Our third Sunday in New Zealand we attended the worship service of Our Lady of the Snows Roman Catholic Church in Fox Glacier, on the west coast. The tiny Presbyterian church building there (actually labeled a “chapel”) did not have worship times posted, and when we entered showed little sign of having been used since Christmas three years ago. So we flexed our ecumenical muscles and walked down the street to the equally tiny white building where the Catholics worshipped and celebrated the Mass with them.
I still find it fascinating to worship in a Catholic church. The most challenging part for me is the transformation of the meaning of worship by the presence of Jesus still hanging on the cross before the congregation. Protestants tend to use “empty crosses” as the central symbol of the worship space, or else no cross at all (Moravians shun any symbols whatsoever, fearing the potential for idolatry latent in any visual symbol). So the depiction—in this case one rather life-sized—of Jesus’ death is doubly stunning. It seems to bring the sharpest focus onto Jesus’ death as opposed to any other part of his life. It also invests the Eucharist with greater symbolic meaning as the priest declares, “This is my body, broken for you.”
The next Sunday we were in Nelson, the northern-most large city on the South Island. We attended worship at the Anglican Cathedral of Nelson, an ornate structure that watches over the whole of the city and is visible from most of it. The outer structure was built in the late 19th century, but the inside décor had been renovated with wood of lighter tones and bright carpet. It had a lighter, more Gothic kind of feel. The service incorporated youth of middle-school and high-school age, which reminded me of my own days as acolyte in the Lutheran church. Even this large sanctuary was amply supplied with parishioners of all ages and family status.
They also had—roped off to prevent intimate contact—the chairs in which the Queen of England and her Chancellor sat on their visit to Nelson in 1970-something. Hm.
Oh, and the preacher (one of two, it seemed from the way the service was conducted) was Maori.
Last Sunday we attended worship in Oamaru, a little coastal town just north of Dunedin. It was the foundational Presbyterian church of that town (every South Island town has one). They had a similar service to the one most Presbies in the States know. Except (and this is true of both Presbyterian churches we’ve attended here) the hymnals are smaller—yes, smaller print!—and they don’t have the music printed in them. Worshippers either know the tune already or they just make as if they do. Fascinating. Unless you’re a musical genius, there’s no four-part harmonies happening for you there.
We stuck around for tea-time after church and had a lovely chat with the pastor and a few parishioners. Good times.
Today we went to a Samoan Assemblies of God church here in Dunedin. Before the worship time we attended Bible study (something all age groups did) in which one person taught about the passage and the class learned and recited a memory verse, in Samoan, with hand motions. Very cool. (I’ll have to incorporate this into future Bible studies back home.) Come worship time, every group recited its memory verse before the congregation with hand motions. A fitting prelude to my upcoming class, Worship and the Performing Arts.
The pastor asked me to come before the congregation and give a word of encouragement to the congregation. This is something borne of the fact that I am to be a pastor in the states; most non-Western congregations expect something by way of a sermon or testimony from visiting pastors (a black Baptist preacher once said, “I never go to visit a church without a sermon in my pocket”). As such I was a little prepared for this circumstance, but it still felt a little strange. I am thankful that God gave me the Bible study time to prepare some words for that church. In the end they were encouraged and I was glad they asked me to speak a few words.
After worship we went to the pastor’s home where we were presented with a veritable feast, Samoan-style. The table was replete with everything from taro (Samoan potato, they said), fried bananas, chop suey, raw fish salad, KFC, french fries, corned beef and cabbage, rice, and vegetable salad. The small kitchen of the home didn’t seem to have enough space to prepare all these things, but there it was, laid out before us. We were honoured guests. As the matriarch of the family (and there were seven people of three generations living in the house) put it: Sunday is a special day. I guess “special” here means worshipping and eating. Of course, they’re going to go back to worship again this evening; for Samoan Christians Sunday really is entirely the Lord’s Day!
~emrys
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