The Fabric of Faithful Friendship

But sure enough, there we were: me and Ricki, bare-chested and clad only in piupiu, filling the front page of the Manukau Courier. It was circa March/April 1993, a week or so after the annual ASB Polynesian Festival held at Ngā Tapuwae College in Māngere. Our school had been entered for the first time by our wild and inspirational Te Reo Māori Teacher Whaea Jenny Lee (now Lee-Morgan); we had somehow ended up on stage, prime time mid-day Saturday, just before the host school. It was a moment equal parts exhilarating and terrifying. In the early to 90’s, it also wasn’t the most likely place for a 16 year-old Pākehā from the North Shore to be. But there I was. How on earth did I get there? That’s where Ricki comes in.

Our little Baptist church sat in the middle of Northcote central, one the few State Housing communities on the Shore. As a result, our church community was a bit more culturally diverse than you might associate with the Shore in the 90’s: Māori and Pasifika families worshipped alongside Pākehā. Ricki and his mum had joined our church, and I was excited—he was the only other kid my age. Pretty soon we became friends, and I was introduced to a whole new world: te ao Māori. For this working-class Pākehā kid, spending time at Ricki’s house on Cadness street—eating fry bread and mussel chowder, his koro sitting beside us at the dining table, sharing stories and laughing till our bellies hurt—shifted my heart at a subterranean level. I couldn’t have named it—didn’t even detect it—at the time, but my friendship with Ricki was weaving the fabric of my life.

At Northcote College, big teenage choices began to pose themselves: What subjects would I take in Form Four [Year 10]? I landed on Te Reo Māori (and Tech Drawing), mainly because of my friendship with Ricki—and the fact that Mr Raela was a cool teacher who could kick a rugby ball super high. Both Mr. Raela and Ricki left when Form Four began. The former disappointed me; the latter broke my heart. Mr. Raela went to MAGs; Ricki went to Taupo. I still did Te Reo, but with an old-school teacher from Te Tai Rawhiti. He could not kick a rugby ball super high. I got through to the end of the year and thought: “I’ll give it another go”.

The following year, a new Te Reo teacher arrived: Miss Jenny Lee came to Northcote College. Fresh out of Waikato Uni, Whaea Jenny had a fire in her belly: a passion for Te Reo and a heart for her people. She took our small class of learners on a journey from Northcote to the far reaches of ourselves and back again. We didn’t realise it at the time, but she was changing our worlds. We were learning far more than language: we were learning a way of being. Our class trips took us to places far beyond the North Shore, even if they were not too far over the harbour bridge. One such trip was to Ngā Tapuwae College to see the Polyfest. I’d never experienced anything like it. I’d never been surrounded by so many tangata whenua and tagata Pasifika. The kapa haka captivated me. I was mesmerised. The very next year, Whaea Jenny entered Northcote College into the Polyfest. Ricki also returned from Taupo. A whirlwind of practices and overnight noho ensued. Our moment in the sun would come…. 11:45am on the Saturday morning of the event, and Northcote College was up. It was me and Ricki, together again… “Ko te puru! Ko te puru ko au!” (Aha! I stand strong as a bull!)

Friendships can take you to surprising places. When Reverend Arthur Purchas arrived in Aotearoa in the 1840s from England, I doubt he suspected for a moment the depths to which his friendship with Chief Tāmati Ngāpora would take him. Ngāpora had come to live in Māngere, the north of the Waikato, at the request of his cousin, Paramount Chief Te Wherowhero, to help establish a volunteer army. Rev. Purchas had been tasked by Bishop Selwyn to build a church at the Onehunga settlement (he was an architect, as well as a surgeon and priest). He would regularly cross the harbour to Māngere to connect with local Māori, whose language he also learned. He offered his medical services to the wider community as needed. And it was during these visits that he became friends with Tāmati Ngāpora.

Ngāpora, himself a committed Christian, looked across the harbour at Onehunga and saw the church being built. Eventually, he put a question to his friend Rev. Purchas: “E hoa, kei whea tō mātou whare karakia?” Friend, how about a church over here? And so, together, they built it, Purchas designing and Ngāpora project managing. The rocks were carried down from Te Pane o Mataoho (Māngere mountain), the cement sourced from the sands of Te Manukanuka o Hoturoa (The Manukau harbour). And in this way St James’s church was built: on faith and on friendship.

The two friends continued to serve their communities faithfully, witnessing the rapid growth of the city of Auckland. As the settler population grew, so too did the desire for land. The Kīngitanga emerged over this period, seeking to stand united to address growing Māori concerns about the settlers’ lust for land. Governor George Grey returned to Aotearoa in the late 1850’s from South Africa. In his second term as Governor of New Zealand, Grey had a clear colonising agenda. He was far from impressed with the Kīngitanga movement, seeing it as an impediment to his project, and was looking for reasons to take it to task. As tensions rose between him and leaders in Ngāti Maniapoto, it was the likes of Ngāpora and Purchas who found themselves in the middle, trying to seek diplomatic solutions. But none of these worked. Grey’s face was set on conflict.

On the 9^th of July 1863, Grey issued a declaration that all Māori in the Manukau pledge their allegiance to the Queen, or retreat to the south of the Mangatāwhiri river near Mercer. Tāmati Ngāpora was with his friend Arthur Purchas when this was read to them. As he heard the words read, his head hung in sadness; his heart was broken. “Kua tata rānei te rā o te kotinga witi?” Is the day of harvest close at hand?, he lamented. “Ae,” replied Purchas, “I’m afraid it is…”. Ngāpora and his people retreated behind the designated line, taking refuge in the South Waikato. The rangatira changed his name to Manuhiri—Stranger. With this upheaval, deep, community-transforming friendships lay in tatters. Lives were uprooted and destroyed, and worse was to come. The Waikato Wars had begun. And devastation and betrayal that resulted compose one of the darkest chapters of our national story.

Such a momentous event would sorely test the strongest of connections. The fabric of friendship had been torn; Ngāpora would never again enter St James. The story is told that many years later he returned to the church for a tangi. He couldn’t bring himself to go into the building, but stood outside in tears. How on earth did he get there?

There is a story of unlikely and faithful friendship slipped into the biblical narrative. It’s easy to miss if you are unaware of its presence. A Hebrew family is forced to take refuge among a foreign people, the Moabites, during a time of famine. Their fortunes fall further when the family Patriarch and his sons both die. This leaves mother Naomi and her Moabite daughters-in-law, Ruth and Orpah, to fend for themselves. It is a harsh and desperate situation. But then the tide turns and the famine eases, and the opportunity arises to return to Judah. Naomi offers her daughters-in-law the chance to return to their kin. Orpah obliges, but not Ruth. Her loyalty to stay with Naomi only strengthens. Her words of resolve display a depth of commitment: “Don’t ask me to leave you and turn back. Wherever you go, I will go; wherever you live, I will live. Your people will be my people, and your God will be my God” (Ruth 1:16). With not much to gain, and everything to lose, Ruth stays faithful to friendship.

As the story further unfolds, the young widow finds favour with a wealthy relative of her deceased husband, a man named Boaz. A connection is made, a relationship buds, and a marriage ensues. Ruth and Boaz form a family. Among their descendants is Israel’s great King, David. Reading ahead many centuries, another descendant turns up in Ruth’s faithful whakapapa. This time, nestled in a genealogy at the start of Matthew’s gospel, we find Ruth and Boaz (1:5); it is surprising to find a woman’s name included in such a list, but here is Ruth, signalled as the ancestor of the Messiah born in Bethlehem to Mary: the child Jesus. The incredible fruit of an unlikely friendship. How on earth did they get there?

About five years ago my phone rang and a colleague in ministry enthusiastically greeted me: “Kia ora Mark!” I’m an Anglican priest these days, and as fate would have it, serving at St James church, Māngere Bridge. “Mark, I’m wondering if I can ask a favour…”. “Go on,” I reply; “I’d like my whanaunga to come to St James…” (what minister is going to say no to that?) “…but she has a dog. Can she bring it?” “Of course! We have a resident poodle, what harm is one more?” “Great!”, confirms my colleague, “I’ll let her know”. When Whaea Ngaire came with Shady the next Sunday, it all went well; it turns out both dogs were related by marriage. Now, Whaea Ngaire is deeply connected to St James through whakapapa. Her kuia, Nanny Tuura, is buried, pride of place, close to the front of the church. They are kāhui ariki—of the King’s court. Whaea Ngaire is warm and open; we hit it off instantly. I admire her dog—she offers me a puppy. But not too long after this connection came the seismic moment that threw the world into a tailspin, and into lockdown.

As we emerged from the first lockdown, a bit befuddled, but in reasonable spirits, Whaea and I reconnect over the phone. In the course of our catch-up, she casually commented, “By the way Mark, your puppy is nearly ready to come to you.” I wasn’t expecting to join the throngs of post-lockdown dog owners, so I gently pushed back: “Ummm, Whaea, I’m not sure if we are allowed one? We rent the house.” She offered a divine solution: “Don’t worry about that Mark, I’ll say a karakia!” Well, I’m not sure what karakia was uttered, but permission was granted, and Albie Te Minita Barnard became part of our whānau, binding us to Whaea Ngaire, connected through kuri. I’m told he is to be buried at Te Puea marae.

Through this wonderful kuri-connection a series of friendships has flourished. Whaea Ngaire has opened doors and hearts. We’ve been invited to serve together at Te Puea, especially presiding at tangi where whānau are to be buried at the urupā at St James. Through one family tangi, we were asked to host the karakia for the unveiling in the church building. This family had a deep connection to both whenua and whare karakia through baptism, marriage and death, so it seemed right. As the karakia took place that day, the church filled up. Local tangata whenua, family and friends came to remember their loved one. And I remembered Tāmati Ngāpora, standing outside weeping, and I found myself wondering: “E te Rangatira, might now be the time for friends to return?” Perhaps…

Through the fabric of friendship, a joining takes place. Where things have been torn, perhaps they might be resewn. As I reflect on my story, the most significant moments have been those where relationship has been to the fore and agendas have taken a back seat. Through friendships, I have been bound to sacred stories and places. It has taken my Western way of being in the world some time to learn this. As I puzzle about the immense challenges that face our nation and our world at this moment, I wonder about the ways forward. I’m increasingly convinced that it will be through deeply connected relationship and committed faithful friendships that we’ll get there (wherever there is). I’m not sure five-point plans will cut it, if indeed they ever have.

Recently a friend, Reverend Waiora Te Moni, shared a homily on John 15 which has stayed with me. She asked a series of questions around three words. With one of these, whanaungatanga, or “forming family”, she asked us to consider: “Which relationships is God asking us to prioritise and attend to?” That’s a timely question. Have we considered it deeply enough? I’ve written the question in my journal to explore with God: “What friendships do I need to nurture more deeply? How might I do so?” We live in a time when becoming “friends” is as easy as a click on a keyboard and a “thumbs up” icon. We can end such friendships just as easily. No mess, no fuss. But what does is cost us? This has postured us away from the fabric of faithful friendship, which weaves loyalty and commitment with tears, laughter, disagreement and joy. Faithful friendship bears good fruit, often surprising, always nourishing. Have you thought about the friendships in your life recently? Could you pray for a grace that God would help you attend to these more intentionally, with greater depth?

Our faithful friendships can take us to unexpected places, perhaps precisely those places where God wanted us to be all along. A whakapapa of friendships stretches right back from God’s story through the story of this land; and it is weaving its way into our own stories: from Mother Naomi to Whaea Ngaire, and everyone in between. It’s leading us from there to here, and when we arrive we’ll likely be surprised, amazed at the journey we’ve taken. As we look back, we’ll make out the various faces of friends, and the whole story may seem a little clearer, as we prayerfully ponder before God, “Ah, so this is how we got here…”.