Latest news with #GrahamRedding
Otago Daily Times
22-07-2025
- General
- Otago Daily Times
Beyond the fence: on reading the Bible in this secular age
How should we read the Bible in the 21st century, Graham Redding asks. For many people, the Bible is outdated, even dangerous — fuel for fundamentalism or a dusty relic of a bygone age. But for those still curious, or tentatively open, the question of how to approach such a text matters. And the metaphors we use to describe that approach matter even more. Consider four metaphors: the fence, the instruction manual, the cave, and the garden. Each offers a distinct picture of what the Bible is and how it might be used. The fence metaphor sees the Bible as a boundary-setter. It marks out who is in and who is out — doctrine as gate, morality as barbed wire. This is the Bible as rulebook or creed-enforcer, where certain interpretations are fenced in as "orthodox" and others left out in the theological cold. Fences provide security, yes, but they also restrict movement. The danger of this model is that it transforms the Bible into a tool of control, shutting down conversation and excluding those who ask difficult questions or arrive at uncomfortable conclusions. This approach is all too familiar in religious communities that have wielded the Bible as a weapon against women, LGBTQ+ people, or those who diverge from the party line. It is no wonder that many outside such communities want nothing to do with a text so frequently associated with misogyny and exclusion. Closely related is the instruction manual metaphor. Here the Bible is treated as a how-to guide for life: clear, concise, step-by-step. Want a better marriage? Proverbs has you covered. Struggling with grief? Turn to the Psalms. Need direction in life? Jeremiah 29:11 is the divine GPS. This metaphor appeals to a modern, utilitarian mindset. It assumes that the Bible offers clear answers to modern problems, if only we read it correctly. But the Bible isn't a single, tidy manual. It's a sprawling collection of stories, laws, poems, laments, and letters, written by dozens of authors over centuries. Much of it resists easy application. The instruction-manual metaphor flattens the complexity of Scripture, silencing voices of protest, ambiguity, and paradox. Taken together, the fence and manual metaphors foster a brittle kind of faith — one that cannot withstand the pressures of moral complexity or existential doubt. Enter the metaphor of the cave. Here, the Bible becomes a place of mystery and depth, an ancient cavern to be explored with curiosity and humility. Like explorers lowering themselves into a vast cave system, readers enter the text not to master it but to discover forgotten chambers of wisdom, veins of poetry, and inscriptions from past generations. This metaphor recognises the historical and literary complexity of the Bible. It allows for darkness and ambiguity. It honours the voices of lament and protest — Job's cry against unjust suffering, Ecclesiastes' bewildered musings on meaninglessness, Jesus' own cry of abandonment on the cross. In the cave, we do not find tidy answers. But we may encounter something more valuable: echoes of our own questions, whispered across time, calling us to a more authentic form of living. Finally, the garden metaphor. Here the Bible is less a site to be explored than a plot to be cultivated. We return to it again and again — not because it gives instant answers, but because it yields nourishment over time. In this metaphor we bring ourselves to the text — our experience, our questions, our wounds — and we let it work on us. Not every seed will sprout. Not every passage will bear fruit. But over time, with sun and rain and pruning, the garden grows. It may even surprise us with unexpected blossoms. This metaphor invites communal engagement. Gardens are meant to be shared. Biblical interpretation becomes not an individual act of mastery, but a communal practice of tending a garden together, learning from those who have gone before, and passing the harvest on to those who come after. Metaphors shape expectations. If we see the Bible as a fence, we will patrol it. If we see it as a manual, we will seek quick fixes. But if we approach it as a cave or a garden, we step into a different posture — one of openness, reverence, and transformation. For those who have been harmed by rigid interpretations of Scripture, or who see the Bible as irrelevant in a secular age, these alternative metaphors offer a way back in. Not to naive certainty or uncritical belief, but to a more human, more honest engagement with one of the world's most influential texts. So let us set down our fences. Let us put away our manuals. Let us take up our lanterns, and step into the cave. Let us roll up our sleeves and tend the garden. Who knows what we might find? Or what might grow. • Dr Graham Redding is the Douglas Goodfellow lecturer in chaplaincy studies at the University of Otago.
Otago Daily Times
27-05-2025
- Health
- Otago Daily Times
Beyond the pool: rethinking disability aid
Is New Zealand's approach to supporting the disabled actually solving anything, Graham Redding asks. In a time of deepening inequality, a Gospel story from John 5 offers a necessary reflection for Aotearoa. Jesus encounters a man who has waited 38 years by the pool of Bethesda — a place believed to offer healing. But healing, here, is conditional: only the quickest, strongest, or most fortunate are helped. "I have no-one to help me," the man tells Jesus. "Someone else always gets there ahead of me." Jesus does not wait for the waters to stir or for institutional permission. He simply says: "Get up. Pick up your mat and walk." The man is restored — not just physically, but socially. He is no longer invisible. This story is often treated as a healing miracle. But it is more than that. It is a critique of systems that neglect the vulnerable. The pool becomes a symbol of exclusion, where only a few benefit, and many are left waiting. In 2022, the creation of Whaikaha — the Ministry of Disabled People — was welcomed as a breakthrough response to long-standing fragmentation. Disabled people had been shuffled between agencies, often receiving inconsistent and inadequate support. Whaikaha promised a new era — one focused on human dignity rather than bureaucratic boundaries. But in 2024, the government announced a restructuring. Whaikaha was stripped of its service delivery role, which was transferred to the Ministry of Social Development. The rollout of Enabling Good Lives — a programme promoting greater choice and control — was put on hold. Cost and efficiency were cited. But the consequences have been stark. Early this year, the New Zealand Medical Journal warned that these changes, alongside budget cuts and funding freezes, were harming disabled people and their families. Residential care was scaled back. In-home support became harder to access. Families and carers were under pressure, and mental distress was rising. The May 2024 "A Thousand Cuts" report from the Fairer Future Coalition documented the cumulative impact of recent government policies — from the return of prescription fees and higher transport costs, to changes in welfare and education. It estimated that families with a disabled member now face up to $5500 more in annual costs. This is not just a policy failure. It is a moral one. In response, the May 2025 Budget committed $1.1 billion over five years to stabilise disability support services. This investment is widely welcomed. The government says it will help ensure access to essential equipment, services, and support for those in need. But it comes with caveats. Whaikaha will now focus solely on advocacy, while the Ministry of Social Development oversees delivery. Some see this as a pragmatic division of roles. Others worry it further marginalises the voices of disabled people from decisions that affect them. Meanwhile, services like Enabling Good Lives are operating under tighter budgets, and residential care funding remains frozen. So, while the investment signals a welcome shift, it does not yet signify transformation. At best, it may stabilise a strained system. This raises an unsettling question: are we merely managing a crisis, or working towards justice? Theologically, Jesus' action at Bethesda disrupts the logic of worth. The man is not asked to prove his eligibility or moral standing. He is seen, addressed, and restored. This act affirms that dignity is not earned by productivity or independence, but by being known and included. Yet in Aotearoa, support too often remains conditional — on diagnosis, funding, and the ability to navigate complex systems. Needs are rationed. Voices go unheard. People feel invisible. Disability theology calls us to see differently. The Gospel challenges us to move beyond transactional care towards communities grounded in justice and relationship. It asks: who still lies by the pool? Who is passed over? Who is told to wait? Real healing requires more than medical intervention. It demands systemic change. It calls for policies that prioritise dignity over dollars and inclusion over convenience. It urges us to see disabled people not as burdens or recipients, but as neighbours, kin, and co-builders of a just society. We need more than restored funding—we need restored trust. That means honouring lived experience, enabling choice, and redesigning systems that currently reinforce exclusion. The Gospel does not promise a world without suffering. But it does promise that no-one should suffer unseen or alone. In Aotearoa today, that means ensuring equitable access to healthcare, housing, education, and community — not as acts of charity, but as marks of justice. When Jesus says, "Pick up your mat," he gives the man back his agency — and calls the community to carry the weight of shared responsibility. His healing act dismantles exclusion and creates space for belonging. Will we do the same? • Dr Graham Redding is the Douglas Goodfellow lecturer in chaplaincy studies at the University of Otago.
