The Way of Animals, Children and Men.

Most New Zealand men have lurking in the cave of their hearts, a dream to own some land. Generally they start out with a quarter acre plot and a house. If fortune smiles on them they can convert a mid life crises into quarter of a farm, and no house. My father always a little ahead of his time accomplished this at thirty eight and bought an acre for each year of his life, adding an extra two to round it up to a nice forty.

 A farm,(even a toy sized one,) needs animals and Dad naturally chose cattle. He understood cattle. It had been his job to mind and care for the family house cow in the days when a full pail of milk weighed half his body weight and the cow stood twice his height.
 Being girls, my sisters and I were nervous about the coming cattle. We imagined big bulls populating the paddocks, but the fourteen steers who stumbled off the truck were adorable. They stared at us through big, black, baby eyes and stole our hearts. We named them and got to know all their ways. There was Carrot King who loved carrots, Puzzle who always looked faintly surprised and Horns who we felt sorry for. Poopsey was a real character and was always the first to break down the fence and lead the rest into trouble.

 We played with them and got to understand their pecking order from top dog, (or rather, bullock,) Poopsey to bottom beast Horns and all the twelve grades in between. We never questioned this dynamic, because intuitively, we knew all about natural order, every kid did. From popular Catherine to shunned Alisha we all knew our place, and woe betide the teacher who made Alisha class monitor instead of Catherine. We put up with it while Miss Wilson’s eye was upon us but an underlying tension could be felt throughout the class room and worse than normal ugliness would pour over poor Alisha at recess when the natural order would reign supreme again.

 Then we would break into mini gangs, The Popular’s, The Nerd’s, The Sporty’s, The Outcast’s or my group. I don’t know how The Popular’s or The Nerd’s spent their forty five minutes but we Ordinarie’s had a wonderful time making huts in the school trees and acting out fairy stories or role playing. Nobody was boss and we would swap roles around amongst ourselves spontaneously, today a chief, tomorrow an Indian.

Occasionally we had a kid in our group who thought they were THE KING or THE PRINCESS, that King Arthur, Robin Hood or Snow White was theirs by right. When this occurred, all the fluidity of play came to a halt and fighting and arguing broke out. Before happy playing could resume, THE KING or PRINCESS had to be dethroned or thrown out of the game.

When I became a teenager and grew beyond Rapunzel, I attended a church run by adult Ordinary’s. There was no church building, no pastor, no elders, and no titles, just a little old country hall and a bunch of farmers and tradesmen.

Every Sunday our family would pile into our Hillman Hunter station wagon and pootle down the winding red gravel road to church. Part way down we would stop and pick up an eighty year old sweetie to whom nobody was related but everyone called Aunty.
 Aunty lived in a charming hundred year old cottage set into a bush covered hillside. On spring Sundays she would totter down the shell path, through her cottage garden and free-range-chickens, loaded with daffodils.  These yellow, bonneted, ladies would brighten the musty old hall during the service and all our homes after the service.

The Service its self, was kicked off with singing, accompanied by guitars and the ancient honky-tonk piano. The piano had a few keys that didn’t work and was a bit flat in places but we didn’t care: Just as a wobbly rock makes an acceptable chair in a homemade game, a flat piano and wobbly singing makes acceptable worship in a homemade church.

 Then Dad-The-Builder, Ray-The-Electrician or Joe-Road-Worker would speak. They were all less than eloquent men, who would stumble when they read. But they held our attention better than the paid, professional, preacher. Theirs was a Christianity learnt not through the Greek or Hebrew or hermeneutics of Seminary, but the rough and tumble of a gutsy guy world. How to be in the world, but not of the world, was not defined by four neat points, but by the day to day grind of refusing to conform in a drinking, swearing, ribald joke telling, mans world.

Old Mr. Ross, John and Graham inhabited a gentler world. Theirs was wide spaces and green fields, of sunshine and hurricanes, baby lambs and still born calves. When Graham spoke it was not something rattled up that week to fill in an hour slot. It was the distilled thoughts of a months worth of pondering, as he treated his goats for foot rot and fed fish guts to his hogs.

It was a wonderful church. It was a vibrant, joyful, growing church. But alas, even when adults play, Wanna-Be-Princesses and Kings arise. Larry-the-Leatherworker felt THE CALL and persuaded a few others to allow him to arise as PASTOR. Suddenly we had elders and deacons, church doctrine and expenses. We also had tension, fighting and anger. All the joyful fluid sharing dried up. Aunty’s daffodils cheered us no more. Graham, Ray, Dad and Dug, spoke no more. The piano jarred and the singing sobbed. Scripture and the prophets changed from a staff of comfort, to a rod to beat those who resisted the new King. The home made church tottered like a tree hut in the wind,............. and, collapsed,

falling on top of the ordinary builders and wounding many.

The king, having lost his subjects moved on to play with another group as assistant King.

 Many years later when we started Mount Tiger Chapel,. Dad who understood the way of animals, children and men said “NO Titles” So there were no official elders, no official deacons and no pastor. But we all knew from eighty year old Olive down to four year old Joshua, who to go to for spiritual advise, who to go to for practical help and who to go to for nurturing. Occasionally a Wanna-be King or Princess would arise, but unwilling to function without recognition or a title they moved away from the game peaceably and left us all to continue playing spontaneously.

There is a good reason Jesus told us not to call anyone Father, Teacher, Rabbi or Master.

The Hippopotamus In The House.

It is hard to ignore a hippopotamus in the house, and yet as Christians, we go to elaborate efforts to pretend the hippopotamus eating the alter flowers is not in the sanctuary and is not real.
Hippopotamuses usually enter as babies, and because the hippo is still relatively small and we are not expecting to see it there, it is possible to believe the pastor when he tells us,
“What you see is not really there.”

As nobody else seems to notice any problem, the game of trying to believe one has seen a lamb not a hippo begins
‘. After all, it must be a lamb, bought in for the nativity play,”
“Of course, that’s it!      I DID see a lamb.”

“ A little pet lamb bought in for the nativity play ate the altar flowers on Sunday. Not a hippopotamus after all”.
 But the next Sunday the hippo has grown and this time is chomping away on the altar cloth. “
“Sister Joy, do you see that hippo by the altar?”  
“Whatever are you talking about, that’s the donkey for the Easter play.”

 “A donkey, are you sure, it looks more like a hippopotamus to me .......you certain that’s a donkey?”
 “Pastor says it’s a donkey.”
 “Funny looking donkey, but guess he knows the difference between a donkey and a hippo better than me.”
For a week or two it’s a donkey, but the Sunday the hippo takes the collection bag in its big jaws, it sure looks like a middle sized hippo to me.

 “Brother Bob, what’s that hippopotamus doing with the money bag?”
 “What hippopotamus? That’s a New-Wineskin-Angel. You need to get your eyes checked.”
Eye checks involve heart searching, self doubt and self condemnation, as I attempt to convince myself that the hippo doesn’t exist. This continues until the hippopotamus has grown so big it is standing on my toes and crushing me against the wall.
I notice people who have been coming for years have slipped quietly away.

 “It IS a HIPPOPOTAMUS, that is NO little Iamb!”
“Sister, we don’t want to hear words like that! You need to repent of your critical spirit and anti-authority, rebellious attitude! You do NOT see a hippopotamus, there is NO hippopotamus!”

 Our church friendships were shallow and tense as we skirted around taboo subjects for fear of gossiping.
“lf you see a giant hippo in the house, just speak to God about it and keep silent, especially if the hippopotamus is in leadership.”
When we left the church we felt alone and lonely.

Mount Tiger started as an outreach, but as time went on, it evolved a dual purpose. It was an outreach and a puncture repair kit. We uncovered by accident a whole epidemic of hippo wounded. People we thought of as pillars of the church, the stable, rocklike hard workers of the church, were lonely undercover hippo watchers. Many had attended the same church for twenty five years but felt they had no deep and meaningful relationships.

They struggled with the increasing worldliness and business practices and values the church was embracing. They were bored, burdened and oppressed by over programming. They came to Mount Tiger to give their testimony and returned the next month and the next, drawn by the fellowship and freedom and lack of control, they were only hanging in at their church because they didn’t know what else to do. They, like us, had tried all the churches and knew what they were looking for was not in a standard church.

 What surprised us the most was people wanting to leave the established churches were not weak, young or back sliders. They were solid Christians of twenty or more years, deacons and elders, even pastors. They could see the hippo in the sanctuary and were looking for an alternative, some bravely forsaking livelihoods to follow their convictions.
 We were not alone after all. We were on the cutting edge of an exciting new move of God.

SITTING IN HOT WATER.

 I don’t like big changes. I guess I’m pretty normal in this respect. To play with the decor of a room is one thing, but to sell that room and move house is quite another thing. There has to be a powerful reason to compel me into all that upheaval. I’d sooner stay put and potter about with wallpaper.
 To move us out of the little church we had attended for nine years it had to get horribly hot. We didn’t want to leave. We didn’t want the upheaval of change and we certainly would never have thought of starting a house church if it hadn’t got hot.
I had heard you can detect people who are on the way out of a church by their sitting patterns. The further up front they are, the more bonded with the church they are. Steady progress towards the back, row by row, week by week, is a sign of progressive detachment, taking on Children’s Church to escape the service is the final retreat before flight.
 When we first attended Last Church, we crept in the door and slunk into the back row. We were still recovering from an abusive church experience that had resulted in the entire 250 strong church quickly dwindling down to 20. We were wary and nervous about committing ourselves. The Pastor was a blind man with an outrageous sense of humour. Little by little he won our confidence and love. Each week we sat a row closer to the front. Eventually we took regular possession of the pew behind the front seat reserved for kids. We became strongly bonded, loved the people and were happy. After a few years we changed cities for ten months so Ian could go back to College. Beloved Blind-Pastor left while we were away, and Golden-Boy took his place. Golden-Boy was the pride and joy of Last-Church’s denomination. He was handsome, smart, seminary trained and looked the part of a wholesome young family man.
He was also a bully.
He emotionally abused anyone he perceived as weak. He particularly honed in on women alone.
 We sat in our customary seat on our home coming Sunday. But as time went by and we started to see through Golden-Boy more and more, our seat position shifted closer and closer to the door. Finally it got so bad that we called a special meeting to have Golden-Boy removed.
 He went and we shifted back up to the second front row and had a delightful eighteen months of church without a Pastor. There were no young Christians at Last-church so we swapped the preaching and jobs around on a roster. It was wonderful and we all had fun.

Last-church was small, but without the wages of a pastor the money built up and we were able to give it away to missionaries and worthwhile causes. Eventually the ruling powers of Last-church felt we couldn’t possibly function without a collage trained professional, so they sent us a missionary from America.

 Missionary-Pastor and family were lovely. They were the kindest Mom and Dad. The glitch was, we were like adult kids that had married and left home to raise their own family. Just as married kids resent parents shifting into their house and treating them like minors again, we all struggled with adjusting to deferring to a Pastor. The whole congregation shifted their seats back a few rows. Eventually we adjusted and learnt to cope, but the joy and spontaneity had departed. I often felt trapped.

 After a year, Missionary-Pastor and family went back to America and Australian-Pastor and family arrived. Australian-Pastor started introducing flaky ideas into Last-church. All sorts of strife, tensions and undercurrents arose. We sat in the back row.

“How can we ride it out?” Ian and I asked each other.

 To know less and get a distraction seemed the answer.

We pulled off the Board and took on Children’s Church. For a time the strategy worked. Every Sunday we escaped the tedium and tension of the preaching by teaching the kids. We had fun making popcorn, acting out bible stories, coloring in pictures and singing. The kids loved it and it and grew. But alas, we couldn’t be left alone to enjoy our sanctuary. Assistant-Pastor rightly discerned we were hiding away in our Children’s Church bunker and ferreted us out. She insisted we were missing out on such a huge blessing it wasn’t right. She said she would take over our class so we could bask under the showers of blessings falling from Australian-Pastor’s lips.

 It is astonishing how the tension of one morning a week can permeate the entire week.

Sleeping took on a predictable pattern.

 Sunday night. Lots of agitated late night talking, lots of tossing and turning, little sleep.

 Monday night. More agitated talking, more tossing and turning, patchy sleep.

Tuesday night. Less talking, less tossing, better sleep.

 Wednesday night, chatting and reasonably good sleep.

 Thursday night, great sleep.

Friday night, nervous talk, anticipating the coming Sunday and patchy sleep.  Saturday night. Agitated talk, restless sleep, round the circuit we go again.

  Our church attendance became erratic. Then the great dilemma arose. Which was worse, a suffering Sunday, or a Monday, “where-were-you “? phone call?

 We felt trapped and oppressed. If we could have, we would have sat in the entry.

 For years we had survived church by acting on the often quoted idea, “you don’t go to church for what you get out of it, but for what you can give to it,” Australian Pastor had put an end to all lay preaching, Assistant Pastor put an end to Children’s Church, and even cleaning had restrictions clamped on it.

The end came with the introduction of unbiblical doctrine and practices. We stood against them and won, as they were totally against the constitution of Last-Church, but it was too late. The night Assistant-Pastor came round to our house crying because we had refused to just trust her and Australian-Pastor was the finish. I quit church altogether and Ian took the kids to the only church in the town we hadn’t tried.

 And somewhere, during that horrible time of upheaval beginning with Golden-Boy, we bought 32 plastic chairs and started Mount Tiger Chapel, once a month, sitting right up in the front row

Mount Tiger Chapel Begins.

New Years Day 2000 was the beginning of a new century for the world and the start of a brand new adventure for us. It was the opening of the Mount Tiger Chapel.
Mount Tiger is a rural area in Northland New Zealand. The road runs along the ridge of a series of hills. Everywhere has spectacular views of dramatic bush clad land, surrounded by sea or harbour. It is very beautiful.

 The Chapel in contrast was not beautiful. It was a little box-like structure with a gabled roof. The main room was the size of a double garage. There were three tiny rooms opening directly off one side, we called them bedrooms but in reality sleeping closets would have been a better description.

 Each sleeping -closet had a built in bunk bed that stretched from wall to wall. You could step inside the room and clean it satisfactorily by pivoting.
Now most buildings you associate with the word chapel don’t have bunk beds. But then Mount Tiger was not anything like your normal chapel.

 For a start Ian and I personally owned it. We had had ten thousand dollars put aside to update our family vehicle. However, the Lord had a better way to spend it. He directed Ian and Dad to sweat through November and December on the end of a hammer and to haul, with the old van, lumber paid for by the new van fund.

 The chapel’s official title was SHED FOR TRACTOR, and the two large front doors were wide enough to admit one. It also had two large purposes, an outreach once a month (that was all we could cope with), and a weekend cottage for the rest of the month, hence the beds.

On the morning of our first chapel, we spread an old recycled carpet square over the bare concrete floor and placed thirty two plastic chairs on top. The walls were lined with sheet rock but undecorated and the rafters showed plainly above the nonexistent ceiling. There was no running water, no electricity and a bucket-in-an-outhouse type of bathroom.


 Mum had purchased thirty two cheap china cups from The Warehouse (New Zealand Walmart). A large container of drinking water sat on one end of the counter top and a gas camp cooker on the other end in readiness for a cup of tea at the end of the service. Now in case you get the impression this is normal standards for New Zealand, let me hasten to explain it is only a little less radical than doing the same thing in Colorado.


 We had advertised the coming event to the unsaved neighbours months prior to opening day by means of a hunk of plywood hanging from the front wire fence. Mum had painted in bold letters and wobbly brush strokes, our vision for a community chapel.
 We knew every Bob, Bill and Ben, for a radius of two miles and had gathered together many times for birthdays and New Year’s celebrations at Eve and Mike’s home.

There amid the food, booze and fireworks, Mum (who has been a hot gospeller from the age of eleven) would corner a Colleen, Kevin or Ken and inform them they needed to get right with the Lord or they would go to hell.
When the rest of the crowd got wind of it, they would roll their eyes and crack jokes about it, and Harry, (who we had known for thirty years) would bawl out “aw leave him alone Shirley.”
 Then Mum would fix him with her good eye and bawl back,
“you just watch it Harry or I’ll come over and bible bash YOU instead!”

They all loved Mum, They overlooked the religious quirk because they knew she loved them to bits and was such fun. When Mum walked in, the party took off. Without the booze, Mum still swung from the chandeliers.

 Even with such a great rapport we didn’t know if any would come to the new chapel. Mostly farmers or small lifestyle block owners, they eyed Mum’s notice warily at first, worried that we might try to squeeze them for funds. But as the weeks rolled by and the building arose without any hint of a collection bag rotating about the neighbourhood, they relaxed somewhat.

A few even expressed their admiration for our community spirit and thought it might be beneficial for the Jones,  Smiths or Blogs, or even the whole community,(other than themselves of course.)

So there we were New Years Day 2000 as prepared as possible under the circumstances. Invitations had gone out through the neighbourhood.
 Would anyone come?
 A speaker was ready to give his testimony.
 Would anyone come?
 A large jug of water for tea was heating on the camp cooker.
 Would anyone come?
Mum and I tuned our guitars (we both knew an extensive four chords.)
 Would anyone come?
Ten minutes to eleven, would anyone come?
Five minutes to eleven, Would ANYONE come?

Three minutes to eleven, a car, another car, then a couple of heads popped up at the end of the gravel driveway.
 They were COMING!! In ones or twos or small groups they trickled down, thirty Carla, Carl, Kelvin and friends were coming down that long, red, pot holed, driveway. A body to sit on each plastic chair! We rushed out to meet them in excitement and joy, kissing some, hugging some and welcoming all.

In a little unfinished building,
 On the top of a hill,
 In the middle of nowhere,
Run by nobodies,
 Down-under on the bottom of the world,
A home-made church began.

The Vision

Visions are not born in a vacuum. Environmental factors are at work in the birthing of an idea. It was the year 1999 and Y2K rumours had reached even our ears. Things had to be pretty big to filter through our lifestyle of no television, little radio and spasmodic newspaper reading.

 By June 1999, the world was dividing into three categories.
 Those who did nothing, those who did something, and those who prepared to outlast the end of civilisation.

 Ian and I fell into the last egg-on-face category. We had our hundred cans of baked beans, sack of dried chick peas, fresh drinking water, camp cooker and six dozen candles. We also had a big red FOR SALE sign up in our front yard.

 There were two reasons for the sign. New Zealand is a long and skinny land, and in many places there are only three major arteries that circulate traffic. Our house was positioned on the middle artery, and we figured if any trouble was to arise, rioters would come down from the North, right past our house. We had four young children and felt vulnerable. The second reason was, those same young children we felt vulnerable about needed more space to roam than our small town yard.

1999 was also a time of great unhappiness at our last church. We were looking for land and distraction.

 We found the perfect property in an old house and ten acres thirty minutes from town. We found the perfect distraction in comfortable chairs thirty inches from our fireplace.

It was there the words just sort of popped out of lan’s mouth,

“We could start a church.”
And equally without thought, the words just sort of popped out of my mouth,
“Yes, and I know where, up Mount Tiger.”


We were both dying to pop the idea into Mum and Dad’s minds, but as it was nine o'clock Friday evening and Mum and Dad would probably already be in bed, the idea of calling them there and then popped altogether. We decided to restrain ourselves until seven thirty the next morning.


At seven o'clock Saturday morning, Mum was sitting with Dad in bed, cup of tea in hand, when Mum said,
“We have been praying for a church up here for fifteen years, let’s pray NOW is the time LORD.”
So together they prayed. They finished praying at seven thirty, just as the phone rang.


The first issue was, “Where shall we meet?” We hunted for an unused barn for a chapel, somewhere up Mount Tiger. Meanwhile house hunters poured through our house in town. But it seemed no suitable barn could be found, neither could a suitable buyer be found for our house.


 We stockpiled another hundred cans of food, two dozen boxes of matches, put up more FOR SALE signs, and decided to build our own small chapel at the top of the driveway in front of Mum and Dads place.


As Dad started cutting away the turf for the foundations of the building, a great buzz of interest started around us. Many from The-Parents-church wanted to help and one man haunted the auctions purchasing second hand windows for the new chapel.


There was so much support lan and I felt superfluous and focused our attention on a small church full of old ladies, close to our intended new house. Maybe that was the church we felt called to once a month?


Then bit by bit, everyone from The-Parents-church lost interest. Mum and Dad realised the chapel was too close to their house for comfort and they were too old to host it.


The bald building area greened over with grass again and Dad decided to use the second hand windows to build a glasshouse. The whole vision fell to the ground and lay buried for three months.


At the end of three months our house had still not sold and we were denied an extension of time to sell our house. Suddenly the house we had wanted to buy and seemed so perfect didn’t seem so perfect any more.


Our eyes opened and we saw the church that had claimed our temporary attention, was a dead dinosaur. Within a moment, our whole direction was wiped out from under us.


I called Mum. A fifteen minute phone call and everything clicked into place. Mum and Dad would give us the back part of their land. We would put in a separate driveway well away from their house.
Ian and I would spearhead the chapel. I knew the exact position the new building would stand on and the exact modifications to the plan we would need for its new dual purpose. We would keep our house in town and use the shed as a chapel and a weekend cottage.


By August 1999 the first bulldozer began work carving out the new driveway. Now we had thirty acres of bush for our kids to roam about in, an escape hatch and storage place for our two hundred cans of food and the beginnings of the most productive distraction of our lives.

Introduction

When I was a child my mother would unravel an old sweater that no longer fitted properly, then she would re-knit it into a lovely snug fitting new garment for me.

 When I turned thirteen my mother taught me to knit aron sweaters, (fancy, patterned wool sweaters.) We would knit them for the New Zealand tourist industry.

 I got the impression through knitting these, that the average tourist resembled a gorilla, great big bodies and huge long arms, I didn’t complain however, as we were paid by the pound. We would weigh the gorilla skins on Mums tin kitchen scales. The further the hand of the scales went round, the more elated I grew.

You see, I nursed the dream of most thirteen year old girls, I wanted a horse.

How many of the wool monsters I knitted to gain the eighty dollars I needed, I don’t recall, but I remember vividly the day I took possession of my eighty year old horse.

 Experts say horses don’t live that long, but then they had never seen Wuzzel.

Wuzzel had wrinkles and hollows around her eyes. Her bottom lip sagged into a little pouch and one leg didn’t work too efficiently. She could walk and canter but her inefficient leg eliminated trotting. She was not beautiful but I loved her and lavished time and attention on her.

When it became apparent that she was lonely and needed a paddock mate, Mum answered an add in the paper and won a free-to-good-home horse.The free horse was a young sixty.
 She was a big gentle ex-stock horse, whose thick tail was a strange little fuzz when she arrived. The calves she mothered had chewed off most of the hair, in a similar way a toddler loves the fur off a favourite teddy bear.

 My sister and I had a wonderful time playing with the old geriatrics. We would plat their manes and tuck flowers behind their ears, ready for the tea party of carrots and apples and chopped up grass we had prepared for them on the outside table.

 Their rumps made good slides and backs perfect platforms to climb trees from. Sometimes we would pack a picnic lunch and Linda and I would amble off for the day, the two of us doubling on Pretty Lady (who had four sturdy legs) and leading Wuzzel (to spare her rickety ones)

From time to time we would hold horse shows.

For days, we would make red or blue rosettes out of scrap ribbon and cardboard, labouring over them to make them as realistic as possible. Then in the old quarry we would hold our shows. The high side bank made a great grandstand for the judge, (uninterested-in-horses sister number three.)

We didn’t really need a judge as the outcome was always the same. (Pretty Lady won the trotting class and Wuzzel won the three legged race.) But we wanted one because we wanted to be as like the real shows as possible.

 Every year in summer the big Agricultural and Pastoral Show would be held. All the farmers from around the district would come with their goats and pigs and cows, vegies and preserves.

The horses, (always stars of the show) were not owned by the farmers. Most farmers wouldn’t have them
“too rough on the fences and eat too much.”
 The few that did keep horses, used them as quads, to work the steep difficult country.

 A stock horse is in a totally different class to the fancy highly bred animals that made it to the A and P show. These sleek beauties were the domain of the professional breeder and the serious competitor.

 No pottering around paddocks and picnics for these ponies or kids. The focus of adults and children alike, was winning. In summer they would load up their big trucks and head off to whatever town was hosting a show that weekend, The days in between the shows were devoted to training.

They took everything connected to horses very seriously and nursed dreams of the Olympics. We didn’t even own a saddle, but these families often had more than the value of a house invested in equipment and animals.

In those days my sister and I would sit on the side lines in our homely pink sun hats and envy those professional looking riders on their professional looking horses. Funny how age changes your perspective, I don’t believe they had a fraction of the fun we did with our old girls.

 The western church needs unravelling and re-knitting.

 Scratch just below the surface of any Mr and Mrs Average Christian and you will find dissatisfaction. Women are burdened and men are bored.

 From New Zealand to America pastors and laymen are searching for a make over, Churches have become like A and P shows where only the best perform, using equipment worth more than most families will ever own.

Even the spectators on the side lines have not escaped the pressure to perform. Bible studies, teaching, seminars and SUPPORTING THE PROGRAM leave little time for fellowship and friendship building.

Marriages are breaking up, families are falling apart and nobody has time for the plain old hanging out together and having fun that builds relationships.

 We are all huffing and puffing and training for the heavenly Olympics.

Who are we trying to impress? It’s time to unravel the smart business suit and knit up something more homely.

 The following stories tell what we did in homemade churches in New Zealand, and why we did it. These stories have little or no scripture references in them as there are enough books emerging to deal with the left brained, doctrinal, basis for house churches.

 Neither are they intended as yet another model to follow, but rather a right brained attempt to provoke thinking people to re-examine some of the current teachings and traditions that have us locked up in brief cases.

 Let’s stop competing in shows but instead start building relationships and playing with picnics, in make-it-up-as-you-go, DYO churches.