In his book An Astonishing Secret, Daniel O’Leary writes about God sending out a continued invitation, like an extended thread or rope, hoping to tie in each of us. The way this invitation manifests itself — through music, literature, the outdoors etc. — is different depending on our particular predilections. But we first need to be susceptible, vulnerable to the call.

This counters conventional wisdom — we tend to think of vulnerability and susceptibility as bad things, signs of weak character. After many years’ vulnerability of becoming my own family’s religious nutter, I came into the Church this Easter at the Holy Saturday Vigil in Dunedin’s St Joseph’s Cathedral.

It was beautiful. I’m not used to the Cathedral — we’re normally in the 70s-built parish church adjacent to my children’s school, and so on Holy Saturday the setting felt big, old, dramatic: all stone, stained glass, unupholstered pews, with a choir in red, and gold lamé draped around the font.

My little party of sponsors and supporters sat right up the front — something my 8-year-old now recommends for all occasions: “You can see EVERYTHING!” And he’s right, you could see everything: the fire, flame of each candle; smoke; whispered stage directions and nods of assent.

From up the front, you can see that pomp and circumstance is hard work and choreography: the high drama of ritual practised over centuries. When the bells rang out I felt a surge of something — the grandeur, obviously, but also a sense of pride and of fellow-feeling.

My preparation, with sponsors, priest and parish, was an example of the generosity of the Church. Sponsor 1 is a great force of evangelisation, a model of doing the right thing over and over in acts small and large, and of doing so not with dour determination but joyful perseverance. She answered questions and asked them, prepared and rehearsed rites, helped my children feel a part of things at every turn.

Sponsor 2, previously known to me only casually, and whom I approached as a friendly person of approximately my age and stage, has been revealed to me as an incredibly impressive, deep-thinking woman, with a profound and enviable faith. And so now, when we’re sitting in our adjacent pews collectively wrangling our children, I find myself grateful for her presence and our connection.

My parish priest, eternally cheerful and optimistic, made things work in a COVID environment, attended late-night Zoom meetings because a post-kid-bedtime hour suited me best, and has been the reliable and familiar face of my journey this far. And my fellow parishioners have been patient, supportive and enthusiastic. My new Bible, bearing the names and well-wishes of the parish, is a treasure.

And now, in the aftermath, I’ve the Sunday joy of being like everybody else. Whereas I once shied from any public declaration — the sort that graduates in absentia and marries in a registry office — I see now the value of professing your belief publicly before a community of fellow believers. And I’ve realised that saying “I seek your approval to belong” is not going begging, but a mark of esteem for others.

So I’ve cast my lot with the Church. We think of casting lots as gambling — like the soldiers playing a game of chance for Jesus’s clothes. While reading something entirely unrelated the other day, I discovered that the phrase “cast your lot” is related to cleromancy -— divination by throwing dice — which comes from the Greek kleros (“lot”, but from which we get “clerk” and also “cleric”) and manteia meaning oracle or divination. So there is a sense of the intentional — the casting, the participation — and a sense of accepting that you are part of something larger than yourself and your own will.

“Do you feel different?” my 10-year-old asked. Well . . . I have that feeling you get when you’ve cleaned your house properly — not just a poke-it-about cleaning but moving sofas and sorting out that corner cupboard. Things are more in their right and proper place. I know they won’t stay that way themselves — that it’ll be a lifetime of thinking and doing — but, as they say, at least I’m in the game.

Tui Motu Magazine. Issue 271 June 2022: 20