KEY POINTS:
How ironic those residents of the new Kate Sheppard apartments in Wellington's Molesworth St are angry at Wellington Cathedral's bells disturbing their peace. The apartment manager this week told media some residents would like to "put a bomb in the belfry" and she might have to "buy earmuffs".
These people need a history lesson. Their swanky abodes are named after a woman who not only campaigned for democracy, but was also president of the Women's Christian Temperance Movement.
I doubt there was much lolling about in bed of a Sunday morning for this brave soul, who wanted women and children to enjoy decent lives.
How typical, too, of those who want their every wish to become someone else's demand. The cathedral, in its present form, was there long before the Kate Sheppard apartments were built.
And opposite is Old St Paul's cathedral, constructed in 1866 when Kate was 19 years old, possibly before even the grandparents of the current occupants of the eponymous apartments were alive.
But along come these refugees from the suburbs who relocate to be part of the vibrancy of the inner city, then set about trying to change it into whence they came.
And what's to hate about the peal of church bells? Across Italian cities, this beautiful music rings out every Sunday for hours.
I lived in the Kate Sheppard apartments for a while. I believe a number of MPs still do. They probably think a cathedral is just a building for society weddings, or Old St Paul's a fine venue for a funeral - preferably their own, with sombre eulogies about how they led good Christian lives.
Not that I'm one to preach, but as you read this, I am at church. Don't choke on your Darjeeling, but I've been going to the little 125-year-old St Andrew's Anglican church in Martinborough nearly every Sunday for the past six weeks. I'm not a born-again, but my mother, who's a regular church-goer, moved here in early April and because she can't drive any more, I thought it wouldn't kill me to lift my hangover-inflicted head off my pillow and take her to Holy Communion.
It seemed churlish to sit outside waiting, and I'm eternally curious about other people, so I decided to join the mostly grey-haired congregation in the antique wooden pews, watched over by splendid stained-glass windows and gleaming brass plaques.
I'm a bit of a hypocrite. Despite a religious upbringing, I can't believe Jesus rose from his tomb to save us from ourselves. I also have problems with confession - one Sunday I thought I didn't have any sins to confess then discovered you must repent for things you should have done, but didn't. You just can't win.
And is there life after death? I prefer Einstein's scientific equation, E equals MC squared. Energy never diminishes or increases in amount even when it changes its form. Mass, or matter, never alters in weight, and never ceases to exist. These two are inter-connected by the speed of light - Celeritas - which nothing can go faster than. So when someone dies they don't vanish; their energy and mass speed out to become energy and mass in someone, or something, else.
I comforted myself with this last year when my best girlfriend died.
Maybe that's similar to Christian belief, if you take a person's energy to be their soul.
Actually, I've quite enjoyed my church mornings. I've met lively and lovely people - not pious do-gooders at all. The vicar, Archdeacon May Croft, delivers intelligent sermons, enjoys a joke and promotes local wine even at the altar.
With her husband, she grows 10ha of grapes and, a few weeks back, she announced the communion wine would henceforth be of better quality: "This morning," she said, "was Ngawaka pinot noir."
As a traditionalist, I'm not sure about the "peace be with you" innovation, and some new hymns don't make the heart rejoice. Give me Jerusalem or For Those in Peril on the Sea and I enjoy singing as much as any cantor.
However, I can't see myself being a good Christian, despite my increasingly sunny view of the world. I'll always think child sex abusers should be publicly named, shamed, and monitored, and parents who murder their kids should be sterilised then shipped to the Kermadecs to survive on whatever they can grow.
Meanwhile, I'll enjoy the community of this church, and its aim to make us better people. Maybe the Kate Sheppard residents could do with some spirituality, instead of focusing entirely on their self-important lifestyles. If the curiosity of an avowed agnostic like me can be piqued, there's hope for anyone.
