passes bills giving unprecedented power to police,’ with a photo of James Connor smiling, in front of the Beehive. Mark studied his face for a moment: James Connor! He had actually made it to Prime Minister! Mark remembered their debates at Grammar. Oh yes, things had been different back then…Mark had been different. What had he argued for? That’s right: for social care.
“The poor!” he had said to James, at seventeen: full of idealism and purism. “Democracy is made to protect the weak!”
“No, no,” James had replied, “you’re missing the point, Mark: your faith is filling you with gushy sentiment. Democracy is for the rich.”
Mark had stared at him, in that moment, wondering. What had he said? Oh, yes:
“It is to enhance the rich to lift up the poor.”
James had laughed. “Forget about politics, Mark: you should be a priest!”
Mark had stared at him, in that moment. A priest? A priest…He had thought about it, prayed about it: he had done it.
And now he was the Anglican Bishop of Wellington.
For a moment he felt a sharp deep pain in his chest. Tossing the paper aside, he rose to his feet and wandered over to a table, next to the TV. There was a photo, still in an old frame, of Teresa: of his wife.
She looked young. Mark remembered the day – one of his best memories, and now one of the most painful. They had been down the beach, at Days Bay: a perfect day. Tristan and Selena had been there. Tristan had actually managed to surf! Mark remembered his own laughter – his son’s joyous enthusiasm. Selena had built the biggest sand castle Mark had ever seen: or at least the one with the prettiest shell decorations. And Teresa…
Mark held his breath now, at the memory. Teresa…her smile, for him, holding the camera: her radiant happiness, before…before…
Clenching his teeth, Mark shoved the photo down on the table: face down.
“I’m going out!” he called out, half choking, to Selena. “I’ve got another Church Council meeting!”
“Whatever!” her sixteen year-old voice replied – and he grabbed his shoes, and his keys, and hurried back down to the garage.
The New Zealand Church Council. They usually only met every three months, but lately, with the increasing demands, everyone involved thought they’d better meet more regularly.
Mark was hungry. He hurriedly ate a muesli bar from an emergency packet he kept in the glove box, and stepped outside onto the deserted car park. Once again, his was the only car.
This time the meeting was at the Glen Road Baptist Church, in Kelburn. Mark wandered into the hallway, and then into the Auditorium. The Baptists often had a modern style of church – and there was the tiny cross, on the pulpit, at the front.
“Right Reverend Bishop Blake!” a voice said, and Mark turned to the grinning older face. He looked rather homely, with a knitted brown vest and white shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbows.
“Murray!” he said, reaching a hand to him.
“Welcome to our humble abode.”
“I wouldn’t say ‘humble’…”
“I know you wouldn’t say ‘fancy,’ either.”
“Perhaps not…”
“Good to see you, Blakey.”
Mark almost choked on his familiarity, but accepted it: Pastor Murray Simon was the head of the Baptist Council of New Zealand.
Murray turned him toward a meeting room – and there were seated eight other ministers: representing Catholic, Presbyterian, Methodist, Pentecostal, and others. Mark acknowledged them all, and then sat at the head of the table.
“Welcome, everyone,” he said. “Thank you for coming again.”
“Shall we open in prayer?” Murray Simon asked.
“By all means: go ahead, Murray.”
Murray bowed his head, and Mark glanced at all the others present, doing the same, before he followed suit.
“Precious Father,” Murray prayed. “Thank you for your goodness. Thank you for your love. Thank you for bringing us all together here safely this Sunday afternoon. We pray that you might guide our meeting: help us to know what is right – give us your wisdom. We pray for New Zealand: that you might protect us, and lead us, in Jesus Christ’s name.”
“Amen,” everyone said, and Mark followed suit.
“Thank you,” he said to Murray, and now he turned to the others.
“What do we have to report?” he asked. “Who would like to go first?”
The Catholic Priest, Andrew Stead, lifted his hand.
“Yes, Father Andrew.”
“We’ve noticed in our parishes,” the young man began, “there’s a lot of fear.”
“Fear?” the Presbyterian minister, the Reverend Robyn Peer asked.
“Well…they’re wondering if this is the beginning of the End.”
Glances passed between the ministers present. Mark looked at Murray, who was smiling slightly, and shook his head.
“Honestly,” Mark said, “a bit of heat, and people are already talking about the End of the World? People have speculated about that for almost two thousand years. The End is in God’s hands – let’s talk about today. How are the churches doing across New Zealand?”
“Well,” began the Pentecostal minister, Luke Davies, “I want to praise God for everything that is happening in the Fullness of Life Churches across New Zealand. Our attendance has gone up three hundred per cent! God is giving us healings, and prophecies…”
“Good for you,” Mark muttered, and felt Murray’s nudge, and looked at the amused warning in his eyes.
“So – the Pentecostal churches are thriving,” Mark said. “And you, Reverend Robyn: how is the Presbyterian Church managing?”
Robyn shrugged her shoulders. “Much as it has before.”
“Sounds like the Anglican Church,” Mark said.
Now Murray was wandering around the table, as if thoughtfully in prayer. Mark looked up at him.
“And you, Murray? How is the Baptist Church doing?”
Murray tilted his head, and looked directly at Mark.
“We’re doing well, Mark.”
“How so?”
“At least in this congregation…people are struggling more, but they’re also helping each other more. Food is more difficult to get – but we seem to be more grateful for the food we do get.”
He sounded like Choo, the Dean of Wellington Cathedral: even looked like her, in that moment. Something in the eyes – something Mark did not understand.
“Curiously,” Murray continued, “for us it is almost as though less is more.”
Mark stared at him. “Less is more?” he said. “Sounds like an ad for losing weight!”
Murray held his gaze steadfastly. “Exactly,” he said.
Mark felt uncomfortable. He decided to look away, to the less challenging face of Father Andrew.
“And how are your finances holding up, Andrew?” he asked. The young man, blonde wavy hair, blue eyes, looked a little flustered – Mark wondered why the Catholic Church had not sent a more seasoned representative to the Council.
“Finances?” Andrew said. “What do you mean?”
“Offerings, Father: offerings! Are they falling off for you, as they are for us? Staff cuts, buildings wearing do
wn, congregations dwindling – no perceived relevance anymore.”
The young man’s face looked bewildered. “What?” he said. “No, Sir…”
Surprised, Mark searched him. “What do you mean?”
“Offerings?” Andrew continued. “I can’t give you a figure, but I’m sure they’ve increased. More people are coming to church: they’re looking for hope. Some people need more help, and other people are giving more. The rich are lifting up the poor.”
Oh, damn, Mark thought, before he could stop himself. The boy sounds just like me thirty years ago!
“People are afraid – but they’re also excited,” Andrew said.
“Excited?” Mark asked.
“Well, yes, Bishop. We believe Christ is coming again soon.”
Now Mark stared at him. A hard lump formed in his throat – for a moment he couldn’t breathe. Then he swallowed the lump.
“Amen to that!” Murray’s voice sounded, in his ear.
Mark forced himself to look each minister in turn. Were all expecting Christ’s imminent return? No: not all. In that moment Catholic, Pentecostal and Baptist were united – could it be possible? There it was. But others were wondering: others doubted. Robyn looked particularly perplexed.
“No one knows the time or the place of Christ’s return,” Mark said mechanically, “but, in the meantime, here we are. How to manage with the resources we have? That is the question.”
“No arguments there,” Murray said – but there was something in his eye.
The meeting continued, talking about this and that: nothing really of any great consequence, Mark thought. He dutifully continued as Chairperson, in his role – and was glad to finally draw the meeting to a close, one and a half hours later. Andrew prayed – some set Catholic prayer: Mark hardly noticed the words. Then it was over.
The ministers filed out of the room: but Murray did not let him escape so easily.
“Mark,” the older man began, and Mark nonchalantly looked at him.
“Yes?”
“Something going on with you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Your mind seems in a different space.”
Every man needs a minister: even a Bishop.
Where had those words come from? His own words, suddenly in his heart: suddenly pressing. He resisted them.
“No,” he said. “Nothing’s wrong, Murray: everything’s fine.”
Bullshit, his thoughts now betrayed him. Nothing’s been right with you for nine years. Not since…since…
Grief threatened to overwhelm him, but with an iron fist he thrust it aside. Control! Control. It was the only way: the only way to survive.
“Thank you Murray,” he said clearly, ignoring the eyes. “See you again next time.”
And with absolute control, he straightened his shoulders, turned, and walked out the door toward his isolated Mercedes in the car-park.