Journal articles on the topic 'Presbyterian Church of Aotearoa New Zealand'

ABSTRACTSt John's College Auckland has served the New Zealand church for over 150 years. In 1992 the Anglican Church in New Zealand changed its constitution to give recognition to the Pakeha, Maori and Polynesian groups in the church. The Canon concerning St John's College was also changed to reflect the new Constitutional arrangements. From that time the college was committed to recognizing the two cultural traditions in its leadership and across all aspects of the college's activities and environment. This implied significant curriculum challenges. Some difficult choices have been faced as to the relationship with a secular university and its implications for the presence in the curriculum of Anglican studies. These have been resolved in a way which honours the contextual issues and the tradition of Anglican faith.

On 2 March 1865, the Revd Carl Sylvius Völkner, a Church Missionary Society (CMS) missionary, was hanged from a willow tree close to his own church and mission station at Opotiki in the Bay of Plenty, New Zealand. John Hobbs, who had arrived as a Methodist missionary in New Zealand in 1823, reported on ‘the very barbarous Murder of one of the best Missionaries in New Zealand’ and noted that Völkner’s death marked ‘a New Era in the history of this country’. Völkner was the first European missionary of any denonomination to be killed in New Zealand since missionary work began in 1814.

Listening to the People of the Land: Christianity, Colonisation & the Path to Redemption, edited by Susan Healy. Auckland: Pax Christi, Aotearoa New Zealand, 2019, with support from the New Zealand Dominican Sisters. 332 pages. ISBN 978-0-473-45957-4.Praying for Peace: A Selection of Prayers and Reflections, edited by Kevin McBride. Auckland: Pax Christi, Aotearoa New Zealand, in association with the Pacific Media Centre, 2018. 152 pages. ISBN 978-0-473-43798-5.THE STRENGTH of this series of essays in Listening to the People of the Land is the varying perspectives given on the brutal losses forced on Māori by white and Christian colonisation. In fact, if New Zealand was a truly just society, the teachings here would be a significant part of our school curriculum. Editor Susan Healy draws the outline in the first 95 pages. Her chapter raises the occasional quibble and sometimes seems to downplay how inextricably interwoven were the settler culture and the Christian church in 1800s New Zealand.

Abstract The Community Church of St John the Evangelist, situated on a relatively remote island off the east coast of New Zealand, is a unique ecumenical venture supported by the Anglican, Catholic, Methodist and Presbyterian Churches. This paper describes and situates this venture and discusses its development and modus vivendi in light of the paradigm of receptive ecumenism. This paradigm did not feature in the thinking of those who established this ecumenical community church; nevertheless it is argued that the paradigm aptly applies, so yielding the phenomenon of an unintentional receptive ecumenism at work.

Abstract Taking the life of Sarah Selwyn (1809-1907), wife of the first Anglican bishop to New Zealand, the article plots the dynamics of geographic movement and varying communities of connection through which the mid-19thC imperial world was constituted. Negotiating empire and religion, mission and church, high church and evangelical, European and indigenous Maori and Melanesian, Sarah’s life illuminates the intricate networks underpinning – and at times undermining – colonial governance and religious authority. Sarah embarked for New Zealand in late 1841 at a high point of English mission and humanitarian idealism, arriving into a hierarchical and substantially Christianised majority Maori society. By the time she departed, in 1868, the colonial church and society, now European-dominated, had largely taken a position of support for a settler-led government taking up arms against “rebellious” Maori in a battle for sovereignty. In later life Sarah Selwyn became a reluctant narrator of her earlier “colonial” life while witnessing the emergence of a more secular empire from the close of Lichfield cathedral. The personal networks of empire are traced within wider metropolitan and colonial communities, the shifting ground from the idealistic 1840s to the more punitive later 19thC. The discussion traces the larger contexts through which a life was marked by the shifting ambiguities of what it was to be Christian in the colonial world: an agent of empire at the same time as a fierce critic of imperial policy, an upper class high church believer in the midst of evangelical missionaries, someone for whom life in New Zealand was both a profound disjuncture and a defining narrative.

This article focusses on the formation and delivery of training and support for pioneer ministry in the Church of Scotland, by (i) reflecting on recent thinking on the place of theological education in enabling missional vocation; and (ii) presenting three case studies of approaches taken by denominations (in the Netherlands, Germany and Aotearoa New Zealand) which share a similar historical tradition with the Church of Scotland and which have seen similar trajectories of decline.

It is a peculiarity of the European continent that there are four independent Anglican jurisdictions side by side: the Church of England with its Diocese in Europe, The Episcopal Church, based in the United States of America, with its Convocation of Episcopal Churches in Europe, and the Lusitanian and Spanish Reformed Episcopal Churches which are extra-provincial dioceses in the Anglican Communion. Alongside these, there are the Old Catholic Churches of the Union of Utrecht, with dioceses in the Netherlands, Germany, Austria and Switzerland. All of them are in full communion with each other, but they lack a comprehensive jurisdictional structure; consequently, there are cities where two or three bishops exercise jurisdiction canonically totally separately.

Our understandings of God change and grow with us as we move through life. This study of a group of New Zealand Catholic women finds that childhood God images were shaped more by who our parents were to us than the catechism we memorised. By middle adulthood our images of God reflect not only some lasting childhood images but the experiences of friendship, role modelling, groups we belong to, study, parenting, solitude, nature and the pain of suffering. Our adulthood God images, especially in terms of gender and power, are also linked with 198nd suffering, and how we envision church.

AbstractThe relationship between Christianity and social development in New Zealand has been an historically complex one. Many of the early settlers to these islands came to escape a life of poverty in their mother country. Yet wherever there is wealth, there is poverty social problems, and they cast a long shadow over the promised land for the early colonizers and the indigenous Maori. The emergence of the welfare state in the 1930s paved the way for significant social transformation. It was understood by some to express 'applied Christianity'. With the comparatively recent demise of the Welfare State in New Zealand at the hands of neo-liberalism it is reasonable to consider whether this can equally be understood to indicate the demise of the Christianity's social import. Yet an appreciation of the church's predominantly informal social involvement throughout the history of these islands provides both a helpful interpretative key to the past and the future. Aotearoa New Zealand history may be one signifier that the priority for the pursuit of justice is to be found primarily at the margins amidst the informality of the ordinary, and far less at the centre of formality, systems and political institutions, and that the role of intentional Christian community in this might be as significant to the identity of the church as it is to the state.

For several decades now, Anglican churches around the world have been struggling with serious conflicts about gender relationships. Internal troubles have been most apparent in the United States, Canada, England, Scotland, and more recently in Aotearoa New Zealand. These conflicts between churches have occupied the attention of the institutions of the Anglican Communion, usually in terms of establishing some framework of unity between the churches. In this context, I wish to suggest a different way of approaching these issues. I want to draw on a renewed sense of catholicity in the church and of the eschatological framework in which all Christians are called to live. In the process, I hope to offer a picture of what might be a vocation for the Anglican Communion, specifically its institutions, that will better honor the narrative tradition of Anglicanism and provide a more effective way into engaging with the problems of our times.

This article analyzes the increasing tension between equality in legal discourse and the moral argument of religious communities concerning same-sex relationships. It argues that a key component is skepticism of a prominent brand of rights language. The Anglican Church in New Zealand, Aotearoa, and Polynesia is raised as an example. The article traces the debates of this group over same-sex relationship recognition and argues there has been a shift: appeals to rights language, which were previously common within this community, are now more muted. Revisionists have responded to a skeptical claim: that rights language presents a roadblock to discussion and an unsound account of the person, our common life, and public goods. The article contrasts the claims of equality typically emphasizing self-identity and self-actualization, with the attempts of a religious community to discuss competing views on the recognition of same-sex relationships within a framework of gift-giving, duty, and virtue linked to sexuality.

A critical review of the book 'Whare Karakia: Maori Church Building, Decoration and Ritual in Aotearoa New Zealand 1834-1863' by Richard Sundt. Review(s) of: Whare Karakia: Maori Church Building, Decoration and Ritual in Aotearoa New Zealand 1834-1863, by Richard Sundt, Auckland University Press, Auckland, 2010 xiii, 225 pp. ISBN 9781869404567.

Crossing the borders of religion presents challenges and provides opportunities. This article presents a contextualized case study from Aotearoa New Zealand, examining the lifelong relationship between Presbyterian missionary Rev. John “Hoani” Laughton (1891–1965) and Māori leader Rua Kēnana (1869–1937). Photography, as a tool in discerning lived theologies, suggests a side-by-side relationship of reciprocity and particularity. Relationships across differences are revealed not in theory but in lived practices of education, worship and prayer, life and death. The argument is that Kēnana and Laughton enacted theologies of fulfillment, grounded in different epistemologies: mātauranga Māori and Enlightenment thinking.

AbstractSpirituality is vital to The Salvation Army’s Bridge model of treatment for alcohol and drug addiction. Spirituality is expressed through Recovery Church, prayer, spirituality lifters, the 12-step programme, and focuses on meaning and purpose. We recruited participants from several regional centers throughout Aotearoa New Zealand and evaluated spirituality using the WHOQol-SRPB and open-ended questions. Most participants held broad understandings of spirituality, only a minority equating it with religion. Participants who completed the Programme had statistically significant increases in spiritual wellbeing at end-of-treatment. These increases were maintained at a 3-month follow-up. Increases in spiritual wellbeing were associated with decreases in severity of alcohol and drug use.

Abstract Background In New Zealand, Pacific people continue to be more at risk of gambling harm than the general population, despite increasing public health efforts and treatment service provisions introduced to address this social and health issue. In looking at why this is so, our first concern was to ask why the delivery of the prevailing gambling-focussed programmes was not influencing Pacific gambling behaviours. In seeking to answer this question, it was important to explore ethnic-Pacific-specific factors of gambling harm prevention and reduction. Methods The research design was interpretivist/constructivist and phenomenological, applied through the lens of a Tongan worldview. Participants comprised Tongan male elders and youth. Recruitment of participants was through snowball sampling from churches and kava-drinking circles. A total of 28 elders and 18 youth participated through focus group talanoa and individual talanoa. This study employed descriptive thematic analysis. Results Participants were not aware of any policy document or problem-gambling preventative programmes. Four key themes were raised, which include raising the awareness of existing gambling harm treatment providers, the church influence in addressing gambling harm, community-based strategies, and cultural-based approaches. Conclusions This study proposes several recommendations such as more awareness of gambling harm providers in community, increasing cultural spaces and church engagements, and calls for further research in addressing the prevention and reduction of gambling harm amongst the Tongan community in New Zealand.

Little academic attention has been focused on the experiences of communities situated at the margins in receiving nonprofit services. In this essay, we draw on the culture-centered approach to critically interrogate the concept of engagement among a range of nonprofit organizations. We analyze ethnographic fieldwork conducted in a low income suburban area in Aotearoa New Zealand, in which narrative accounts of 60 residents formed the basis of our deliberations with an advisory board. Our findings indicate that many nonprofit organizations are constructed as spaces of othering that do not attend to the cultural norms or needs of those situated at the margins. Alternatively, the Head Hunters outlaw motorcycle gang and Destiny’s Church, both vilified in mainstream media outlets, were sites of significant community engagement. Our study illuminates the impact of dialogic group engagement and of initiatives being developed and driven by the community.

IntroductionMusically-inclined people often speak about the soundtrack of their life, with certain songs indelibly linked to a specific moment. When hearing a particular song, it can “easily evoke a whole time and place, distant feelings and emotions, and memories of where we were, and with whom” (Lewis 135). Music has the ability to provide maps to real and imagined spaces, positioning people within a larger social environment where songs “are never just a song, but a connection, a ticket, a pass, an invitation, a node in a complex network” (Kun 3). When someone is lost in the music, they can find themselves transported somewhere else entirely without physically moving. This can be a blessing in some situations, for example, while living in a disaster zone, when almost any other time or place can seem better than the here and now. The city of Christchurch, New Zealand was hit by a succession of damaging earthquakes beginning with a magnitude 7.1 earthquake in the early hours of 4 September 2010. The magnitude 6.3 earthquake of 22 February 2011, although technically an aftershock of the September earthquake, was closer and shallower, with intense ground acceleration that caused much greater damage to the city and its people (“Scientists”). It was this February earthquake that caused the total or partial collapse of many inner city buildings, and claimed the lives of 185 people. Everybody in Christchurch lost someone or something that day: their house or job; family members, friends, or colleagues; the city as they knew it; or their normal way of life. The broken central city was quickly cordoned off behind fences, with the few entry points guarded by local and international police and armed military personnel.In the aftermath of a disaster, circumstances and personal attributes will influence how people react, think and feel about the experience. Surviving a disaster is more than not dying, “survival is to do with quality of life [and] involves progressing from the event and its aftermath, and transforming the experience” (Hodgkinson and Stewart 2). In these times of heightened stress, music can be a catalyst for sharing and expressing emotions, connecting people and communities, and helping them make sense of what has happened (Carr 38; Webb 437). This article looks at some of the ways that popular songs and musical memories helped residents of a broken city remember the past and come to terms with the present.BackgroundExisting songs can take on new significance after a catastrophic event, even without any alteration. Songs such as Do You Know What It Means to Miss New Orleans? and Prayer for New Orleans have been given new emotional layers by those who were displaced or affected by Hurricane Katrina (Cooper 265; Sullivan 15). A thirty year-old song by Randy Newman, Louisiana, 1927, became something of “a contemporary anthem, its chorus – ‘Louisiana, they’re trying to wash us away’ – bearing new relevance” (Blumenfeld 166). Contemporary popular songs have also been re-mixed or revised after catastrophic events, either by the original artist or by others. Elton John’s Candle in the Wind and Beyonce’s Halo have each been revised twice by the artist after tragedy and disaster (Doyle; McAlister), while radio stations in the United States have produced commemorative versions of popular songs to mark tragedies and their anniversaries (Beaumont-Thomas; Cantrell). The use and appreciation of music after disaster is a reminder that popular music is fluid, in that it “refuses to provide a uniform or static text” (Connell and Gibson 3), and can simultaneously carry many different meanings.Music provides a soundtrack to daily life, creating a map of meaning to the world around us, or presenting a reminder of the world as it once was. Tia DeNora explains that when people hear a song that was once heard in, and remains associated with, a particular time and place, it “provides a device for unfolding, for replaying, the temporal structure of that moment, [which] is why, for so many people, the past ‘comes alive’ to its soundtrack” (67). When a community is frequently and collectively casting their minds back to a time before a catastrophic change, a sense of community identity can be seen in the use of, and reaction to, particular songs. Music allows people to “locate themselves in different imaginary geographics at one and the same time” (Cohen 93), creating spaces for people to retreat into, small ‘audiotopias’ that are “built, imagined, and sustained through sound, noise, and music” (Kun 21). The use of musical escape holes is prevalent after disaster, as many once-familiar spaces that have changed beyond recognition or are no longer able to be physically visited, can be easily imagined or remembered through music. There is a particular type of longing expressed by those who are still at home and yet cannot return to the home they knew. Whereas nostalgia is often experienced by people far from home who wish to return or those enjoying memories of a bygone era, people after disaster often encounter a similar nostalgic feeling but with no change in time or place: a loss without leaving. Glenn Albrecht coined the term ‘solastalgia’ to represent “the form of homesickness one experiences when one is still at home” (35). This sense of being unable to find solace in one’s home environment can be brought on by natural disasters such as fire, flood, earthquakes or hurricanes, or by other means like war, mining, climate change or gentrification. Solastalgia is often felt most keenly when people experience the change first-hand and then have to adjust to life in a totally changed environment. This can create “chronic distress of a solastalgic kind [that] would persist well after the acute phase of post-traumatic distress” (Albrecht 36). Just as the visible, physical effects of disaster last for years, so too do the emotional effects, but there have been many examples of how the nostalgia inherent in a shared popular music soundtrack has eased the pain of solastalgia for a community that is hurting.Pop Songs and Nostalgia in ChristchurchIn September 2011, one year after the initial earthquake, the Bank of New Zealand (BNZ) announced a collaboration with Christchurch hip hop artist, Scribe, to remake his smash hit, Not Many, for charity. Back in 2003, Not Many debuted at number five on the New Zealand music charts, where it spent twelve weeks at number one and was crowned ‘Single of the Year’ (Sweetman, On Song 164). The punchy chorus heralded Scribe as a force to be reckoned with, and created a massive imprint on New Zealand popular culture with the line: “How many dudes you know roll like this? Not many, if any” (Scribe, Not Many). Music critic, Simon Sweetman, explains how “the hook line of the chorus [is now] a conversational aside that is practically unavoidable when discussing amounts… The words ‘not many’ are now truck-and-trailered with ‘if any’. If you do not say them, you are thinking them” (On Song 167). The strong links between artist and hometown – and the fact it is an enduringly catchy song – made it ideal for a charity remake. Reworded and reworked as Not Many Cities, the chorus now asks: “How many cities you know roll like this?” to which the answer is, of course, “not many, if any” (Scribe/BNZ, Not Many Cities). The remade song entered the New Zealand music charts at number 36 and the video was widely shared through social media but not all reception was positive. Parts of the video were shot in the city’s Red Zone, the central business district that was cordoned off from public access due to safety concerns. The granting of special access outraged some residents, with letters to the editor and online commentary expressing frustration that celebrities were allowed into the Red Zone to shoot a music video while those directly affected were not allowed in to retrieve essential items from residences and business premises. However, it is not just the Red Zone that features: the video switches between Scribe travelling around the broken inner city on the back of a small truck and lingering shots of carefully selected people, businesses, and groups – all with ties to the BNZ as either clients or beneficiaries of sponsorship. In some ways, Not Many Cities comes across like just another corporate promotional video for the BNZ, albeit with more emotion and a better soundtrack than usual. But what it has bequeathed is a snapshot of the city as it was in that liminal time: a landscape featuring familiar buildings, spaces and places which, although damaged, was still a recognisable version of the city that existed before the earthquakes.Before Scribe burst onto the music scene in the early 2000s, the best-known song about Christchurch was probably Christchurch (in Cashel St. I wait), an early hit from the Exponents (Mitchell 189). Initially known as the Dance Exponents, the group formed in Christchurch in the early 1980s and remained local and national favourites thanks to a string of hits Sweetman refers to as “the question-mark songs,” such as Who Loves Who the Most?, Why Does Love Do This to Me?, and What Ever Happened to Tracey? (Best Songwriter). Despite disbanding in 1999, the group re-formed to be the headline act of ‘Band Together’—a multi-artist, outdoor music event organised for the benefit of Christchurch residents by local musician, Jason Kerrison, formerly of the band OpShop. Attended by over 140,000 people (Anderson, Band Together), this nine-hour event brought joy and distraction to a shaken and stressed populace who, at that point in time (October 2010), probably thought the worst was over.The Exponents took the stage last, and chose Christchurch (in Cashel St. I Wait) as their final number. Every musician involved in the gig joined them on stage and the crowd rose to their feet, singing along with gusto. A local favourite since its release in 1985, the verses may have been a bit of a mumble for some, but the chorus rang out loud and clear across the park: Christchurch, In Cashel Street I wait,Together we will be,Together, together, together, One day, one day, one day,One day, one day, one daaaaaay! (Exponents, “Christchurch (in Cashel St. I Wait)”; lyrics written as sung)At that moment, forming an impromptu community choir of over 100,000 people, the audience was filled with hope and faith that those words would come true. Life would go on and people would gather together in Cashel Street and wait for normality to return, one day. Later the following year, the opening of the Re:Start container mall added an extra layer of poignancy to the song lyrics. Denied access to most of the city’s CBD, that one small part of Cashel Street now populated with colourful shipping containers was almost the only place in central Christchurch where people could wait. There are many music videos that capture the central city of Christchurch as it was in decades past. There are some local classics, like The Bats’ Block of Wood and Claudine; The Shallows’ Suzanne Said; Moana and the Moahunters’ Rebel in Me; and All Fall Down’s Black Gratten, which were all filmed in the 1980s or early 1990s (Goodsort, Re-Live and More Music). These videos provide many flashback moments to the city as it was twenty or thirty years ago. However, one post-earthquake release became an accidental musical time capsule. The song, Space and Place, was released in February 2013, but both song and video had been recorded not long before the earthquakes occurred. The song was inspired by the feelings experienced when returning home after a long absence, and celebrates the importance of the home town as “a place that knows you as well as you know it” (Anderson, Letter). The chorus features the line, “streets of common ground, I remember, I remember” (Franklin, Mayes, and Roberts, Space and Place), but it is the video, showcasing many of the Christchurch places and spaces only recently lost to the earthquakes, that tugs at people’s heartstrings. The video for Space and Place sweeps through the central city at night, with key heritage buildings like the Christ Church Cathedral, and the Catholic Basilica lit up against the night sky (both are still damaged and inaccessible). Producer and engineer, Rob Mayes, describes the video as “a love letter to something we all lost [with] the song and its lyrics [becoming] even more potent, poignant, and unexpectedly prescient post quake” (“Songs in the Key”). The Arts Centre features prominently in the footage, including the back alleys and archways that hosted all manner of night-time activities – sanctioned or otherwise – as well as many people’s favourite hangout, the Dux de Lux (the Dux). Operating from the corner of the Arts Centre site since the 1970s, the Dux has been described as “the city’s common room” and “Christchurch’s beating heart” by musicians mourning its loss (Anderson, Musicians). While the repair and restoration of some parts of the Arts Centre is currently well advanced, the Student Union building that once housed this inner-city social institution is not slated for reopening until 2019 (“Rebuild and Restore”), and whether the Dux will be welcomed back remains to be seen. Empty Spaces, Missing PlacesA Facebook group, ‘Save Our Dux,’ was created in early March 2011, and quickly filled with messages and memories from around the world. People wandered down memory lane together as they reminisced about their favourite gigs and memorable occasions, like the ‘Big Snow’ of 1992 when the Dux served up mulled wine and looked more like a ski chalet. Memories were shared about the time when the music video for the Dance Exponents’ song, Victoria, was filmed at the Dux and the Art Deco-style apartment building across the street. The reminiscing continued, establishing and strengthening connections, with music providing a stepping stone to shared experience and a sense of community. Physically restricted from visiting a favourite social space, people were converging in virtual hangouts to relive moments and remember places now cut off by the passing of time, the falling of bricks, and the rise of barrier fences.While waiting to find out whether the original Dux site can be re-occupied, the business owners opened new venues that housed different parts of the Dux business (live music, vegetarian food, and the bars/brewery). Although the fit-out of the restaurant and bars capture a sense of the history and charm that people associate with the Dux brand, the empty wasteland and building sites that surround the new Dux Central quickly destroy any illusion of permanence or familiarity. Now that most of the quake-damaged buildings have been demolished, the freshly-scarred earth of the central city is like a child’s gap-toothed smile. Wandering around the city and forgetting what used to occupy an empty space, wanting to visit a shop or bar before remembering it is no longer there, being at the Dux but not at the Dux – these are the kind of things that contributed to a feeling that local music writer, Vicki Anderson, describes as “lost city syndrome” (“Lost City”). Although initially worried she might be alone in mourning places lost, other residents have shared similar experiences. In an online comment on the article, one local resident explained how there are two different cities fighting for dominance in their head: “the new keeps trying to overlay the old [but] when I’m not looking at pictures, or in seeing it as it is, it’s the old city that pushes its way to the front” (Juniper). Others expressed relief that they were not the only ones feeling strangely homesick in their own town, homesick for a place they never left but that had somehow left them.There are a variety of methods available to fill the gaps in both memories and cityscape. The Human Interface Technology Laboratory New Zealand (HITLab), produced a technological solution: interactive augmented reality software called CityViewAR, using GPS data and 3D models to show parts of the city as they were prior to the earthquakes (“CityViewAR”). However, not everybody needed computerised help to remember buildings and other details. Many people found that, just by listening to a certain song or remembering particular gigs, it was not just an image of a building that appeared but a multi-sensory event complete with sound, movement, smell, and emotion. In online spaces like the Save Our Dux group, memories of favourite bands and songs, crowded gigs, old friends, good times, great food, and long nights were shared and discussed, embroidering a rich and colourful tapestry about a favourite part of Christchurch’s social scene. ConclusionMusic is strongly interwoven with memory, and can recreate a particular moment in time and place through the associations carried in lyrics, melody, and imagery. Songs can spark vivid memories of what was happening – when, where, and with whom. A song shared is a connection made: between people; between moments; between good times and bad; between the past and the present. Music provides a soundtrack to people’s lives, and during times of stress it can also provide many benefits. The lyrics and video imagery of songs made in years gone by have been shown to take on new significance and meaning after disaster, offering snapshots of times, people and places that are no longer with us. Even without relying on the accompanying imagery of a video, music has the ability to recreate spaces or relocate the listener somewhere other than the physical location they currently occupy. This small act of musical magic can provide a great deal of comfort when suffering solastalgia, the feeling of homesickness one experiences when the familiar landscapes of home suddenly change or disappear, when one has not left home but that home has nonetheless gone from sight. The earthquakes (and the demolition crews that followed) have created a lot of empty land in Christchurch but the sound of popular music has filled many gaps – not just on the ground, but also in the hearts and lives of the city’s residents. 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