After ten hours or so on a bus from Matamata (not including
about an hour between transfers), we made it to Waikanae,
New Zealand Saturday night.
We had just enough time to make a trip to the toilet – translation: bathroom –
before being ushered up to a small chapel on the camp grounds for a traditional
Maori welcoming ceremony.
One thing I’ve found to be true with most native (read
minority) populations wherever I go is that they have forged – or are
rediscovering – a deep and rich connection to the places they live in and the
history of their people group. I always forget how powerful it is when you see
that interaction play out before your
own two eyes as we had the opportunity to last night. It’s one thing that, in
my general American tendency to consider myself unfettered by my past and therefore
unconcerned about my roots, I find myself aching for. A deep connection to
everyone that has come before me – both my flesh and blood family and my family
in the Kingdom of Heaven.
About a year and a half ago, I went to a week-long camp
where the main speaker was tackling the last few chapters of Hebrews –
including the oft-dubbed Hall of Faith (chapter 11). Quite often, I’ve heard ministers and seen
bible studies turn the chapter into an examination of the stories referenced
therein when taking on the task, and was expecting to hear the speaker take it
in that direction. But he took it somewhere else, and this is what he said –
obviously not verbatim.
At the heart of chapter 11, the author is exhorting his
audience to recall those testimonies. He’s encouraging them to look to them as
a source of strength in a time when they’re fighting to hold on to what they
believe and considering walking away. He’s reminding them of what stock they
come from and that God has things as great as and greater still for them.
That same type of connection is incredibly important to the
Maori people. They know who they are. They know where they’ve come from. They
have stories of amazing things their ancestors have done. And, for a little
while, we Americans have an opportunity be part of their stories as they do a
part of ours. It’s beautiful, it’s humbling, and I love that we get to do this
all in the first month (although, I suppose, we get to this once a month every month, so I should just get used to it, hah!).
