In the Monty Python film, The Life of Brian, set in the time of Jesus, Brian’s mother confesses to Brian that his father was not Jewish, but was, in fact, a Roman. She reminisces: “Promised me the known world, ’e did.”
This is funny.
Although it is generally fatal to a joke to explain it, I now risk killing the joke by pointing out that it is funny because it plays on the catch-cry of disappointed lovers, “… promised me the world”. But is also calls us to contemplate our own known world.
The Life of Brian is about Brian, not about Jesus, although Brian does almost get the gold, frankincense and myrrh in a brief moment of mistaken identity, because he and Jesus are born at the same time in the same neighbourhood in the Jewish homeland, and so even wise men can get confused. So the known world of Brian is also the known world of Jesus.
In this context, the Easter story occurs — in a world of Imperial Roman occupation.
One small second-hand car dealer in Invercargill sold 40 cars in a month. In Invercargill.
The women who bought those cars each had one less worry. The stress of wondering if the car would get them to their next job without breaking down evaporated. The tension leading up to the six-monthly warrant of fitness check eased. They could all breathe more easily. They could replace a tyre if it went bald. It was a transformation.
The second-hand car dealer also experienced transformation, as his income increased dramatically in that month. Because he and we are all part of an interdependent web. And he went out to dinner more often, and the local restaurants’ takings increased, and so on, and so on …
The tide was in because the government had agreed to fund the transformation after the Supreme Court ruled that care and support work had been historically undervalued because it was predominantly performed by women. The ruling was the final decision from a claim for pay equity under the Equal Pay Act 1972.
For those women who bought new cars, and for other care and support workers, there were other transformations.
Why do we repeat this ritual every year? It isn’t just to brag about our travels. When we share our water in the common bowl, it reminds us that while we are separate people, we are also part of an interdependent community.
You probably know about the water cycle.
We are in the middle of this cycle. When we drink about two litres of water every day, and then sweat or urinate, or die, we take and then put water back into the water cycle. So water is constantly on the move.
Even if you didn’t study chemistry, you might well know that water is a molecule made up of two hydrogen atoms and one oxygen atom. This molecule being tiny, if you had 18 grams of water, or a little more than half an ounce, that would be about 6 x 10^23 molecules.
This would be 602 sextillion molecules. If you were a 10 year old child weighing 35 kilograms you would contain 20 litres of water or 20,000 grams or 602 septillion molecules. That child returns ten percent or two litres to the water cycle every day.
Because water is constantly cycling around, and because every human being has such large numbers of molecules of water cycling through them, there’s a very good chance that each one of us has at least a few molecules of water that were formerly in the bodies of Socrates, Sappho, Jesus, Mohammed and the Buddha, and any number of great and wise people who lived in the past as well as some of history’s villains.
Thus when we say that we are all interconnected, that statement is quite literally true — we are all interconnected through the water cycle, not only with each other, but with all living beings past and present. Mary Magdalene, Kupe, Mary Wollstonecraft, Te Puea, Billie Holiday, your grandmother, my grandmother, our first minister, William Jellie all might literally be connected to you through water.
I now invite you each to bring your water — and if you didn’t bring it, please feel free to use the virtual and also real water here in this pitcher, that can stand in for the water you are connected to. Those at home, if you have water, pour it; and we will also pour water for you here.
On 21 February 2023 Archimedes’ arrow of time is released, to speed over 254 days to its destination: death.
On 21 February we receive news of Clay’s terminal diagnosis and driving home from the hospital appointment I begin sobbing. This is not a problem for my driving, actually, but Clay suggests I pull over. Which I do into the side of a car minding its own business in the next lane. The kindness of the stranger in that car, who is not angry but concerned, sets the tone of the next 254 days.
To Tomorrow, 1 September, is the first day of Spring in Aotearoa. Some countries date the seasons to equinox and solstice. We, more prosaically, date our seasons to the beginnings of months. Thus, 1 December is the first day of Summer, 1 March is the first day of Autumn, 1 June is the first day of Winter.
And tomorrow, 1 September, is the first day of Spring.
The first day of spring, whenever we fix it, is one day in the seemingly endlessly repeated revolutions of our planet. We mark the seasons with fixed dates to give our lives a predictable rhythm.
We may steal a branch of apple blossoms in the night, to give ourselves stars and the gift of Spring perfumes.
We may have less criminal rituals that underline our comfort at the repeating rhythm, rituals to mark the transition from one season to the next.
To come In this place, in this community, we covenant to serve humankind in fellowship, that all souls shall grow in harmony.
We face challenges in this endeavour, though we repeat the statement every week.
Certainly, we believe that all souls should grow in harmony.
You may know this story of former Auckland Councillor, the late Efeso Collins. This story takes place at the swearing in when he was first elected to Auckland Council in 2016. I have never been to a swearing in ceremony, but I can imagine a solemn and reverent event. The mayor in robes and chain, the council members dressed in their best, taking on the awesome responsibility of serving their city, with their intentions fresh — intentions of doing their best to make this place somewhere we can all live well. The town hall cleaned and polished to its finest, perhaps some organ music, dignitaries present, VIPs in the audience, there to lend weight to the moment and to pay respect to our elected leaders. A ceremonial occasion.
In 2016, when Efeso Collins was being sworn in, a council usher refused to believe that his wife, children and elders were entitled to sit in the VIP area. Efeso had to persuade the usher to let them take their seats.
Efeso was appalled and embarrassed. His family was humiliated. It was 2016, for goodness’ sake. Weren’t we beyond that kind of racism?
I begin this talk by reciting a speech I gave at the International Labour Organisation’s 2019 Conference in Geneva, when I was the Worker Representative for New Zealand and when a new international labour convention was passed, creating a new human right – the right to be free from violence and harassment in the world of work:
In this convention, we have a vision of a different and better world for all people.
Why do we repeat this ritual every year? It isn’t just to brag about our travels. When we share our water in the common bowl, it reminds us that while we are separate people, we are also part of an interdependent community.