A New Kind of Zeal

by Michelle Warren

CHAPTER FOUR: St Peter’s Cathedral

  It was ten thirty on Sunday morning, at St Peter’s Cathedral, Wellington.

  The old aging Cathedral, St Paul’s, had merged across the road with a smaller church, St Peter’s, to become a new Cathedral.

  The Right Reverend Bishop Mark Blake sat on the left side of the pulpit, just before the choir stalls. He was dressed in a bishop’s appropriate dress: a purple cassock, covered by a looser white tunic, with red overlying, and finally a black scarf lying flat over both sides of red. A large solid rimu cross hung from his neck – and he held in his hand the wooden bishop’s staff.

  In front of him, at the pulpit, the Dean of Wellington Cathedral, the Very Reverend Eun Ae Choo, was preaching. She wore a simpler dress: white tunic, over a black cassock, with a black straight scarf on both sides.

  “The world is facing substantial challenges today,” she said, “yet we are still blessed here in New Zealand. We still have food in our oceans, and water, though crops are sometimes failing, and livestock. Compared with many of our neighbours, we still have more than we need! There is much to thank God for.”

  Blake glanced over the many empty wooden chairs in the nave. There was only a scattered attendance, as usual for an ‘ordinary’ Sunday – perhaps only fifty present.

  “We should aim to be a source of peace, in a world passing through times of trial,” Choo continued. “Consider our readings today: [3] the Gospel according to Matthew, Verse Nine from Chapter Five, ‘Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called sons of God.’ And the First Epistle of John, Chapter Three, from Verse Sixteen, ‘This is how we know what love is: Jesus Christ laid down his life for us. And we ought to lay down our lives for our brothers.’”

  Blake looked up at the picture of Christ on the cross, deep in the inner sanctuary, behind the altar. The tiles were fading. Some had even fallen off, though loving hands had applied glue to somehow persevere.

  Choo’s voice continued:

  “‘Dear children, let us not love with words or tongue, but with actions and in truth.’”

  In actions and truth? Blake prayed silently to God. We pour out church funds in food packages, from farm to City Mission, while your temple breaks apart and numbers continue to dwindle.

  “This is God’s command, as John says,” Choo continued, “‘To believe in the name of his Son, Jesus Christ, and to love one another as he commands us…And this is how we know that he lives in us: We know it by the Spirit he gave us.’”

  The Spirit. Blake stifled a grimace, and looked up at Choo’s aging Korean face: radiant with faith in her own words. Why such faith, when presented with such gritty realism? The world’s challenges presented a multitude of threats, unprecedented in history: famine, the threat of war and global catastrophe – what exactly did Choo see to rejoice in? Why such childlike devotion?

  “And now let us affirm our faith, in the words on page four hundred and ten of the New Zealand Prayer Book, [4]” Choo said, and Blake went to his feet, at one with the choir to his left and the congregation to his right.

  “‘We believe in one God, the Father, the Almighty…We believe in one Lord, Jesus Christ, the only Son of God…We believe in the Holy Spirit, the Lord, the giver of life…’”

  We believe…Blake frowned, and searched for his daughter. Where was she? He thought he saw her, two-thirds of the way back. What was she doing? Earphones? Surely not playing that wretched tini-pad again.

  “Let us pray,” Choo said, and now Blake dutifully went to his knees, with choir and congregation.

  “‘Lord Jesus Christ,’” he prayed, into the lapel microphone clipped to his scarf, “‘we thank you for the universal Church, and for our Church here in Wellington. We pray for the world, and for our nation, that you might provide for our needs: bring us food, and health, and peace. We pray for our leaders, that you might guide their decisions. For your love and goodness…’”

  “‘We give you thanks, O God,’” all the people responded.

  Now all stood together, and Choo moved away from the pulpit, walked up between the choir stalls, bowed at the altar, and then moved behind the altar: behind the silver cup and silver plate with white wafers on top.

  She lifted her voice with a smile.

  “‘The peace of Christ be always with you,’” she said.

  “‘And also with you,’” the people responded.

  “‘The Lord is here.’”

  “‘God’s Spirit is with us.’”

  “‘Lift up your hearts.’”

  “‘We lift them to the Lord.’”

  Blake had heard the same words several thousand times before. Choo spoke them as though they were new every time: as though they held new and special meaning. Her passion was a mystery to him.

  “‘All glory and thanksgiving to you, holy Father,’” she prayed. “‘On the night before he died your Son, Jesus Christ, took bread; when he had given you thanks, he broke it, gave it to his disciples, and said: Take, eat, this is my body which is given for you; do this to remember me. After supper he took the cup: Drink this, all of you, for this is my blood of the new covenant which is shed for you and for many for the forgiveness of sins…’”

  It was almost over. Blake stifled a sigh.

  “‘We break this bread to share in the body of Christ,’” Choo proclaimed.

  “‘We who are many are one body, for we all share the one bread,’” the people answered.

  “‘Draw near and receive the body and blood of our Saviour Jesus Christ in remembrance that he died for us. Let us feed on him in our hearts by faith with thanksgiving.’”

  Blake rose to his feet, and walked between the choir stalls. On either side the choir watched him, each one dressed in white tunics overlying red. He led the procession, and the choir was poised ready to follow as he knelt at the railing before the altar: before Choo, the priest of Christ.

  Choo held the silver plate with the wafers of bread in front of him: her priestly black scarf and white tunic making way for Communion.

  “‘The body of our Lord Jesus Christ which was given for you.’”

  Every man needs a minister, Blake justified to himself, even a Bishop.

  He took the wafer, closed his eyes, and took it to his mouth. It dissolved quickly, as always.

  Choo was before him now with the silver chalice: the wine.

  “‘The blood of our Lord Jesus Christ which was shed for you.’”

  He sipped from the wine: the port was strong on his tongue.

  The deed done, Blake now rose to his feet, turned, and walked back down between the lines of the choir now waiting for communion. He glanced at their faces: young boys and girls, and older men and women. Some looked bored. Others were murmuring words of prayer, while waiting for their turn. The congregation now began to line up on both sides, joining the queue.

  Blake sat down, and waited. The choir, in time, returned – and now the choirmaster stood before them, lifting his hands.

  “‘I Was Glad’” It was so familiar: Hubert Parry, 1902 [5]. Psalm 122, ‘I was glad when they said unto me: We will go into the house of the Lord.’ Blake enjoyed the music: the sophistication of melody and harmony, not like that wretched hip hop rock Selena was constantly pumping into their home. Noise! Why did the world love constantly listening to that racket? A little pop, maybe, to relax to, but nothing beat the classics.

  Soprano voices lifted, beautifully blended with alto, tenor and deep bass. Blake was glad the church had brought women and girls into the choir: the diversity of the voices was a joy.

  Finally Communion was finished.

  “‘Go now to love and serve the Lord,’” Choo said brightly. “‘Go in peace.’”

  “‘Amen,’” the people replied. “‘We go in the name of Christ.’”

  The choir sang another song, and Blake processed down the aisle of the church, with Choo following behind. Briefly Blake paused to shake a few hands, and then he quickly moved down the side of the church, behin
d the choir stall, to the Robing Room. Let Choo handle all the pastoral care – that seemed to be her forte.

  He peeled off his black scarf, red chimere, white tunic and purple cassock, placed them on his hangers, straightened his white shirt and black trousers beneath, and strode back into the corridor and down to the front entrance, hoping for a quick escape with Selena.

  “It was wonderful to serve with you today,” Eun Ae Choo said, standing in front of him, grasping his hand in a shake.

  “Thank you, Very Reverend Choo,” he said quickly. “Always a pleasure.”

  “Would you like to join us for Sunday lunch?”

  “No thank you.”

  “We’ve managed to grow oranges in our own yard,” Choo said. “My husband has been giving out bags full down our street.”

  “I’m very happy for you,” Blake said. “Keep up the good work.”

  “Would you like oranges?”

  “No thanks.”

  “Tofu? We’ve managed to grow…”

  “No. Sorry, must go: I need to prepare for the next Church Council meeting.”

  He pulled his hand away, and searched fervently for his daughter. Where the devil had she got to?

  Blake found her outside, down the front steps of the church, milling about on the street – almost spilling over across the road into the Parliament gardens.

  “What are you doing?” he asked curtly. “I told you before, we have to get away quickly.”

  Her white face turned to him, framed with long curly black hair: her blue eyes cold.

  “Whatever,” she said, shrugging. She was with some other youth – Blake glanced quickly at them then looked back to Selena. Her earphones were still in.

  “Get these out,” he said, tugging them away from her ears. “Honestly, Selena, you’ve got no respect! No respect at all!”

  He carried the tinipad and earphones with him, striding toward the car, ignoring her protestations as noise in his ear: at least this way she would follow him.

  The car-park was deserted. Most were forced to use public transport these days: trains, trams and buses. Blake strode to his 2025 hybrid Mercedes: they were going cheap now – he had seized the chance.

  “Get in,” he said.

  “Go to hell,” she said.

  Fury filled him, and he controlled it with iron grip. “Get in, or you’re walking home.”

  “Fine!” she said. “I’ll walk!”

  Blake looked back now, to see a young man waiting: blonde, jeans, spiked hair.

  “I’ll bet he wasn’t in the service.”

  “What’s it to you?”

  “That’s not going to happen, Selena: you’re only sixteen.”

  “So?”

  “Get in now.”

  She scowled at him, and Blake stared at her. Who was this person? Who was he living with? He remembered Selena as a child: gentle! Obedient.

  She was staring back at him – and then, finally, she complied, getting into the back seat. He opened the driver’s door, tossed her tinipad onto the front seat, closed the door, and quickly reversed out of the car-park, narrowly missing the young man in his haste.