Month: August 2022 (page 4 of 4)

AA04 Co-Governance, Church and Nation

Indigenous rights, Co-governance, and the Church.

The following article by Richard Randerson was published in the NZ Listener in February 2022. It has implications for both Australia and New Zealand as signatories to the United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples.

A  video link last year suggested that the recently published He Puapua Report (see below) is an exercise in separatism that will take Aotearoa New Zealand down a path to apartheid.

Against an apocalyptic background of darkened skies, lightning and thunder,  presenter Elliot Ikelei, a recent leader of the New Conservative Party, warns viewers of a looming political disaster that will engulf the nation.

He Puapua is a document with an 18-year window for public discussion to formulate proposals to mark (in 2040) the 200th anniversary of the signing of Te Tiriti o Waitangi. He Puapua means a break, as in the breaking of waves, in this case the breaking of inequitable political and constitutional structures.

The He Puapua working group was set up to consider how to give effect to the 2007 United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples, signed by Australia in 2009 and by New Zealand in 2010. A letter of protest is in preparation urging a new government in 2023 to withdraw from the Declaration.

The Dominion Post (15 July 2021) wrote of He Puapua:  “the crux of it is this: outcomes for indigenous people improve when they are in charge of their own destiny”.

The principle of one person, one vote lies at the heart of democracy, but parliamentary democracies in the western world inevitably lead to majority white rule which preferences the majority. Like runners in a race, all have an equal right to enter but some are starting way behind the rest.

There can be no doubt of the need for greater equity in Aotearoa. Socio-economic indicators show that Maori and Pacific Islanders are at the bottom of the heap in housing, incomes, employment, health, education, imprisonment, longevity and inequality. The trends have worsened since 1985.  Inequality is the result of institutional racism whereby majorities are blind to the impact of institutions and the dominant culture on minorities.

He Puapia aims to “refocus on rangatiratanga (Maori self-determination)”…which could range “from “full independence at one end of the spectrum to participation in state government at the other”.  Central to the repot are “government’s priorities of well-being, inclusivity and pride in Aotearoa”.

The slow roll-out of Covid vaccinations for Maori and Pacific communities was greatly improved with the planning of the roll-outs being handed to indigenous leaders. The recent restructuring of District Health Boards, and the creation of a Maori Health Authority with equal standing, is likewise recognition of the principle that “by Maori for Maori” is likely to improve health outcomes.

Since the 1970s the work of the Treaty of Waitangi Tribunal has been another example of partnership between Maori and the Crown. Investigation of the wrongful alienation of Maori land and taonga (treasures, resources) in the 19th century has led to acknowledgment and apology by the Crown, a framework for compensation and the recognition of iwi as kaitiaki (guardians) of sacred sites and indigenous species. The recognition of wrong has been a key feature in enabling a spirit of reason and goodwill in the settlement process.

 He Puapua asks how we can make democracy work to provide a better outcome for all New Zealanders. There may be different strategies but no special privileges for one race over another. Rangatiratanga enables Maori to achieve better outcomes across the whole range of social and economic deficits. Restorative justice, under judicial oversight and with its emphasis on rehabilitation rather than retribution, likewise offers a better future to both victims and offenders, not just for Maori but for all citizens.

He Puapua lays down a challenge: as a nation do we want to be swayed by the apocalyptic visions of the fearful, or will we choose to build on our experiences of partnership and frame a better future for 2040 and beyond?

FootnoteThe Anglican Church in New Zealand adopted in 1992 a system of co-governance whereby Maori, Pakeha and Polynesia are three equal partners and the Pakeha majority can no longer outvote the other partners. General Synod decisions must not only pass in the houses of Bishops. Clergy and Laity, but must also be supported by the three tikanga (cultures) of Maori, Pakeha and Polynesia. Over 30 years this has led to better listening, better understanding, consensus decision-making and more equitable sharing of resources

Richard Randerson was assistant bishop in Canberra and Goulburn 1994-1999 and former Anglican social justice officer in New Zealand.

AA02 Hannah Arendt and the Banality of Evil

Reporting on the 1961 trial of Adolf Eichmann, one of the architects of the Holocaust, the Jewish philosopher Hannah Arendt (1906–1975) used the phrase “the banality of evil.” It is a shocking phrase to many because it flies in the face of our idea that evil is demonic, monstrous, and villainous, something that everybody immediately recognizes as grotesque and terrible. Arendt’s phrase actually helps explain how the Holocaust or Shoah (catastrophe) could happen. Somehow evil became commonplace.

In his introduction to Arendt’s book Eichmann in Jerusalem: A Report on the Banality of Evil, Israeli journalist Amos Elon writes:

[Arendt] concluded that Eichmann’s inability to speak coherently in court was connected with his incapacity to think, or to think from another person’s point of view. . . . He personified neither hatred or madness nor an insatiable thirst for blood, but something far worse, the faceless nature of Nazi evil itself . . . aimed at dismantling the human personality of its victims. The Nazis had succeeded in turning the legal order on its head, making the wrong and the malevolent the foundation of a new “righteousness.” In the Third Reich evil lost its distinctive characteristic by which most people had until then recognized it. The Nazis redefined it as a civil norm. . . . Within this upside-down world Eichmann . . . seemed not to have been aware of having done evil.

As both Thomas Aquinas and C.S. Lewis taught, for evil to succeed, it must disguise itself as good, which is apparently much easier to do than we imagine. What previous generations called “the devil” is still quite active, though disguised in the banality of evil. The devil isn’t going to appear in red with horns and a tail and entice us to follow him. When Paul talks about the devil, he uses words like “powers,” “principalities,” and “thrones” (see Colossians 1:16). These are almost certainly his premodern words for what we would now call corporations, institutions, nation-states, ideologies of supremacy, and organizations that demand our full allegiance and thus become idolatrous—not just “too big to fail,” but even too big to be criticized. Suddenly, the medieval notion of devils comes very close to home.

We must first convict evil in its glorified organizational form. When we idolize and refuse to hold such collective realities accountable, they usually become demonic in some way. We normally cannot see it until it is too late. Hannah Arendt wrote, “The sad truth of the matter is that most evil is done by people who never made up their minds to be or do either evil or good.” While evil may reside primarily in “corporate” form, the resistance to it begins with us as individuals. The rest of this week is dedicated to the stories and wisdom of individuals who made a clear decision to confront evil and hatred with goodness and love, even at the risk of their own lives.

MF01 All Souls Day Requiem

All manner of things shall be well.

In Christian thinking the word ‘saints’ was applied to all members of the Church. A saint was someone set apart, or consecrated in the service of God, and through our baptism all of us are saints. But in time the word came to be used for just the great saints, like St Peter, or St John, so the Church decided another day was needed for all the rest of us. That day was called All Souls Day. Each year All Saints Day is observed on 1 November, while All Souls is on 2 November, and hence it is on the latter day (or close to it) that we gather as we do this evening to remember all souls, and especially those closest to us as members of our family.

All of us here tonight carry in our hearts the soul and spirit of someone close to us, and probably of several people close to us whom we have lost over the years. For many that loss is very recent, and at funerals this year we have joined in this cathedral, or at St Mary’s or St Stephen’s, to commend those souls that have been dear to us into the hands of God. For some the memory is longer and yet still fresh. I remember each year my brother Michael who died of an illness aged 33 : that was over 30 years ago, and yet there is still a gap in our family circle. I never find conducting a funeral to be routine. Every person and every family is unique. Yet the death of one in another family brings to the surface deaths in our own. We are reminded of our shared humanity, and also our shared mortality. We grieve not only for the one who has died, but also for that part of our own life that has died as well.

Yet while grief is a reality we all know, our mortality is also the gateway to those things in life that are of supreme importance, things that give us comfort in the present, and hope and strength for the future. Let me mention four of them :

First, we are reminded of those things that truly matter in life. In days gone by when funeral eulogies were often very stiff-upper-lip, a suited male would recite the salient points of someone’s public life, like a CV in retrospect. Those public features of someone’s life still gain a mention, and properly so, but today eulogies are usually of a different kind. They are delivered by family members and friends, often by children and grand-children, and not at all stiff-upper-lip but often with tears and laughter and in informal style. And the thing that stands out in the midst of them all is the central importance of family ties, and family love, and the times that were spent not in public office but at the beach together, or over a meal or at a birthday party – the things that are common to us all, often taken for granted, things that don’t cost money but are a priceless part of being human. Mortality reminds us of a gift too precious to lose.

Second, a death often evokes within us a sense of being part of something bigger than ourselves. One of the old hymns of the Church has the line “Time like an ever-rolling stream bears all its sons away” (and daughters too). In one sense that sounds very pessimistic but I find a stronger meaning to it. To officiate in a cathedral like this, and more particularly in St Mary’s, is to have a sense of the great sweep of human history. There are photos and memorials of our ancestors, as you find in a Maori meeting-house, but more important is the spirit of timelessness, of eternity, of a great over-arching drama in which each of us plays a part. Each of us in turn receives life. Each of us has the gifts and opportunities specific to our day and age. Each of us has a vocation to play our part in the service of others. Each of us gives life to others and in turn we give our own life up having played our part. We give our loved ones up, recalling the words from Wisdom 3. 1, 9 : “ The souls of the righteous are in the hands of God;…. those who trust in God will understand truth; the faithful will abide with him in love. Grace and mercy are upon his holy ones”. We may understand ‘holy’ here in the same way as all saints, and all souls. Our life although mortal, has a purpose. We have a place in God’s abiding purpose of love.

Third, mortality speaks to us of the support we find in loss that comes from the love of family and friends. The lifetime experience of love is especially real to us at the time of parting. To experience love is to experience God, for God is not some remote and abstract entity. God is love. Human love is the expression of a divine love that never leaves us comfortless. In the night-time of grief, when the loneliness and loss seem too hard to bear, we reach out to one another, and find comfort from each other, just as God reaches out to us and surrounds us with a love that will not let us go.

And finally, mortality speaks to us of the presence of God, one in whom we can trust as we look to a future that seems empty and uncertain. Faith does not provide answers to all our questions and anxieties about the future. Rather our faith lies in knowing that we travel with God, so that whatever the future will bring it will be all right. We have different images of God, but for me the most powerful is that of God as spirit, as we heard in the reading from John 3 this evening. Here Jesus is saying to Nicodemus that those who are born of the spirit are like the wind : you know not where it comes from, or where it goes. But the wind, the spirit of God, carries us, and wherever it puts us down will be OK. That is faith, to know that God’s spirit lifts us and sustains us, however empty life at times may feel.

On a plane the other day my fellow passenger told me of his experience at two funerals, one for his office secretary, much younger than he, the other for his father. He said he came away from each funeral with an incredible sense of lightness, which he defined as feeling that in spite of the loss everything would be all right. It wasn’t that he didn’t grieve; it wasn’t that he didn’t feel the loss; it wasn’t that he felt life would just be business as usual. He knew he would feel the pain of those deaths, yet at a much deeper level he had this feeling that in the overall scheme of things, all would be well. Those latter words were also used by the 14th century English mystic, Julian of Norwich, who affirmed that “all will be well, and all will be well, and all manner of things will be well”. Not words of superficial comfort, but words of a deep conviction about the abiding presence of the love of God, a love that is with us in life and in death, mediated to us by family and friends, yet finding its source in a spring of compassion that encompasses all people in all times.