Why "rewire" the church? Church has been at the centre of my identity. It’s formed me, frustrated me, deeply angered and hurt me, guided me, and protected me. Some of the most challenging ideas I have ever met, far more radical than the lawn meetings of my student days, have come from the theologians of the church. There has been a sense of connection to the tradition and wisdom of millennia. And, inevitably, the frustration of tradition hide-bound. I remember singing the words of a hymn one Sunday morning, “nothing changes here...” and one of the youth group muttered sotto voce to his girlfriend, “God, you can say that again!” What worked for our parent’s church doesn’t necessarily work for us. I notice it often doesn’t work for them anymore, although older people are sometimes more gracious about their frustrations! Life changes, we change, and constantly need to reassess where we are going.
This little church on the web is modelled around the metaphor of an old and treasured house. It's the house our parents lived in and inherited from someone we never knew. The house is strong and robust, but needs rewiring. Our ways of thinking and being need to change to make the house liveable and practical. Otherwise it will be a burden, not a base camp for life.
How good it is to be alive!
How good it is to be alive!
After the rush of Main North Road, the South Terrace parklands are a paradise.
The rain has filled the wetlands, and the air is filled with the taste of living water.
This morning the grey haired man is without his partner, but their Maltese- Shih Tzu, ever happy, still trots along side. Further along, the two women with the Jack Russell call out "Good Morning." Jack strains against the harness with his usual enthusiasm, longing for the day he can drag me off the bike.
Today it seems every young olive tree in the grove has its own ibis, wiggling worms out of the leaf litter.
A couple of nights ago, coming home, my farmer's eye guesstimated 200 ducks grazing like a tight mob of sheep, in the paddock across from the Velodrome! This morning I crossed fifty metres of duck painted path, evidence the whole raft had waddled across to the velodrome.
Even the bare, overgrazed horse paddock has turned green. The living smell of stable has replaced the dry, deathly odour of the old slaughterhouse holding cell.
As I came up to Grand Junction Road, I met another cyclist rolling across, on his way to Mawson Lakes. He gave me a grin and "G'day," as he began the race down to the wetlands.
How good it is to be alive!
Andrew
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