Caliban's Dream

... and so we are blessed.

2011-04-20T14:56:00.008+10:00

After the longest of Mondays our little boy was born.

Against an incoming tide of complications, and the kind of mysterious blur which only medical emergencies invoke, we were on our way to the surgical theatres.

Then a haze: for my beloved one of determination; for me of fear and bewilderment. And awe at the privilege of living in a time and place were events such as this no longer end in nothing but grief.

But then joy, and gratitude for blessings too vast to comprehend. A mother and child surrounded by the incomprehensible technology of our time which has made this moment possible, and yet together both completely outside of time.

Both well, and safe. Laughing even, at his size (4.4kg/9lb 8oz), and at the astonishing journey which has been our life together.

The following afternoon a big brother can't even begin to control his excitement. Big sister is more reserved: she's already developing a woman's sense of the sacred, and less than impressed with those who find this a moment for hilarity.

Although a smile bigger than the sunrise isn't far away either. And together we are richly blessed...

***

My deepest gratitude to everyone: you all leave me lost for words.

Special thanks to Drs. Wendy Hawke & Stephen Coogan, and all Prince of Wales Private team. And of course to the inimitable Dr. Clive Collier - at 20,200th epidurals given I don't think saying you're the finest obstetric anaethetist in the world is any exaggeration whatsoever - see www.epidural.net.au for more info (then go back in a month or so to see how great we'll get the site looking after a makeover ;-).

Holding Fast & Still Fighting.

2010-12-24T13:50:00.003+11:00

With all the garbage spouted in the name of Christianity by Sydney Anglican leaders and their sycophants it’s easy to forget that God is still very much present here. Contrary to the impression I worry my blog has often given, Christ hasn’t simply thrown in the towel and left. There are still parishes where those not prepared to baptise misogyny and bigotry are welcome, and where “biblical teaching” isn’t simply an oxymoronic euphemism for rehashing the same old theologically dubious misinterpretations of Romans.

Nor should anyone for a moment believe the official lie about these churches dying. They’re not. In fact the so-called “liberal” churches are flourishing. (To understand that term as it’s used in Sydney you need to remember that wearing a cassock and surplice is generally defined as “high church”, and women reading the Bible aloud in the presence of men is routinely derided as “liberal” by at least one member of standing committee.) Whilst Archbishop Jensen’s vision for 10% growth has proven a spectacular failure, many non-party line churches (i.e. those identifying with the broader Anglican Communion) have exceeded this target many times over.

It was at one such place that I spent a really wonderful morning a few Sundays back. The minister – someone I respect enormously – was celebrating his twentieth year of service in the parish. Between the regular congregation, prominent members of the local community, and a score of notorious diocesan troublemakers ;-D the church was packed with those whom against all odds were found by Christ and held fast in love: old-age pensioners, young professional couples and their children, more than a few ex-prisoners (including one fellow who looked suspiciously like he was out on day-release), former Moore-college lecturers and ne'er-do-wells, and teenagers just beginning upon the voyage that is faith. The sick, the healthy, the learned and the illiterate: together we sung God’s praise, declared our belief, shared in the Sacraments, and heard the Gospel proclaimed in the face of a machine which would deny many of us present have any right to call ourselves Christians.

After the sermon (which was one of the very few I’ve ever heard that can honestly be described as life-changing), the minister shared something of his own journey. I won’t repeat it here, but suffice it to say he’s someone whom can even speak graciously of the diocese which tried to sue his wife rather make a claim upon insurance policies (the case was quickly withdrawn when the local secular media found out). Nor was I the only one left feeling deeply empowered and encouraged by the time he’d finished.

As you’d expect the Anglican Church League power-brokers were conspicuous in their absence: no bishop bothered attending. The only diocesan representative was a single archdeacon, who left as soon as the service was over. As an old friend I was great to see again said afterwards, “Perhaps the venerable archdeacon just felt embarrassed by his ridiculous vestments” – in that part of the city on a Sunday morning the only people wearing a business suit are shonky real-estate agents. Even lawyers visiting clients whose Saturday night excesses have ended in the police lock up don’t bother dressing like that anymore – so much for the prevailing local “wisdom” that the best way for a priest to relate to the unchurched involves impersonating a business man.

In fact what looked awfully like an unofficial boycott on the part of the heirarchy meant there was actually a bigger representation from the local mosque, who’d come to show their respect for someone they recognise as a leading “Man of the Book” than there was from those leading the diocese in which this minister has spent his life serving. Which can’t help reminding me of something I once read somewhere about prophets not being welcome in their own country…

So please - don't stop praying for us, or for dioceses like Newcastle (Australia) or Christchurch (New Zealand) where Sydney's Matthians (the more accurate term for what are often called "the Jensenites") have most aggressively pursued their tactic of border crossing. Your prayers are heard, just as are ours of thanksgiving for the faithful commitment to love, justice and truth shown by American Episcopalians, Canadians, and those in the C of E who haven't been seduced by a gospel of poison and power.

And never forget it'll take more than misogyny, bigotry and hatred to silence the Holy Spirit!

Don't miss this one.

2010-12-04T06:58:00.000+11:00

It's early Saturday morning and I was just grabbing a cup of coffee and a quick peek at the Herald before taking the gang swimming when I saw this article: Macho boys' club 'cost Anglicans millions'.

It's a concise and accurate insight into the way the machine works here, and please pray for Rev. Bradford, the priest speaking out. He's going to need all the support he can get. Also please try to not split your sides laughing at Bishop Forsyth (who was - and continues to be - a member of the committee responsible for the diocese's disastrous and idiotically negligent investment policies) as he refutes the notion that a macho culture exists: "One of the problems with church organisations is they're often too nice."

Wow.

For my Father.

2010-12-01T21:38:00.002+11:00

It’s twenty years to the day since my father died. I remember the hospital calling at about 4 o’clock on a warm Saturday afternoon: December 1 is the first day of summer here, the jasmine was in bloom and the grass needed mowing. Already there were things I’d wished I told him, as well as things I’d wished I never said.

The world is a different place two decades later. Yes, those wishes remain, but they’ve lost their sting. Maybe that’s just the passing of time, although I think it’s got more to with my having now trodden some of the same dark paths through which his life also passed. Because in their aftermath I’ve found – much as he did – what it is to be surprised by the Grace that those who speak most of life in the next world too often fail to see in this one. And in the light of that Grace the regrets of the old dispensation no longer wield the same power.

To mark the day we laid flowers on the place where his ashes rest: rich-scented gardenias cut from our front garden, and a purple hydrangea Mister Two-and-a-Half picked from the driveway, next to where we park. Fiver and Blackstar were more interested in the tiny lizards hiding in the rose-beds, and Miss Four-but-Nearly-Five asked questions about the Grandfather she’s never met.

Answering her is never easy. She’s fascinated by him, but how do you explain a late Edwardian North English childhood to a twenty-first century child on the far side of the world? Or that he was sent away to boarding school when barely out of infancy? What hope can she – or any of us – have of understanding what it was to grow up in the shadow of the war to end all wars, every day another bringing another reminder of the boys whom only a few years previously had slept in your dormitory, but who now rested in rows beneath the poppies of Flanders fields? Or do I tell her of him training in the North Sea merchant fleet; or about the depression, and a well-off family falling on hard times? And then perhaps about a commission in His Majesty’s Navy, about mine-sweeping and the surrender of Italy, and about living through the dusk of an empire on which he’d been raised believing the sun never set.

“But what was your Daddy like?” is how she usually opens our conversations about him. Anyone who’s seen a picture of him laughs, and says “Just like your brother”, which is in one sense quite right; the resemblance is uncanny. Yet she’s already old enough to know that’s not really true. Her brother never fought in Britain’s darkest hour, and he’ll never have a lifetime of nightmares by which to remember that fight. He hasn’t watched an evil junta raping a nation with whom he’s fallen hopelessly in love. He knows nothing of Lenin, nor Comrade Stalin, nor can he ever live what it it was that drove so many young men of my father’s generation and class to embrace the Soviet Union as humanity’s last (and only) hope.

So I do my best to explain public-school cooking, and why he left McCarthy’s America in the 1950s. She asks how he met my mother, and if he ever went to New Zealand at Christmas time like we do. She puzzles over why he didn’t like ballet, but is awe of his ability to speak Russian: her second favourite DVD is the Bolshoi performaning Nutcracker. Her first is The Little Mermaid, but it will be years before I tell her what he thought of Disney and she still can’t quite believe that he died before DVD players were invented because for her people have always had them. Then her brother interrupts explain that Thomas the Tank Engine lives in England, just like Grandad once did, and it starts to rain so we run back to the car where I hug wet children and wet dogs and tell them all how much I love them before we drive home and make hot chocolate because unlike that December 1st twenty years ago today is cold and wet and the jasmine flowers still aren’t out but the grass is still long even though I mowed it only a week before.

One of the first memories I have of my father – perhaps my earliest memory – is of him laughing as he jumped from a car and ran into the house in defiance of a Singapore curfew. When we meet again he’ll be laughing in exactly the same way. And so shall I.

Talking it over.

2010-11-12T12:10:00.001+11:00

“You’ve stopped blogging?” asked one of my closest friends. We’ve known each other since we were both testosterone-crazed fundamentalists, and having reconnected after a ten-year hiatus (so Facebook can be useful ;-) meet every month or so for lunch.

“Not really” I replied. “It’s just that life gets in the way. These days nearly all my time is occupied with convincing Mr. Two that the world really won’t end if I hang his Thomas the Tank Engine shirt on the line to dry before he puts it back on. Or attending countless presentations by Miss Four of ballets with names like “Swan Lake & the Nutcracker meet the Beautiful Princess Fairy” on our back porch, where I’m not only responsible for set construction and sound, but also for maintaining decorum among more easily distracted members of the audience - “Daddy, will you please tell Fiver that he’s not supposed to lick himself there during a concert. He might be a dog, but it’s gross, and that ballerinas find that sort of thing disgusting.”

“Then there’s work: the minor inconvenience I try to squeeze in between taking the gang to the library, to Kindergym, shopping, and making juice just right in the Wiggles cup that was ignored yesterday, but today is suddenly a matter of life and death.” I was about to continue with a detailed description of PHP syntax, and how constructing a browser-based mobile payment facility involves thousands upon thousands of lines of code – all which refuse to run if so much a single semi-colon is misplaced – but he’s endured that whinge often enough to see it coming...

He shifted the conversation to our waitress, a friendly young woman with a figure that looked like it had been designed by the Pamela Anderson Appreciation Society (Dirty Old Men Division). “Remember how there was once a time when we’d have been arguing whether she’d been sent by Satan to tempt us into impure thoughts, or by God as proof of the infinite wonders of his creation?”

I laughed: “Or by the Holy Spirit to inspire us to preach the good news that frees men and women from bondage and servitude to the flesh. So what do we reckon now?”

“How good it is to be a couple of middle-aged blokes who’ve finally learned to stop taking themselves so seriously. That she, just like us, is only trying to make the best of whatever it is that life flings in her general direction. And that ‘Judge not, lest you also be judged’ wasn’t something we ever really tried to apply – both when it comes to judging others or ourselves.”

I returned to the subject of my blogging – or lack thereof: “I guess that’s why I haven’t fought harder to make time for Caliban’s Dream. Ninety-nine percent of people who read the thing are amazing: intelligent, insightful and witty – I’m really honoured that they should take the time to read my ramblings about life in Anglicanism’s weirdest diocese. But that final 1% are something else. Pedantic. Utterly devoid of anything even remotely resembling a sense of humour or compassion. The kind of people who treat a post about a little boy’s baptism as an excuse to launch into a diatribe about the breakdown of his father’s first marriage fifteen years previously.”

“Yeah, but of course.” He replied. “They’re in a cult. Shit like that is what they live for. We were in it once ourselves. Other people’s messes help you kid yourself that your own aren’t so bad.”

“Do you think it really is a cult?”

“Either that or Scientology is therapeutically valid and really will one day clear the planet. And Burma’s a democracy. Get real, will you? This is an organisation that’s as nepotistic as North Korea, which has misappropriated millions of dollars worth of its members’ assets, and which refuses to act with even the most basic degree of transparency. Asking questions about transactions between the organisation and a private company controlled by its leader and his family members will get you permanently ostracized, and they’re convinced they have a monopoly when it comes to truth, God, and any form of afterlife not involving brimstone, eternal darkness and/or a lake of fire. Are there any boxes on the Cult-O-Rama checklist they don’t tick?”

“Ok, I agree. It’s a cult. So what’s the point of posting if all it does is enrage cultists? Not to mention nut-jobs like the one who keeps leaving 'Religion is stupid' comments”.

“Is he the same guy Father Christian calls 'little Brad' and claims is his long lost love-child?”

“Probably. At least the Chinese porn-spammers bother to change their text occasionally.”

“You should feel honoured to have showed up on his radar. And if the spammers can find it in themselves to show a little creativity, so can you. It’s the least you can do for the other 99% dropping by.”

“Fine. But what the hell can I say that hasn’t been said before?”

“Probably nothing. But why let that stop you? Just try and make a few of us who’ve also banged our heads against the wall stop and smile for a moment. That’s more than enough to remind the bullies they’ll never win, and every moment they spend seething with rage at you is one they can’t devote to attacking someone whom they could actually hurt. Blog about this conversation if you like.”

“How about I write about the waitress, and give the address of this café? That way all the Sydney Evangelicals furiously reading this will come to get a few furtive thrills checking her out, and with all the extra customers she’ll be able to afford the surgery she’s going to want when gravity inevitably kicks in?”

“Nah mate. Fundies are lousy tippers. And didn’t Jesus say something about not casting pearls before swine?”

Till we have faces ...

2010-05-12T10:57:00.000+10:00

Jeff was my friend, and he died last Sunday. He’d been very sick for some time, so his passing came as no surprise, but it hurts regardless. What did come as a surprise were the comments about him posted on Twitter by Gordon Moyes. Perhaps I shouldn’t have been so stunned, since Moyes is a truly loathsome huckster-for-Jesus and state politician with more dubious academic qualifications than the Rev. Dr. Troll, but I’d thought as someone professing to be a follower of Christ he would at least had the compassion to keep his poison to himself for the sake of Jeff’s family. Alas no…

You see, among other things Jeff was famous: former Prime Minister Gough Whitlam once described him in a speech delivered at NSW Parliament House as “the best attorney-general in Australian history”. How we met doesn’t matter here, and each of us found the other’s life journey almost incomprehensible – but a shared fascination for the role played by popular theology in Australian history meant we could (and did) talk for hours. Like me he'd made mistakes, but he’d also found the reality that in Christ we are more than just the sum of those mistakes. Yes, as the newspaper headlines have all blazed, and Gordon Moyes obscenely gloated, alcohol played a terrible role in those mistakes: perhaps drinking was easier than going crazy, or starting to cry and never being able to stop again. Either way there’s can be no doubt about this: Jeff Shaw drunk was still ten thousand times the man Gordon Moyes will ever be sober.

Of course what those now queuing to stick their knives into his memory never mention is his lifetime of work for those whom most lawyers weren’t interested in caring about. While silks in the big end of town were falling over themselves to represent the mining companies, Jeff’s door was always open for those suffering asbestos-related illnesses. When his driving-conviction (to which he pleaded guilty, and never attempted to deny) forced his retirement from the bench his enthusiasm for the position I and another friend found for him was palpable: he knew most of the clients in this street-level practice didn’t have a hope of paying and didn’t care, he was just excited to be once again representing those who needed his help most.

Sadly the ghosts which we all hoped would cease haunting him weren’t exorcised by the change, but that’s not for a moment to suggest that there weren’t plenty of occasions on which his sparkling wit and piercing brilliance were still very present. As was his compassion for the downtrodden, the lost and those mishandled by the judicial system of which he’d once been in charge. It’s this side of him which lives on, no matter how desperately his opponents might attempt to recall the demons which are now no more.

We’ll finish that conversation on Sydney Evangelicals and the alienation of workers in WW1 some other time, Jeff, but I promise to heed your advice to keep researching the link between the Sydney Diocese and the sickeningly corrupt Askin government of the 1960s. And thanks for all the encouragement you gave me to start thinking again about why things are the way that they are.

God Bless you mate: I miss you already.

How dare you ask that question!!!

2010-05-04T16:44:00.005+10:00

From Questions under business rule 6.3 at 2009 Anglican Synod (p.14) (Yes, I know I have better things to do with my time, but I'm sitting here waiting for a file to compile and upload, and was just surfing around ;-)

Questions: 20 October 2009

Mrs Pamela Shaw to ask –

11. In the spirit of Connect09 what action has been taken, or will be taken, to
heal the hurt caused to the Anglican community both within Australia and
within the world-wide Anglican community, by our Diocese not being
represented at the Lambeth Conference in 2008?

To which the President (Archbishop Jensen) replied –

11. I am informed that the answer is as follows –
This question is out of order under business rules 6.3(4)(a) and (c) as it contains a number of assertions and offers an argument.

With that sort of pastoral response it simply amazes me how anyone could possibly call the Sydney Fundamentalist machine arrogant. And as for why their efforts at evangelism keep failing so spectacularly...

Easter Sunday, 2010

2010-04-04T09:16:00.005+10:00

The sun had not yet risen, and it was still dark when I put the kayak into Middle Harbour, and started east to the sea. This is the part that always makes me nervous: speed limits mean nothing to amateur fishermen racing out for the day, and a lone layak sitting low in the water is hard to see at the best of times. Besides, I’ve seen them opening their first beers of the morning while the boat is still on the trailer…

Forty minutes later I passed under the bridge. A following wind and an incoming tidal swell made for a bumpy ride, and my arms were already starting to ache. Another half or so, and I reached the main harbour, directly opposite Sydney Heads:

Paddle straight ahead for another 1,500 miles and you’ll land somewhere on the North Island of New Zealand/Aotearoa. Turn about 45° to the left after you’ve cleared the heads and if you paddle for a whole lot longer you’ll end up somewhere in California. My little river boat had reached her limit, however, and keeping her upright while I took this picture was a feat of which I’m quite proud. A light rain was falling from the grey clouds overhead, but far off to east, where the sun was rising, was a new day; a light breaking through the chill gloom. And looking at this I thought of Easter, and how even the sky speaks of a resurrection which is both long ago, today, and still to come.

Turning, I surfed back into Middle Harbour, cutting in beneath the relative shelter of the Grotto Point Lighthouse. Then another hour into the wind, which was building as the sun climbed, and then home to waking children, and an Easter egg hunt, and hot cross buns and coffee, and a warm shower, and then the choral Eucharist at St. James’. Where, if I closed my eyes, I could still taste the salt spray, and hear the waves, and rejoice in the One whose victory over death is without conditions.

God Bless us all, and thanks for dropping by.

Yeah right, +Jensen.

2010-04-02T12:07:00.000+11:00

Over the past fifteen years I’ve received unsolicited mail from two religious organisations: the Sydney Anglican Diocese and the Scientologists. In both cases this intrigues me, since during this time we’ve moved home quite often, and while there’s usually been a lag of about six months, eventually their databases have always - with no assistance from me – tracked us down.

The bottom line from both groups is always the same: they want money. Sure they’d like my participation/involvement/heart & soul/etc., but the closing paragraphs invariably include space for a credit card number and signature. Yet there’s also always something very different between their solicitations: one of the two never fails to begin by expressing concern for my well-being, both physical and spiritual, and warmly invites me to join them in their faith. The other only wants to make me aware of how crucial xyz project is, and how important it is I contribute financially. Despite having never made the slightest attempt to conceal my distain for their soul-destroying dogma, one group continues to profess – in their paraphernalia, at least – to offer a hand of friendship and welcome. The other appears to not care less about my personal circumstances: it’s their needs which are important, not anyone mine or my family's. And, for anyone who hasn’t already guessed, it’s the latter group of which Archbishop Jensen is the leader.

Given which I’ve found his Easter meassage bemusing. He’s quite right, Sydney, like any large city (and a great many smaller ones) can be an extremely lonely place. It is the role of the church to reach out to those who are lost and lonely, bringing them comfort and the love of God, and it’s wonderful Archbishop Jensen is professing a desire to reach those whom have been overlooked and forgotten by a world which measures popularity in terms of physical beauty and economic wealth.

It would be more wonderful, however, if the Archbishop was prepared to follow up his words with some sort of meaningful action, rather than just another distribution of Matthias Media’s “Essential Jesus”. The Sydney Morning Herald reports on the pressure being put upon “keep statistics favourable”, but the reality is that almost a decade of this pressure has produced nothing. Steady growth has occurred in those few parishes which could still be considered traditionally Anglican, but naturally no mention is ever made in diocesan propaganda of such an inconvenient truth. A cadre of politically and doctrinally acceptable parishes such as Christ Church St. Ives (which is located in one of Sydney’s most affluent suburbs, and at last count had a staff of 20) continue to be presented as Sydney Evangelical success stories, while parishes in less economically prestigious areas such as Sydney’s south west – a region encompassing over one million people – struggle with little support, no youth workers or outreach staff, and a succession of temporary clerical appointments. Archbishop Jensen may indeed care about the unemployed kids hanging around the main street of Lakemba, but none that I’ve ever spoken to know it. And I’ll guarantee he’s more familiar with London’s Heathrow Airport than he is with their world.

Nor will he be spending any time reaching out to them or anyone else in Sydney during the week following Easter – he’s off to Bermuda instead, where he’ll be planning to bring the same sort of “success” to churches in the rest of the world. With that sort of a role model it’s no wonder his faithful clergy aspire to do something more exciting with their time than minister to the lonely, the lost, the prickly and the unbelieving. Safer to just send them a letter asking for money, and leave the pastoral stuff to the Scientologists, eh guys?

Christ rules (on both sides of the Tiber)!

2010-03-14T14:54:00.007+11:00

“What separates the Jensen brothers from Cardinal George Pell?”

The answer to this quintessentially Sydney joke - “Hyde Park”- will be a mystery to those unfamiliar with the city’s geography (or the history of one of our more famous beats), and even less funny to anyone not well versed in the ecclesiastic quirks of Australia’s largest city. In which case I thoroughly recommend James Franklin’s brilliant Catholic Values and Australian Realities for an understanding into why this acerbic quip is so apposite.

Saying so will undoubtedly cause my two regular evangelical "admirers" to summon their cast of imaginary identities and furiously begin to post comments fantasising about the demise of my previous marriage, but the reality is that despite the fervour with which Sydney’s Protestant and Catholic fundamentalist leaders have sought to continue pursuing sixteenth-century battles their similarities are as obvious as they are ironic.

Yet the Gang (well at least the two members who are both adult and human - some details are still lost on Mr. 2 and the dogs ;-) was struck by the inspiring message on the front of the pew-sheet Mrs. Caliban brought home after attending St. Mary’s Cathedral last Sunday. It's reproduced here in full:

Third Sunday in Lent
Readings: Ex.3:1-8,13·15; 1 Cor 10:1-6,10-12; Lk 13:1-9

The resource I use to help couples prepare for marriage has questions for them to think about and discuss in between sessions. One of the quotations at the end of one of the chapters is, 'What effect would adultery have on your marriage?'

In one sense this hypothetical question is absurd. Dealing with the consequences of any sin requires time and place, context and contrition. It is even tougher to imagine the effect of any destructive behaviour in one's marriage even before the marriage has begun. Still, it never ceases to amaze me how this question usually leads the couple to have a very fruitful and frank discussion, not about adultery, but about their values, family history, commitment, fidelity and growing old together.

Sometimes, however, I cringe when the prospective bride or groom seems to give the green light to their future spouse by saying, 'Well I guess if he or she went looking elsewhere it would be my fault' or 'I love him or her so much that I know we could go on regardless'. Others say very clearly that it would alter the trust and respect of the relationship, but they hope they could look at the circumstances and rebuild the relationship.

The most mature couples do not wipe over the seriousness of the sinful action, but want to hold on to compassion, forgiveness and a commitment that it will not happen again. Couples like this have clearly understood the power of today's readings. The third Sunday of Lent is all about second chances. In Exodus we have a bush that is alight but does not burn and in Luke we have a fig tree that does not bear fruit, is earmarked for the chop and saved by the gardener. In both cases where we would expect to find destruction we find new opportunities for growth, nurturance and flowering.

Over the centuries the goodness of God that always gives us another chance has not been proclaimed as vigorously as it should have been. We have focused on Gods justice as though it was a once and for all, shape up or ship out sort of message. These ideas can be deducted from today's second reading where Paul seems to argue that God killed the chosen people for their complaining and infidelity. Paul was a tough man and for him Christian commitment was. no picnic. He was aware of how people were suffering and dying for the Gospel, so he was at pains to teach the people of Corinth that the commitment demanded from the Gospel could entail everything they had. His reading of why the Israelites died in the desert, however, needs to be read against the second chances of the other reading, especially the Gospel.

We believe in Lent that we enter a holy time in our year and visit a holy place in ourselves where the fire of God's love should burn brightly within us. We are offered these weeks to re-examine our values, family history, commitment, fidelity and growth so as to chart how best we can grow old with God. To do this sometimes requires lacing up to our sinful behaviour and making choices to change our lives. We can only do this when we trust that the fire of God's love is not about destruction, but compassion, forgiveness and a second chance.

May this Eucharist be nurturance for the foundations of our lives and a moment to take stock and to assess with honesty the fruitfulness of how, as a sign of Christ's light within us, we live out our faith in our marriage, at home, at work, and in the world.
Richard Leonard SJ

For all the criticism which can quite justifiably be levelled at Cardinal Pell, it can’t be denied that there’s no way you’ll ever find his Anglican counterparts permitting something as inspiring, touching, and challenging as this to be printed on a St. Andrew’s Cathedral pew sheet. Which might well help explain why Sydney’s largest Christian (and first multi-cultural) denomination continues to grow, and despite a desperate shortage of clergy continues connecting with the lost and disenfranchised at an unprecedented rate. While the second largest denomination has just concluded a year-long evangelism program with less influence, increased segmentation among congregations, and vastly fewer assets than when they commenced. And a whole stack of The Essential Jesus mouldering in the corner of nearly every parish’s entranceway.

Credit where it’s due, Cardinal Pell, your Cathedral is indeed ministering to the people of your city. And thank-you Fr. Richard, thank-you.

In Memoriam: Catherine Peters.

2010-03-10T13:57:00.001+11:00

It's been a year since Catherine rose beyond these Shadowlands, and a great many people have wept a great many tears. We never met, but catching up again with her parents Bosco (author of the incomparable www.liturgy.co.nz) and Helen was for me the highpoint of our family trip back to Christchurch last Christmas. Before going for coffee at the nearby Christchurch Arts Centre (where our waitress turned out to have been of Catherine’s best friends) they shared something of their wonderful daughter, who so remarkably transformed the lives of everyone around her.

It was her gifts as a photographer that startled me most: if I close my eyes I can still see the images Bosco shared. Witty. Insightful. Perceptive, with a wisdom vastly beyond her years. Her greatest areas of academic achievement may have been in languages and biology, and her ambition to have become a vet, but she observed life with the eye of an artist. She saw. And with seeing, she thought, and in so doing inspired others to also think.

It doesn’t take more than a few moments with anyone who knew her to realise Catherine lived with an exuberance that’s breathtaking. For her that life continues in a way we’ve yet to experience; for us there are tears, and questions, and memories, but if we’re prepared to listen her voice still urges us to continue living with the same fascination, wonder, and laughter which she brought to everything she touched Such are the blessings of the God whom she knew, and knows still. And in whom we shall all together, one day, dance again.

Please, as you read this take a moment to remember Bosco and Helen, and her brother Jonathan, and all her family and friends. If prayer forms part of your spirituality, then pause and pray for them; if not then uphold them in whatever way feels most appropriate. Either way, don’t stop thinking, or challenging yourself in the face of the incomprehensible adventure that is life. A remarkable young woman wouldn’t accept anything less.

"The stone which the builders rejected..."

2010-01-23T12:37:00.002+11:00

Last week I had the privilege of being called by a Priest wrongfully dismissed from the Sydney Anglican diocese about fifteen years ago. I won’t tell his story here; not just because it’s not mine to tell, but because my prayer is that he’ll soon find the strength to publish it himself. Suffice it to say it occurred as a result of a number of blatantly unbelievable (and completely unsubstantiated) allegations of a non-criminal nature. Were he to have been working in a secular field it would have – even then – been illegal for an employer to fire him on the basis of such ludicrous accusations, and he would be entitled to significant compensation.

He’d spent more than a decade fighting for justice, and was finally told he could have the matter referred to the appropriate tribunal for review. “But”, Archbishop Jensen told him, “irrespective of the tribunal’s findings his license would not be renewed.” His many years of faithful service, both in Sydney and as a missionary abroad, counted for nothing: the arrogant vision of our diocese's present has no place for the wisdom of its past.

Through the struggle his marriage has remained intact, as has – even more surprisingly – his faith. Granted, there was an obvious cynicism in his voice when our conversation drifted to the machinations of power-brokers like the Anglican Church League, but even this was overshadowed by his hope for a future in which the bright young stars of the church’s firmament are encouraged to seek out lost sheep with the same fervor as they do clerical advancement and a seat on the more prestigious committees. “It’s the waste that God must find so appalling”, he said, “the waste of all this talent, learning, and understanding. While the Catholic process is to seek restoration between those dismissed and their church, we just discard them in a rush to find the next aspiring Philip Jensen.”

The vision we discussed was of a fellowship to support those who – for whatever reason – are on the journey through which he have passed. As we spoke we recalled those we once knew personally that have also since been flung upon Sydney Anglicanism’s dung-heap - not just the divorced, the gay, and the mentally ill, but all of us, including the internationally recognized theologian made to resign from Moore College for “heresy” (if he’s a heretic Luther was a Mormon) and the brilliant historian considered crazy for leaving academia to develop - among other ministries - a vibrant parish community among Sydney’s transvestite and transsexual sex workers – a ministry shut down as soon as he was forced to retire. The simple act of once more saying their names felt empowering: it doesn’t matter what a person accomplished before their fall from grace: once you’ve gone nobody can ever mention you again. Books and papers are dropped from reading lists, and life-long friendships never existed. Phone calls are never returned. Chance meetings in the street become awkward: don’t ever expect the hastily made promise to “catch up for a coffee” will be kept. Perhaps exclusion is part of the punishment, or – more likely – they’re worried whatever you’ve got is catching.

Which is why this idea of a support group is so exciting: the pathetic failure of the Connect 09 evangelism campaign to make any impact whatsoever upon society is proof enough that young men who think they know everything, but whom have survived nothing, cannot be the sole guardians of our church’s future. Certainly it’ll take a while for our vision to become reality, but I promise to post more about it here along the way. In the meantime anyone interested in finding out more is welcome to email me - I think you’ll find what emerges will be a pretty varied bunch of characters, both theologically and socially, as well as in terms of our experiences, but one thing I know will be constant: Christ didn’t give up on us, and we won’t give up on you.

Ours is not a caravan of despair...

2010-01-12T19:40:00.002+11:00

Sydney Anglican numbers may be declining, but they gained one new member this past Sunday with the baptism of the gang’s youngest. We had to keep things quiet, since his parents’ notoriety caused all sorts of complaints and problems in the months following his older sister’s baptism (I guess “suffer little children” doesn’t apply if your father has the temerity to speak out against injustice and pharisaism, and refuses to play by the rules imposed upon former clergy), but thanks to a dear friend - and one of the wisest and most inspiring Priests ever - a welcoming font in the diocese of Sydney was found.

The title of this post comes from a line in the liturgy he wrote for our little chap, and for me it sums everything about what the absurd voyage that is a life following Christ should be; an adventure of joy in which the questions are relentless; a caravan of wonder, not despair. Which is why I’ve posted this picture of him in one of sister’s fairy costumes: not only has a Duck Noodle Gangster slipped through the Donatists’s net, but a cross-dressing one at that!

Ok, so the costume is part of the role assigned to him by his ballet-obsessed older sister: she has to recruit her corps de ballet from somewhere, and when you’ve only got one sibling you can’t be too picky. Which means that if he insists on wearing a t-shirt underneath his tutu that says “My Dad Rocks” she’s long understood that sometimes you’ve just got to compromise…

May he grow up to be part of an Anglican Church that displays the same accepting grace as his almost-four-year-old sister. A church that takes Jesus’ compassion for the little ones of our world seriously. A church which has forsaken the temptation to be nothing more than a caravan of despair.

Rememberance Day 2009.

2009-11-11T16:38:00.014+11:00

Joshua Ismay was born close to where I used to work, and grew up in a very nice house in Hudson Avenue, just up the road from where I’m writing this. It’s a quiet street the Duck Noodle Gang drives past everyday as we take Mrs. Caliban to her office, and we think of it as just a few minutes away, which it is if you travel by car. However when Joshua lived there very few people had cars, and the distance would have been considered quite great since it’s almost an hour’s walk over a long hill. In those days people living at our end of the street usually traveled to town by walking in the opposite direction to Joshua’s place, down to the river, from where they rowed or hitched a ride on one of the timber-cutters' barges - the world was very different then.

A little after Joshua was old enough to vote and drink his family moved around the corner, before a shifting again a year or two later to a very fine home close to the supermarket from which we always promise to never buy another thing, on account of them being vastly more expensive than all the other stores around here… but since it’s convenient, and next door to grocer’s with the best fruit and vegetables ever that’s a promise we always find ourselves breaking. So we drive once again past the spot where Joshua’s family finally settled.

Except Joshua never saw either of the houses into which his family moved after leaving Hudson Avenue, because in 1915, when he was about the same age as I was when I worked in a shop that sold guitars and keyboards and amplifiers to rock and roll bands, and I could fit into a pair of jeans that were so tight they had zippers halfway up the legs so you get into them, Joshua enlisted in the A.I.F., and sailed to Cairo on the Euripides. From there he was sent to France, where he was twice wounded in the mud, and where he fought for the Empire in the War To End All Wars.

And in 1918, two months before the slaughter finally ended, a shell landed in Joshua’s trench. His comrades were adamant he'd been killed by the concussion: “there were no wounds externally”. It might even have been true, but soldiers usually said this to their comrades' grieving relatives; in hell showing the smallest of mercies to a man’s family ceases be a sin. The army sent Joshua's belongings back home on a ship called the Gaika: they amounted to one wallet, a Bible, letters, photos, cards, and a signaller’s badge. In 1922 his sister Dorothy collected a plaque the family was given in his memory, and the following year three medals were sent to Joshua’s father.

That’s not much else I know about Joshua. He was a carpenter, from an upper middle-class Congregationalist family, and prior to enlisting had taken out insurance with the Independent Order of Oddfellows Benevolent Society. With whom his mother engaged in a lengthy episode of correspondence while trying to make a claim on his behalf when he was wounded – they don’t appear to have paid, since Joshua was killed before the necessary paperwork arrived from the battlefield hospitals. They did, however, pay out his death benefit, but the amount was small. Young self-employed men don’t expect to die, so the policy had been geared towards protecting his income in the event of contracting an illness.

Nor do young men expect to be forgotten, and Joshua, and the millions like him they have every right to be remembered. Grant us, oh Lord, an end to the evil madness that takes them away from us.

Freedom from Liberty.

2009-11-09T14:53:00.003+11:00

It looks like the gay-straightening business isn’t what it used to be, since word around Sydney is that financial constraints have forced the erroneously-named Liberty Christian Ministries Incorporated to retrench their professional straightener Simon Riches, who’s been doing whatever it is a full-time “Pastoral Support Coordinator” does for the past four years.

Nothing’s been announced on their web site, although that doesn’t mean much since it doesn’t appear to have been updated since December 2008, but anyone out there who’d like to accuse me of making this up should drop along to the farewell, which will be held on 19 November. Email me for details, oh ye of little faith: this could be your last chance to become one of the countless people who’ve received nothing more from these evangelical sexuality salesmen than a profound sense of failure and a whole lot more guilt.

For now Liberty’s management committee is claiming things will continue through the voluntary efforts of “a range of people
experienced in this ministry”, but organisations of this type rarely survive downsizing – at least I pray this one doesn’t. I’ve actually had some personal experience of one “expert” they’ll be relying upon: it’s someone from whom I sought help in another capacity when I first began suffering from depression. Perhaps someday I’ll write about the experience: suffice it for now to say that those who helped me through those darkest of days are still appalled by that “counsellor” and his antics (yep: the “treatment” really did involve me getting nude)…

As far as I’m aware the Diocese never funded Liberty, so their closure has nothing to do with the recent financial hubris/incompetence. Which can’t help but make me wonder, since “ex-gay” ministries are like the proverbial better mouse trap: it you really can invent one the world would beat a path to your door. Given the number of guilt-crushed young Christians (and their distraught parents) there’s no doubt that if someone’s program really could change people’s sexuality it would be flooded with participants. There aren’t many teenage kids who welcome the discovery that they’re “different”, especially not in fundamentalist and/or evangelical churches, and there’s no shortage of people in such places who’d give everything they’ve got to anyone who could honestly make them “normal”.

So when I hear of groups like Liberty struggling for money it only confirms what I’ve long believed about them – they can’t and don’t help people unsure of their sexuality their find what they’re looking for, and potential victims are growing wise to this fact. The motives might (but not always) be sincere, but this doesn’t make the claims and promises any less spurious. Nor does it change the fact that at the heart of such “ministries” - their raison d'etre - is something Jesus never once mentioned. “Come to me and I will give you rest” has no proviso regarding a person’s sexuality.

Good riddance Liberty. Don’t let the door hit you on the way out…

I know they're short of money...

2009-11-08T09:41:00.004+11:00

... but selling ladies at a Friday evening market is taking things too far.

The trade on offer might indeed be fair, but somehow I don't think even the fine evangelical ladies of my local "parish ministry centre" will fetch $160 million ;-)

Who is greatest in the Kingdom of Heaven?

2009-11-06T13:36:00.005+11:00

About 7 million people live in Sydney and the state of New South Wales, but there’s just one residential school for profoundly disabled children. A place called Kingsdene Special School.

Or rather, there was just one such school, because last Tuesday Archbishop Jensen, who chairs the Anglicare council which has operated Kingsdene school for the past 33 years, announced the school will close at the end of next year. After then there will be no facilities of this type available for children and their families. None.

That’s because the Sydney Diocese says it can no longer afford the $1.2 million a year needed to keep the school open, although the Sydney Morning Herald reported Anglicare Community Care director Ian Jackson as saying the closure was not a consequence of recent diocesan losses. Yeah right… forgive me if I don’t believe that either.

The reality is that in the great and glorious vision of global evangelical domination by which Sydney has been seduced there’s not much of a place for profoundly disabled children. Flying around the world and destabilizing British and American churches is a lot more exciting than caring for kids who dribble and aren’t ever going to join the Sydney University Evangelical Union where they respectfully admire the leaders’ brilliant Pauline exegesis. So when it comes to cutting corners…

Don’t get me wrong: I firmly believe that providing facilities for the weaker and needier members of our society is primarily the state’s responsibility, not the church’s, and I find it disgusting that a government who wastes $30 million on a V8 Supercar race refuses to provide appropriate care for those citizens least able to care for themselves. Yet in this case it’s not the government arguing against feotal abnormality testing, nor does the state teach that aborting a disabled feotus is a sin. If Sydney Anglican evangelicals want to set an example to a secular society they clearly consider their spiritual inferiors they must be prepared to lead the way when it comes to supporting those whom the world rejects. Setting a moral bar and then refusing to support those striving to meet it is the way of the Pharisees. And nothing more.

Nor is it enough to claim that since the government won’t put the money on the table then the Church doesn’t need to either. Ours is a calling to do more, not to meet apathy with apathy. If that means postponing the construction of yet another “multi-purpose ministry centre”, or a few less flights to meet and encourage liars claiming “this dispute is all about how we read the bible”, then so be it. Responsibility is not something Christ taught we can shrug off simply because the world doesn’t care either. Sure there’s no glamour (in this world, at any rate) in toilet-training incontinent teenagers, and the angels might rejoice when a 16 year old manages to learn the skills necessary to accompany their aging grandmother on a trip to the shops, but it’s not the kind of news that fills church-growth seminars. Yet since when has love been less important than having a “dynamic entrepreneurial missional focus”?

Forget whoever happens to be the latest gee-whiz evangelical guru: the parents of the children attending Kingsdene teach us all more about love, dedication, service, strength, and suffering than any Matthias Media paraphernalia can ever do. We reject them at our peril.

“See that you do not look down on one of these little ones.
For I tell you that their angels in heaven always see the face of my Father in heaven.”
Matthew 18:10

...and the angels rejoice!

2009-10-28T11:02:00.003+11:00

Great news! The Sydney branch of the truly evil Mercy Ministries has announced it is closing due to "extreme financial challenges and a steady drop in our support base".

Meanwhile their former supporter, Oedipus Houston and his equally vile ~~church~~ business Hillsong have shifted into damage control, doing everything possible to distance themselves from the program they once wholeheartedly supported.

Can't imagine this backflip could have anything to do with the very real case women defrauded and abused by Mercy Ministries have for compensation - could it?

Uh-oh...

2009-10-27T13:59:00.004+11:00

The pair of them were watching Upsy Daisy and the gang from In the Night Garden singing and dancing in a pile of crunchy fallen leaves. I was trying to write php code in the next room.

Suddenly there was also a strange new sound - one not coming from the TV - and uncontrolled giggling. Racing to see what new mischief they were up to, I grabbed the camera on my way in ...

Mr. Not-yet-Two had sneaked into the kitchen and swiped a full pack of his favourite cheese crackers. Which his three-and-a-half year old ballet-obsessed big sister tipped onto the sofa in order to choreograph a crunchy little pas de deux of her own.

Pictured here is the prima ballerina attempting to leave the stage, probably with the intention of calling the dogs so as to (a) blame the whole thing on them and (b) encourage them to consume the evidence. Meanwhile her noble danseur and set builder is standing his ground, clutching to the one remaining (and thus in the complex economy of a toddler infinitely valuable) intact cracker (the small nibble he's made on the corner doesn't count), and is about to start accusing me (in a language known only to himself) of interrupting one of the truly great performances of modern interpretive dance.

And now you'll have to excuse me while I go and vacuum...

From Sydney's leading newspaper...

2009-10-26T20:50:00.002+11:00

Just before hitting Publish I saw Noble Wolf had already brought this to everyone's attention, but just in case you've missed it here's another link to The St Jensen's Parish Newsletter - a very funny (at least to those of us less than impressed by the Sydney Diocesan leadership) satire published in last Saturday's Sydney Morning Herald by one of Australia's best known journalists. Father Troll must be feeling green with envy ;-)

I can't help but wonder what St. Paul would have made of the diocese's financial hubris and subsequent refusal to act in such a way as to earn public respect - as opposed to public ridicule? Given his concern that churches do nothing which might cause the Gospel to be brought into disgrace it seems highly unlikely he'd have been impressed with recent events. Dare I say Paul would also have advocated repentance on the part of the one in whom has been entrusted ultimate responsibility? And maybe even an apology?

In the absence of which is it any wonder people are laughing at the "servants" who don't even have the humility to say sorry?

Why would anyone think them arrogant & patronising?

2009-10-21T10:52:00.004+11:00

Courtesy of David Ould:

“One interesting factor will be to see how much noise the small number of Liberal Catholic attendees will make. They are normally vocal in all forms of opposition. Personally, I think that would be a bad move, much like the boy who cried wolf too many times. However, if they were to simply sit silently and let the evangelicals make the noise I suspect they would be able to mount a more substantial argument that unhappiness in the Diocese is spread amongst a larger constituency that (sic) the usual perception of a small group of malcontents.”

Right. So those of us opposed to incompetence, dishonesty, and a complete disregard for the Jesus of Scripture should just shut up and let the bullies speak on our behalf. Without ever presuming to question those who know better.

Just like women should behave in church, hey David?

Incidentally, many of those “Liberal Catholic” (most of whom are in reality neither – but Sydney apologists aren’t renowned for letting facts get in the way when calling people names) attendees come from some of the most successful parishes in the diocese. Churches which have easily achieved the targets for growth set by the Archbishop a few years back; targets rarely mentioned now that the majority of Jensen-sanctioned congregations have spectacularly failed to meet them. Nor are these growing parishes facing the loss of clergy and programs as a result of diocesan irresponsibility, since they were never deemed worthy of receiving handouts in the first place.

Archbishop Peter Jensen's Synod Address.

2009-10-20T13:07:00.003+11:00

Any lingering doubt about fundamentalism being nothing more than a type of narcissism (hence its particular appeal to late-adolescent males: “I’m right, you’re wrong, and only those who think like me can ever truly know God”) was dispelled once and for all by Archbishop Jensen’s opening address to synod last night.

You can read the text for yourself here: the Archbishop told synod how he felt about the loss of an unimaginably large sum of his parishioner’s endowment; he spoke of his disbelief , and (in passing) his sense of responsibility that this occurred “on my watch”. But he didn’t apologise.

Instead he lied, claiming “we have been so careful and professional in our handling of the Endowment” (yeah - which is why they ignored all responsible practices and placed almost everything on one high-risk investment that depended upon the market continuing to rise indefinitely), he spoke of the pain and distress he had witnessed, and he speculated as to whether “the Lord is chastising us for our sins”, or “simply seeking to test us”. He even asked the question “Did we do the wrong thing?” Then changed the subject without attempting to offer an answer.

As I’ve already said, +Peter Jensen made no apology to those whom he and his staff have devastated through their incompetence and recklessness. There was no mea culpa, no repentance, no “I am so sorry”. Instead he quickly moved on to describing the wonderful experiences he enjoyed while distributing religious literature during the past twelve months. He spoke of the changes about to take place as a as if they were driven by something other than a simple lack of funds, and in so doing said nothing of the dozens of young men who will soon find themselves unemployed. We learned of the evangelistic challenges ahead of us, but nothing of the challenge many clergy, ordinands, lay-workers and their families are going to face in simply putting food on the table. We were told that one of the board members directly responsible for this mess is now in charge of the restructuring processes: perhaps we were supposed to give thanks that he won’t be among those who lose their jobs.

There’s no theological mystery about what went wrong, no matter how much the Archbishop may attempt to confuse the issue by claiming “we live in an apocalyptic era”. All that happened was that a group of men driven by greed pursued an irresponsibly risky investment strategy. Which ultimately went the way history shows these things always go. They ignored conventional wisdoms because they thought they were smarter than everyone else, or because God was on their side, or both. As could have been predicted by anyone with even a passing acquaintance with the Jesus of the Gospels, they weren’t, and/or God wasn’t.

The least Archbishop Jensen could have done was to say sorry and ask for his people’s forgiveness. Instead he talked about himself. I may be a cynic, but even I had expected more from the man. Then again, it has been more than a decade since I spent much time around fundamentalists...

So it's finally October...

2009-10-16T15:40:00.003+11:00

A few months back, when news of the Sydney Diocese’s spectacular financial losses finally became public, the oft-repeated line from apologists was “Wait until October, when it’ll all be made public in synod”. Those of us with some experience of the carefully choreographed performance that passes as a Sydney synod were more than a little cynical – but nevertheless we have waited.

Now that synod is starting next Monday it seems that more facts are leaking out: today’s Sydney Morning Herald reports the loss as actually $160 million - $60 million more than originally stated. Yes - you read that right, $160 million. Which at today's exchange rate is about $US145 million - a truly enormous sum of money.

Another article in the same paper reveals that diocese’s investment body, the Glebe Administration Board, had borrowed more than $150 million, which was combined with more than three-quarters of the diocese’s $388 million worth of “growth assets”' and - in blatantant contravention of responsible investment practice – 80% of this sum was invested with just one fund manager: Barclays Global Investors. Thus while other fund managers spread their exposure to risk by adopted a more diversified profile, the brightest evangelicals in the Communion had nearly all their eggs in just one basket: a move the Board’s CEO Steve McKerihan (who to be fair, was only appointed after this strategy was adopted - but before things turned predictably pear-shaped) amusingly described as “unusual”. What about “irresponsible” Steve? Or maybe “bloody stupid”?

Please let’s please not have any more dishonest spin about “everyone lost money in the global financial crisis”. Yes, of course they did – but very few responsible organisations were hit this hard as a result of speculative gearing. And to the best of my knowledge no other churches were: the Sydney Anglican Diocese was unique among religious groups when it comes to getting whacked as a result of borrowing money in order to gamble that stock prices would continue rising. Instead of steadfastly using what they already had to bring Christ to all the people here (not just the minority living in affluent and predominately Anglo-Saxon suburbs) they got greedy. The end was going to justify the means…

… meanwhile can someone please tell me how many cross-cultural outreach workers could have been placed in Sydney’s economically bleak south-west for just half of the $160 million of parishioners money our leaders have wasted?

Back to the River

2009-07-18T20:20:00.023+10:00

Late this afternoon I took the kayak back to the same stretch of river on which I'd previously capsized. Since it wasn't a black moonless night, and as I certainly wasn't racing, there was plenty of time to stop and take pictures.

The spot I went for an involuntary swim is directly in front, by the far side of the the oncoming bend. Sorry about the poor quality of these pictures; given my proven stability issues I'm obviously not going to take our good camera with me. These were taken on my mobile phone, from inside a waterproof pouch.

This is also the site of one of Australia's greatest mysteries: it was just here on the river bank (about 25 meters beyond the mangroves fronting the water) that the bodies of Gilbert Bogle and Margaret Chandler were found in 1963. Which is something I'm glad didn't cross my mind when I was struggling in the mud and blackness ;-)

A really great documentary made in 2007 presented a very plausible solution to the Bogle-Chandler puzzle, suggesting that their deaths were caused by accidental hydrogen sulphide poisoning. Up until the late 60s there were a number tanneries and other noxious industries near hear, all of which discharged their effluent directly into the water. While the water quality still leaves an awful lot to be desired, during the years after the war it must have been revolting.

Paddling home was magic. My little kayak mightn't be the most impressive vessel afloat, but tonight as I remember drifting across water like glass, watching the water-birds settle down while the winter sun slowly moved beneath the hills, I wouldn't swap her for all of Cunard's finest.

The two most important women in my life were waiting on the pier when I returned. Miss Three is currently fascinated (read "absolutely obsessed") with sharks, and had doubted the wisdom of revisiting the scene of my earlier swim: "Daddy - are you sure this is a good idea?" It wasn't until she'd touched my hair and clothes to make sure they were dry that she really believed I hadn't tipped over again. I still don't think she's fully convinced I survived that night's dunking unscathed, and tonight's bedtime chat included a lengthy interrogation to make sure I hadn't held back any news from today concerning an unexpected immersion and a pack of ravenous White Pointers. After which she gave a fabulous demonstration of how to "be more careful in your kayak". Apparently hammerheads need to be simultaneously banged on the nose with one's paddle and tickled under their fins. So now we're all prepared... ;-)

My Friends.

2009-06-22T11:33:00.003+10:00

Jesus told a story about a man who while travelling was attacked and seriously injured. As he was lying by the side of road a religious leader – someone who had spent many years studying the Bible – came along, but seeing the man he crossed to the other side of the road and left him there.

A little later a another person passed by, someone who might well be described as being “pillar of their church community” who came from a family with a long and impressive history of religious involvement. But he also left the man laying there to die.

Finally a member of an obscenely heretical cult came along. Having no respect for the plain meaning of Scripture, he was part of a group directly responsible for the nation’s downfall, it’s moral decline, and growing decline in respect for all that God had revealed in His holy Word. Yet this blasphemer went to the help of the injured man; treating his wounds he took him to somewhere he might recuperate, and then personally guaranteed the man’s medical bills while ensuring the man would be fully cared for until completely recovered.

At the end of the story Jesus asked his undoubtedly disconcerted audience “Who do you think was a neighbour to the man who was attacked?”. Which, at least in the vernacular of the community in which I live, could well be rephrased as “Who was a friend to him?”.

The people in my blogroll, as well as many of those who regularly comment both here and elsewhere around the traps, are people whom I proud to consider friends. Some of them I know personally, others live on the other side of the world and I’ve only every communicated with them via blog comments and email. Some of them I only know through regularly lurking at their sites – but all of them have in some way inspired me, given me courage to keep seeking God at times when it all seems too hard, and all I'd really like to do is toss away this whole crazy notion of wrestling with what it means to takes one’s eyes off the gutter and instead reach for the stars.

Not all of them are Anglican; at least one’s an active atheist, and one is actually a whole bunch of people who run a dog shelter. Some are gay, some are straight, and all of them need to love and be loved. More than a few have also struggled with the darkness of mental illness, and one wears his madness as a badge of pride in a way not dissimilar (although I suspect he’ll be appalled by the comparison ;-) to the way St. Paul boasted of his own weakness as proof of God’s redemptive mercy.

Sometimes they make what I think are mistakes – a few much more often than others - and when I disagree with them strongly enough I always make a point of contacting them personally to see if I can help bring them back into line. Sometimes they agree with me, more often than not they explain their side of the issue and we meet somewhere in the middle, and sometimes they show me why I’m the one who’s got things wrong. Whatever happens, they are my friends, and I know that when I fall down – albeit as a result of being attacked, or (more likely) my own folly – they’ll help me to shelter and safety. As I’ll do for them – irrespective of how much we resemble each other theologically.

Occasionally one or the other of them is truly obnoxious, just as sometimes my dogs are capable of releasing the most utterly foul flatulence imaginable. Yet even then I still love them: sometimes we all react unpredictably to the things we’ve digested. When I’ve finally managed to deal with the log in my own eye I’ll be able to get around to doing something about the speck in theirs.

What I’ll never do apologise for them. They’re my friends – even if they are Samaritans.

A Response to David Ould.

2009-06-20T16:59:00.002+10:00

This began as a response to a comment in the previous post, but I'm laying here in bed with the 'flu (don't worry - it's not Swine Flu!) and what began as a brief reply ended up becoming War & Peace. So rather than just delete it I decided to make it into an open letter, and give it a post of its own.)

David - Calm Down!
Your interaction here and elsewhere is greatly appreciated, and believe me you are respected for taking the time to do so. I realise it's not easy: sometimes it seems to me as if both sides of the divide are talking in different languages, and please understand that what can sound quite quite innocuous on one side of the church is actually very offensive on the other. That you've taken the time both here and on your own site to try bridging the gap is something for which we are all grateful, and stands as a testimony to you own faith and passion for all to know Christ.

Still - I can't see anyone here, especially any locals part of "the Sydney Opposition", crying "fundamentalist". To the contrary, I see a prominent Sydney blogger describing you and your approach as reasonable. Yes, he also calls for "conservative hypocrites" to be brought to account - as they well should be; so should liberal hypocrites and very other shade of hypocrite in between. If his use of this phrase seems harsh to you (or anyone else concerned) I've no doubt he'd be only too happy to explain why he chose to use it, and knowing him I can say with certainty he didn't make that decision lightly.

Remember that Jesus also used some pretty harsh expressions to criticise those using religion as an excuse to treat others as inferior. Elsewhere I've seen allegations of incompetence (with which I'm inclined to agree), duplicity (with which I don't) and a cover-up (jury's still out: I'll try to be more patient and wait until Synod). But fundamentalist? No, I don't believe I have.

Ok; the obvious exceptions are Father Christian and Father David Heron, but given that they're (a) satirists, and (b)quite often down-right weird, I'm not sure many people take them literally. At least I hope they don't: don't forget Father Christian recently called me an "outrageous, wicked apostate Vegemite-encrusted son-of-perdition", and any Sydney leaders taking him too seriously probably don't have the requisite social skills to be in ministry in the first place. In any case: throw those two at me & I'll match you with David Virtue and the Midwest Conservative Journal. Then I'll raise it by asking if you've ever tried disagreeing with anything at Craig's Place? That's the internet: robust, often rude, and frequently downright cranky. But in between the thorns I've had the privilege of finding great truths, and making friendships of a type once inconceivable. The world of the pamphleteers that thrived in the wake of the invention of the printing press wasn't much different, and it's largely due to them that the era of mass literacy came to be.

Given the things I see you saying here, along with suggestions I've heard you make at your place, I'm not sure you realise just how excluded from the processes of power those those in the Sydney "opposition" are. Clergy whose careers are blocked, or whose license is only renewed on an annual basis (and then frequently only after it's expired for a month or two). Requests for support that don't even receive a reply. Programs attracting hundreds of unchurched young people (yes, I said hundreds) that never rate a mention in Southern Cross, despite being run at virtually no cost by an army of volunteers - when the neighbouring "orthodox" parish receives a grant for a full-time youth worker to minister to its two dozen Christian kids. Churches massively exceeding their "Vision for Growth" targets that could for all the encouragement they receive be on another planet. Do I need to continue?

The "more productive" ways of being heard simply aren't open to many of us on a different side of the church to your own. As someone who hasn't been a "Reformed Evangelical" for more than a decade I can't join the ACL without lying. Nor can those not prepared to lie about their sexuality. Parish synod reps from our churches all too often return deeply frustrated; not because their motions were defeated (they didn't expect otherwise) but because they felt they weren't even heard. So what other forums do we have? We can't preach because we're women, or didn't go to Moore, or are divorced, or married to people who have been, or are perhaps just plain suspect. Our letters don't get published in Southern Cross, and more than a few of us were kicked off the old SydAng bulletin boards. Letters to bishops are ignored, and phone calls don't get past personal assistants who say "I'll notify him of your call". So what avenues remain?

The media and the web. And sometimes what you call "a thoroughly unproductive way of going about things" is the only option we've got. Many of us, myself included, have tried being polite and quietly spoken - and we were ignored. So all that remains is to become squeaky wheels in the face of the big machine, and even then it's only those of us with nothing left to lose who can afford do that.

Fighting for the right of those excluded by the church to discover Christ's love, forgiveness, and compassion is never a waste of time. I also wish there was no need to resort to some of the more abrasive tactics: I dare say Jesus wished he didn't have to use a whip to evict the temple's money-lenders. But the temple needed cleansing, and nothing else worked...

Wanna bet?

2009-06-19T16:15:00.004+10:00

The discussion about Sydney diocese’s $100 million loss continues with David Ould posting on both his own site and Stand Firm - you can follow my discussion with David in the comments here. After taking exception to the suggestion that the Diocese was “gambling” (which like most working-class vices is generally considered by Evangelicals to be A Very Bad Thing, as opposed to middle class vices, which are rarely regarded with the same scorn), he concludes by asking

“Was the Diocesan decision to borrow and gear up their investments a wise decision? Was it shrewd? Were other people doing the same thing? Were they advising further gearing up, not for individual assets but the extension of already diversified portfolios?

Hindsight is always a wonderful thing, but to my way of thinking any exposure of that magnitude can’t help but suggest a lack of wisdom in an organisation’s investment strategy. Plenty of people have been stung in the past year, but not that badly: the diocese didn't just gear up, they geared up bigtime. Granted, since the diocese hasn’t made their asset/loss ratio public it’s hard to accurately put the loss into perspective, but let’s not lose sight of the reality that from any perspective $100 million is a bloody huge amount of money. So big that I refuse to believe the people to whom it ultimately belonged – the Anglican parishioners of Sydney – have a right to know more details than they’ve so far been told.

I believe there’s something very wrong about the wall of silence that followed the loss. Rumours have been circulating for over six months, and yet it took a journalist from the Sydney Morning Herald to start investigating the matter before most parishioners new anything. Late last year clergy were advised of a reduction in available funding for the coming year, but other than this there was nothing.

Were the Diocese a publically listed company Australian law would have required the leadership to make a public announcement immediately upon learning about this loss. But it’s not, and they didn’t. One might hope that as Christians they’d have had a natural inclination towards transparency and disclosure, but that’s certainly not how it appears from the way things they’ve been handled to date. Rumour (and the size of the loss) suggests investments were being made in products like Macquarie Bank’ Fortress Notes, or even the spectacularly “Queensland” (sorry to my Brisbane friends – but it’s hard not to notice the stereotype ;-) Storm Financial. The truth is even seasoned Sydney watchers like myself simply don’t know what was going on.

Maybe all will be revealed in Synod, and maybe I’m just a hopeless cynic, but past observation has taught me not to hold my breath. I’ll be happy to wager a bottle of wine against anyone who thinks I’ll be proven wrong – but that would be gambling, wouldn’t it? Even though it’s a bet I’ll be praying I lose.

Don't get all tied up in knots...

2009-06-18T20:09:00.007+10:00

... just get a fish and a cardboard box!!!

As you can see, our little fellow's grown a bit since the last photo of him here! He's also proof that if you can't smile at the end of a great day on St. Kilda Pier you probably can't smile at all...

...in which case you'd probably better get up and join us on the floor:

Currently on high rotation in the Casa del Caliban; play it and you'll understand the opening stuff about fishes and cardboard boxes - we're all having fun!

It's not called 'Gambling' if you win.

2009-06-14T22:35:00.003+10:00

It’s been fascinating to watch people’s responses to the news of Sydney diocese’s financial blunder. The letters published by the Sydney Morning Herald the day after the story broke mirrored the responses I’ve personally encountered: the true believers couldn’t see what the fuss was about, while those less effectively indoctrinated were disgusted.

Of the nine letters in the Herald that day, only one was openly supportive Archbishop Jensen, describing the loss as “unfortunate” – an understatement if ever there was one! The writer then continued by criticising Rev. Cornish, who had previously called the Diocesan Secretariat to take responsibility for the loss, as well as for the excessive enthusiasm with which an extremely high-risk investment strategy had been embraced. “Working together to serve Jesus” the letter decries with an unctious piety worthy of Trollope’s Obadiah Slope, “might be better than embedding division”.

Which becomes hilarious when you realise that the author is a Vice-president of the Anglican Church League - one of the most divisive groups in Anglicanism, and whose web site routinely sings the praises of every schism, division, and split in the Communion – irrespective of the pain that event causes the people who actually live and worship in the country/diocese/parish where it’s occurring. “Do as I say and not as I do” just reached a whole new benchmark.

Another writer correctly points out that virtually everyone with money in sharemarket has taken a beating. What they fail to grasp is that the diocese wasn’t just investing in blue-chip stocks which will almost certainly eventually return to their pre-recession levels; the diocese was borrowing money, using their significant property assets as collateral, and then investing that borrowed money in high-risk, theoretically high-return shares. Hence they haven’t lost a few million on paper because the value of their portfolio has declined, they’ve lost $100 million because they’ve had to repay loans for shares that are now worthless. There’s a difference; the same difference as there is between gambling and investing, and it’s a difference the Sydney Diocesan Secretariat still doesn’t seem capable of understanding. Or perhaps just don’t want to admit.

Someone else asks the very valid question as to why any organisation which can accumulate sufficient assets to be able to cover this kind of loss should be exempt from paying tax. While at Moore College I was often amused at the fervor with which my fellow ordinands attacked the great Australian blue-collar passion for tax evasion, while never stopping to consider their own church’s failure to pay tax. Only once did I dare suggest if this was such a grievous sin the Church might set a better example by choosing to voluntarily pay the same rates as required of non-religious corporate citizens; the resulting fury made me think better of opening my mouth a second time. These days I’m no longer such a coward: if Churches – any church, from traditional denominations to outright cults like Scientology – engage in commercial enterprises (including property investment and stock-market speculation) they should be subject to the same rules and obligations as anyone else. Anything less is unjust.

The best letter of all was from one Sean Linskon of Potts Point – I’ll quote it in full because it really is a work of genius; almost a week later it’s still got me laughing:

Ah, the House of Jensen crippled by a bad gambling habit. God works in mysterious ways, doesn’t she?

Serving two masters...

2009-06-11T20:47:00.005+10:00

It’s a bit of a worry when Father Christian is quicker off the mark to discuss issues in Sydney diocese than Caliban’s Dream, but since I’m on a roll (by my tragic standards, at least ;-) when it comes to blogging I thought some local perspective on the Diocesan machinery’s spectacular loss of 100 million dollars wouldn’t go astray.

Now I realise lots of people have endured spectacular losses in the past year, and obviously the larger the investor he greater the loss, but as the Rev. Cornish (one of Sydney’s few - but truly courageous - “good guys”) pointed out in the Sydney Morning Herald, were losses of this magnitude sustained by a secular organisation those responsible would be held accountable. In the Sydney Anglican diocese’s case, however… after all, it’s not as if this is a case of someone wearing a chasuble, or women becoming priests, or anything shocking like that .

What I find amusing – if it can be possible to find anything funny about this appalling waste of parishioner’s (and ultimately God’s) money – is that this has got to be the first time it can honestly be said that Mrs. Caliban and I are more conservative than the happy-go-lucky bigshots in the Sydney Diocesan Secretariat. That’s because what they were doing is exactly what some fellows at a merchant bank for whom I did some I.T. contracting a couple of years back tried to talk us into.

The strategy was this: using your existing assets you borrow money which is in turn used to buy shares. The gamble is that the capital gains and dividends paid on the shares exceeds the interest payable on the loans: if it does you make a tidy little profit; if it doesn’t you’ve got to find some way of covering the loan repayments or else lose everything. In the case of the two fellows we knew, their strategy was to invest heavily in U.S. sub-prime mortgage bonds. “Can’t fail” they insisted. “Even the Sydney Anglican church is doing this” one of them urged.

I’ve since lost contact with those two, but I know they’re no longer employed by that bank. Nor do I know if the Diocese really was sinking money into that particular scheme (which was quite possible; it was a blue-chip bank much feted by institutional investors) but if not that scheme then the Diocese was sucked in by one very much like it: they borrowed against church assets (primarily their spectacular property portfolio, I believe) to sink money into high-yield, high-risk shares. The same sort of investments that we looked at and thought were idiotically risky prospects at around the same time the Diocese was diving in head first.

Sure the guys pushing this scheme said it “couldn’t lose”. Then again, didn’t the same sort of people say that about tulips in the 17th century? But the people in Holland back then weren’t playing with money given in good faith over many years by people who expected it to be managed responsibly for the on-going work of the church.

Perhaps the most pertinent comment I’ve heard was made by a local radio talk-show host. A professed agnostic who’s never hidden his distain for the Jensens, his first comment when hearing about the Diocese’s stupid and irresponsible speculation said it all: “Isn’t there something in the Bible about doing that sort of thing?”.

Of cold water, a kayak, and church.

2009-06-10T13:25:00.009+10:00

A few months ago Mrs. Caliban bought me a kayak as a birthday present. Spare time isn’t a commodity I have much of, but a large part of what little there is has since been spent paddling in attempt to get fit while exploring the fascinating upper reaches of Sydney Harbour.

As part of this I decided to join a large nearby kayak club. One evening a week more than a hundred paddlers meet to race over a 12km course: while aware my boat (and fitness level) is nowhere near as spectacular as many of the competitors, I’d practiced the course for a number of weeks, and was confident of my ability to achieve a respectable time. I’d spoken with a few club officials, and been assured my boat and times were more than sufficient to join: in short everyone couldn’t have been more welcoming.

So when it was time for my first race I was nervous, but confident things wouldn’t be too much of a disaster. Coming last wasn’t my concern (after all, someone’s got to, and as the least experienced competitor I was under no illusions of my own ability), just the fear of getting in the way of much faster (& less stable) boats. Let’s be blunt about it: I was a newcomer, and like newcomers everywhere I wanted to be accepted, and not upset any new friends.

You can tell where this is leading… despite arriving early, and having supposed to have been among the first group starting (the race is handicapped, so slow-coaches like myself are not straggling back long after the athletes have finished), the club officials couldn’t find the forms necessary for newcomers, so I didn’t actually get on the water and racing until the fastest competitors were scheduled to start.

Naturally they left me far behind in a matter of moments. Alone I set to work, finding my own rhythm as the paddle cut into the cold black water. Since racing occurs at night I’d mounted lights at both ends of my boat as instructed, but just prior to starting was told these were too bright, and could distract other competitors. Hurriedly I covered them over with duct tape until they emitted the same faint, barely visible glow as everyone else’s lights. In the dark this was useless at helping me to see the course, but – as I'd also just learned – most people were using GPS navigation devices, so they didn’t need to worry about seeing obstacles like overhanging branches, or snags. All they needed to do was follow the glowing line on their miniature screens which kept them on a safe course in the middle of the river; the barely luminous lights were more than enough to avoid collisions if boats drew close.

Without any such techno-magic I was on my own in the dark, struggling to hold my pace while avoiding a collision with the fast moving boats already on their returning leg and at the same time avoid carving into the tangled mangrove swamp on either side of the river. A sudden swerve to miss the last group lapping me saw my blade slamming into an overhanging branch, and I was over.

That part of the harbour is called a river, but really it’s an estuary in the middle of a national park. It’s dark, murky, and the kind of water bull sharks love. Since it’s winter here it was also bloody cold. After a couple of failed attempts to get back into the kayak I decided to try dragging the boat into the mangroves, where it could be bailed out and hopefully reboarded. The fleet had long passed, and on my own I eventually managed to this, grateful I’d worn both a pfd and an inflatable thermal vest, despite feeling very nerdy at the start when lined up against the pros clad in nothing more than lycra singlets.

Obviously I made it back to the carpark, or I wouldn’t be writing this. Nobody helped, and in my own middle-aged suburban way I’m kind of proud of my resilience and survival skills: by myself in the dark I scrambled far enough into the tangled swamp to stand, right my boat, and get things to the point where I could paddle back to the start. The cuts on my feet and hands from snags have now just about healed: by fastidiously applying antiseptic for the next few days only a few managed to get infected – the water at that end of the harbour isn’t the cleanest by a long shot, and since I didn’t get a dose of gastro I guess none was swallowed during my dunkings.

None of which is to be seen as a criticism of the club with whom I paddled. They obviously cater for a much more serious league of kayaker than unfit overweight beginners like me in sturdy-and-friendly-but-not-very-fast tubs like mine . Which is fine: top level racers have every right to their own association in which to train and race. Myonly complaint is that they weren’t sufficiently self-aware to realise this. If you’re going to invite hazards like me to join you please try not to leave us struggling alone in the dark after we’ve run into trouble while trying to stay out of your way.

All of which strikes me as a fabulous metaphor for what a lot of churches are like. These days “growth” is the word on everyone’s lips: not many parishes are honest enough to admit they don’t really feel comfortable with newcomers. Yet not many congregations seem capable of realising those of us who haven’t spent years training to become spiritual athletes often feel pretty clumsy when we’re lined up alongside you each Sunday. Saying outsiders are welcome is easy: actually making those whose understanding of the Christian life is not as mature – or maybe just different – to your own definition of Christian morality and experience is much harder.

I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve been in a church that wants to reach out to it’s surrounding community but failed, and to be honest the responsibility for some of those failures is my own. Yet as I look back on my own scared efforts in the cold muddy water, the feeling I get isn’t very different to that which comes when I think about some of the times I’ve tried to fit in with congregations I never ended up becoming part of. I tipped my canoe over because of inexperience, lack of knowledge of the river, and general unfitness. There’s nobody to blame but me. Maybe the same can be said of those who aren’t able to find their place in our own communities of faith. But somehow I can’t accept that it’s ok for Churches to operate in the same way as a kayaking club.

Our call is to reach out to the weak, lost, confused, mistaken, or just plain sinful. Not just the doctrinally or liturgically adroit, but also to those prone to crash, or to fall out of their boats. Sure it’s fun to go fast, to skim along at the extreme edge of one’s hard-earned ability. Nobody enjoys scrambling in the mud and slime with some clutz who doesn’t have a clue. Except that’s exactly what Jesus did.

... and so we continue in prayer.

2009-04-06T10:23:00.003+10:00

People who attended Catherine Peters' funeral have described the service to me as a "truly life-changing event" - one of those rare moments when all present feel God grieving as they themselves weep, and yet when they simultaneously feel the exhilaration of eternity, and our true future, breaking into time. Bosco has left this note for everyone:

Bosco, Helen, and Jonathan are deeply thankful for the thoughtfulness of so many since Catherine died. Through kind words, hugs, flowers, gifts to Oxfam, prayers, recalling stories, baking, and practical help, so many people have shared in this great loss and are supporting us in it. Together we share our gratefulness for the years with our gorgeous, smiling, vivacious, quirky, kind-hearted Catherine. Thank you for supporting, remembering, and celebrating, and for keeping us in your thoughts and prayers.

We will indeed continue to support, remember, and celebrate Catherine, along with everyone torn apart during this past dark month. And one day, one precious perfect day, we shall see clearly. Face-to-face, laughing with eyes unclouded by tears; till then let nobody every think they need cry alone.

Now is the time of tears...

2009-03-11T12:48:00.004+11:00

It’s been a few days now, but I’m still gasping with shock at the tragic death of Bosco and Helen Peters’ daughter Catherine.

Fr. Bosco’s site www.liturgy.co.nz/ is one of the Anglican web’s greatest treasures, and in January I had the privilege of meeting him and Helen while I was in Christchurch. What was supposed to be a quick cup of coffee ended up being the better part of a day spent sitting outside at the Arts Centre sharing our lives in the wonderful, heart-breaking, inspiring and utterly maddening journey that is faith. Together they are among the most inspiring and Christ-like people I’ve met: genuine and funny, filled with insight and the kind of honest love that makes me remember why I first became involved with this whole Christianity thing – because there really is a God who cares enough about people to dwell in our midst, shining both around us and through us in spite of whatever circumstances in which we might find ourselves.

All of which makes this all the more hard to comprehend. Why so vicious an evil should befall such great people as Helen, Bosco, and their son Jonathan, is beyond comprehension: like any theology graduate I’ve spent countless hours studying the strengths and weaknesses of endless theodicies, but none have ever seemed more than fatuous when considered in the light of a tragedy like this. In such times it’s only a touch that’s real, a kind word and the warmth that comes from being held by those sharing in our grief; those who also know what it is to live in a world clouded by sadness so dark that it seems the sun might never be seen again.

Which is why I’d like to send an expression of love and support to Bosco, Helen and Jonathan from all of us in the wonderful community orbiting around OCICBW… Ours may be a “virtual” church, but it’s no less real (and considerably more so) than many congregations I’ve had the misfortune to encounter, and on this terrible occasion we can as a community let Catherine’s family know we’re there with those whom she loved most.

The funeral looks like being next Monday afternoon, which will be late Sunday night/early Monday morning for those of you in the Northern Hemisphere. At the moment it doesn’t look as though I’ll be able to get on a flight so that I can attend myself, but members of my family in Christchurch will be delivering flowers on behalf of all of us in the OCICBW… gang. In addition I thought it would be nice if I could put together a book of all of our thoughts and support for Bosco, Helen, and Jonathan, letting them know in a physical way that we’re all thinking of them.

Please send what ever you’d like included in an email to me at alcibiades@tda.net.au making sure to put “Catherine Peters Memorial” in the subject field so that my irritatingly hyper-active spam filter doesn’t grab it. As many of you have probably already learned, my email server is very unreliable, so I’ll confirm your comments have arrived within 12 hours of your sending them: if you haven’t heard back from me by then please resend.

I’ll print them out on some nice paper, one comment to a page, and bind them, which will make a permanent record of our support for Catherine’s family: the weeks, months and years ahead are going to bring some very dark times, and this way our friends can have a reminder that we’re there for them long after the internet’s moved on. Please say as much or as little as you need to: just remember that I’ll need to have everything by Friday evening U.S. time at the latest in order to have it in Christchurch by Monday N.Z. time.

And please, remember Bosco, Helen and Jonathan in your prayers.

Rest in Peace dear Catherine, until we all find ourselves dancing in the Light which shall never be overcome.

After the fires...

2009-02-11T15:07:00.019+11:00

Thanks to everyone for your prayers last Friday and Saturday. Unlike far too many people in Australia we came safely through the horrors of last weekend. I took this picture from the side of the road behind our place the day after everything was extinguished: it shows how the fire was lit at the top of the escarpment and then blew back towards the road and houses – yes, the police say it was deliberately lit, probably by local kids. Fortunately nobody was hurt here – my heart goes out to everyone in those communities where this wasn’t the case.

It was about half past three in the afternoon when first I smelled the smoke: Mrs Caliban was at work and Miss Nearly-Three at pre-school, while the littlest duck-nodle had just woken from his afternoon nap. This was what we could see from our back verandah; just after this picture was taken our neighbour suggested we start hosing everything down, and shared the “comforting” news that in the ’94 fires the house behind his was lost…

Ten minutes later everything was dark, the sun a blurred ball through the smoke. By this point the dogs were too frightened to complain any more at having been brought inside, and our eyes were starting to sting. Wrapped up against the burning embers falling from the sky, the little fellow and I were spraying water on the garden and roof to protect against spot fires.

Words can’t describe what it felt like to see the fire helicopter arrive. The noise was incredible, and in the dense smoke we could often only tell where it was from the sound. Nor can words convey how grateful we felt to the men and women risking their lives to fly under these conditions.

You can just make out the helicopter’s water bucket hanging down – the pilot was dropping beneath the escarpment to fill it from the river, then skipping back up to drop another load. The roar of steam each time it emptied was indescribable: the courage it must take to fly like that is breathtaking.

After picking the rest of the team up (who couldn’t believe how badly we reeked of smoke) we returned a few hours later to see the sky clearing and the helicopter leaving. What this picture doesn’t show are the hundreds of black leaves blown onto the grass during the fire, nor the little burnt circles where each one of them landed.

None of which matters in the slightest – that nobody was hurt is the only thing of any importance. What we experienced was absolutely nothing compared with the people in Victoria, and all our hearts and prayers go out to them. Hundreds – if not thousands- of people have lost everything except the clothes on their backs, many are in hospital, and most tragic of all is that the final death toll looks like exceeding 200. Thanks to everyone who was praying for us (knowing there was a community of people around the globe caring meant an incredible amount) but please don’t stop now! A whole lot of people need your prayers and thoughts far more than we did, and the community springing out of our beloved Mad Priest’s place might all be a lot of ne’er-do-well trouble-makers, but there’s no denying God hears each one of you! Thank you again.

Australia Day 2009

2009-01-26T21:16:00.005+11:00

Please stand for the National Anthem...

When the pubs played bands like this every night, when the idea of watching a DJ was too stupid to even contemplate, and when us getting messed up in yet another pointless and unwinnable foreign war was unimaginable. You had to be there back in the day ... ;-)

Merry Christmas!!

2008-12-26T12:22:00.002+11:00

Hi everyone - just a quick post to let you all know the Duck Noodle Gang is still alive, and, more importantly, to wish you all the very best for this time of year.

We're in New Zealand, where I'd hoped to write the long overdue emails to everyone I've been determined to send off while enjoying a respite from the chaos which is the life of a house-dad... but would you believe I left my notepad at home on the morning of our departure, and have instead had to endure an enforced 3 week internet abstinence? Yes, I know how dumb that was...

So instead all I can say is there'll be plenty of photos posted here when I get back, along with an article from the Christchurch paper by Bishop Victoria (the new woman Bishop), which is one of the most impressive Christmas messages ever. I'll also be lifting the game here a little following the completion of a few other projects, which means I can in all honesty promise at least more than the one post a month this place has dwindled down to.

And what else? Only this - God bless each and everyone of you!

Remembrance Day 2008: Lest We Forget.

2008-11-11T21:43:00.006+11:00

The Pelicans and I were in a shopping centre at 11am this morning: I’d hoped to be somewhere a little more respectful by then, but getting anything done with two small children and two crazy dogs always takes three times as long as you expect. which is why we found ourselves walking through the foodcourt when a voice came over the public address system calling for one minute’s silence.

It was wonderful to see how everyone stopped what they were doing, and turned their thoughts to that day 90 years ago when the war to end wars itself ended. I’ve no doubt each one of the more than 60,000 Australians killed would have been more than a little touched to see a world that they couldn’t have imagined stop in their honour – but I’m also pretty certain they’d rather have lived to grow old; to take their own children and grandchildren shopping.

To put the carnage in perspective: about 1 in 80 Australians was killed. Another 270,000 were injured: that’s about one for every eighteen men, women and children living here in 1914. By the end of the war it was impossible to walk more than 100 metres along any street of any town in country and not pass a home struck by tragedy.

Miss Madam was intrigued by the silence, which was followed by the Last Post and the Ode. Toddlers have never been famous for their discretion, but she managed to not ask the inevitable questions too loudly. I explained about the daddies and uncles who never came home, and how their one comfort had been the hope that they were making the world a better place for children like her.

Later in the afternoon we went to a memorial on the edge of the bushland not far from our home. It’s a 1/8th size carving of the Sphinx made in the 1920’s by a patient of the returned servicemen’s convalescent hospital which was once nearby.

A relatively isolated place, there’s a strange spirituality that probably means it isn’t somewhere parents normally take children as young as ours – but I think the diggers would have enjoyed the sound of their laughter.

And together we said "thank you", and remembered what they fought to achieve for us all...

Fr. John Hope

2008-11-04T14:33:00.004+11:00

In the comments of a recent post Brian mentioned the late Fr. John Hope of Christ Church St. Laurence, one of my greatest heroes. Under his leadership from 1926 to 1964 his church - one of Sydney’s few Anglo-Catholic parishes, and probably the best known - grew spectacularly, despite blatant attempts by the diocesan hierarchy to close it and distribute the assets to congregations toeing the party line. At a time when indigenous Australians were not even entitled to citizenship, and most church leaders were actively participating in the genocidal Stolen Generation policies, he donated property for the foundation of Australia’s first self-managed Aboriginal educational facility. There’s a great little biography of him on the Christ Church web site here, but my favorite anecdote about him comes from L. C. Rodd’s John Hope of Christ Church St Laurence.

Determined to do something once and for all about the “Popish superstition” at Railway Square, the belligerent Archbishop Mowll decided during a meeting in the 1940’s to attack Fr. Hope directly by asking if he was aware that “certain types” of men comprised a significant part of his congregation. “Most certainly” growled Fr. Hope in reply while looking the Archbishop directly in the eyes, “And is it not a good thing that these people so dear to our Lord have somewhere they can go?”

Priests don’t come much tougher than that. God bless him.

Forward in Faith: Bringing the World Lay Presidency.

2008-10-28T10:39:00.005+11:00

Perhaps the most shocked in the Australian church by the Sydney synod’s overwhelming support for lay/diaconal presidency should be the über-Catholic Diocese of Ballarat: the person bringing the motion was none other than their very own Canon Theologian Bishop Glenn Davies of North Sydney.

As part of the strange coalition formed to block people from following God’s to ministry in 2000 the former Bishop of Ballarat, +David Silk, made the unusual appointment of (then) Dr. Davies to this role: given Davies’ allegiance to hyper-Calvinists like the World Reformed Fellowship as well as his post-graduate qualification from Westminster, one might have thought +Silk could have found a more suitable candidate for the deeply Tractarian Ballarat. Still, bigotry makes for odd bedfellows, and the lecturer once known to a small group of ne’er-do-wells as “Dr. Bean” became Ballarat’s man. And anyone not understanding the nickname should take a close look at +Davies’ picture on the left before clicking here. Meanwhile anyone who does understand how the man who insisted his students believe turning one’s back to the congregation while presiding, or referring to the communion table as an altar are examples of “wicked superstitious popery” could proudly advertise his seat in a Cathedral so Catholic it makes the Vatican look moderate should only drop me an explanatory note if they can do so without using the word “hypocrite”.

Nor are Ballarat hard-liners trying to comfort themselves by claiming the appointment no longer stands; despite diocesan legislation specifying the appointment of Canon Theologian is for at most 3 years plus one further 3 year term, and thus should have by now expired, a call this morning to Ballarat diocesan offices resulted in the chirpy voice answering the phone informing me that +Davies does indeed still hold the post, as his own web site states. It’s worth noting, however, that the voice became considerably less chirpy when I explained my reason for calling… ;-)

Now I know this sounds like something from Father Christian Troll, but I can’t be the only one who finds it hilarious that lay presidency was introduced to the Anglican Communion by the Canon Theologian of one of the most loyal Forward in Faith dioceses in the world!

Disconnect '09

2008-10-27T13:47:00.003+11:00

Just spotted this on the Sydney Anglican website and I couldn't help myself: it seems a Rector in Sydney's far west can't find clergy willing to help start a congregation in a new neighboring satellite suburb.

If he's interested I'll be more than happy to provide him with a list of people who'd jump at the chance, and who are all currently doing fantastic work in churches that exist under the official Matthian party-line radar - although since most of the names are people who happen to be gay/female/divorced/remarried/not bigots/moderate Catholics means I won't hold my breath waiting for his call...

Wonder if the fact that this particular area is a world away from the comfortable tertiary-educated "areas of strategic ministry" much loved by the Jensens has anything to do with the bright young evangelical things' reticence to stick their hands up? Surely not.

…. I’m Back. (Sorry!)

2008-10-27T11:29:00.003+11:00

It’s been an awfully long time since I’ve posted anything here, and the first thing I have to do is thank everyone who’s left notes asking if everything is ok. When I started this thing I never imagined there was such a great community of people out there who really do care about each other – including some semi-sane mischief-maker on what is for most of you the other side of the world. I’ll try and email all of you who’ve written personally as time permits – till then please accept my thanks here as an indication of how much your thoughts have been appreciated.

The truth is life in the Duck Noodle Gang has been about as wonderful as I think things can get: hectic and chaotic (I’m typing this with my left hand while feeding apple, banana & berries mush to a tired &teething Mr. Eight-Month-Old with the right, while Miss Two-and-a-Half is teaching our dogs the Alphabet Song), but magic.

As part of a DNG family decision I’ve become a full-time housedad; juggling bottles, nappies, and toddler-tantrums with programming work during the kid’s nap-times (I’ve taught myself php over the past 4 weeks, and a major new project is just about completed!) – but I’m afraid Caliban’s Dream has become a temporary casualty of all this activity.

Which doesn’t mean I haven’t been following everyone else’s blogs, just that I’ve lacked the brain-power to comment in any meaningful way. What little energy I’ve had free to spare on the ‘net has been absorbed by “interacting” (let the reader understand ;-) with a wicked old “uncle” (ditto) of mine whose blog has been generating an unbelievable amount of traffic – and that’s the most I’ll say on that particular subject, but anyone feeling confused (and I know I would be ;-) is welcome to email…

Of a much more interesting (to us, at any rate) note is that we’ve moved house again. After living in the inner-city for eighteen years it seemed time for a shift to the ‘burbs in preparation for a much bigger move in the new year (of which I’ll say more when it gets nearer). Much to my own bemusement we’re now living on the leafy North Shore, on the edge of the Protestant bible belt and surrounded by bushland. The whole thing feels kind of weird, but fun. Instead of a tiny courtyard we’ve now got a large backyard in which the dogs have turned semi-feral, and kookaburras are laughing raucously in the trees as I write this. Somehow I think they’re making a better comment on the current Sydney Anglican debacle than I’ll ever mange to post…

So instead of diving straight into that particularly ugly evangelical pissing contest, I think it’s better to first play a bit of music to give an idea of life on Planet Caliban:

First up is 90’s Oz band Frente - “Accidentally Kelly Street”. Yeah – I know it’s hopelessly twee, but Missy Two and I love dancing to it (no: I won’t post a video of me doing that) and us house-daddies know better than to argue music with a toddler. Especially not when the song says more about life than I’d have dreamt possible.

The second is a classic piece of Brit-pop, but the feeling’s the same. And when we start jumping around to this one even Blackstar and Fiver want to join in. Which is no mean feat: it takes a lot to drag them away from the important work of digging up lizards and barking at the sulphur-crested cockatoos partying on the roof…

God bless the lot of ya!

They've started up again...

2008-09-08T13:15:00.003+10:00

For the past few weeks things have been pretty quite on the Sydney Anglican diocese front: it's been as if they've been letting the world catch up to them in the pompous hypocrite stakes.

Unfortunately the calm has well and truly ended: Archbishop Jensen has issued a statement so breath-taking that I can't even bring myself to link to it. Off-Topic Allowed provide a link and a critique that helps fend off the inevitable depression which follows reading it. Personally I don't know which is more disturbing: that someone proclaiming themselves to be a Christian can come out with such idiocy - or that he obviously actually believes his own drivel.

Hot on his heels comes the Archbishop's little brother and Dean, Phillip who's been working hard to show the media he's just as crazy: today's Sydney Morning Herald features a front page article detailing his latest efforts at side-lining the Cathedral's internationally recognised choir and organist.

In an attempt to defend the Family Firm, an unnamed Cathedral spokesman is reported as telling the paper "The wide range of music being heard at the cathedral is in keeping with a wider range of people now coming through the cathedral doors." What forgets to mention is that while the range may be wider (something friends of mine who've been involved with the Cathedral congregation for a great many years strongly dispute) it's also smaller. and many of those now attending followed Jensen from his previous parish. Perhaps this isn't mentioned because somewhere in the Bible it says any drop in congregation size is only relevant if it occurs in "liberal" churches?

It's not all bad news, though. The spokesman (it's always a man with these clowns - the sky could fall down if they let a mere woman speak on their behalf) continued by citing as proof of the Jensen regime's relevance "the appointment of the cathedral's first 'jazz catechist'." So despite more than a quarter of Sydney's youth having no dedicated outreach workers, we've now got someone "working to reach out to Sydney's jazz community".

Of course this couldn't have anything to do with fact that most of the kids studying jazz at the conservatorium come from Sydney's white-bread Anglican heartland, could it? And please tell me it's just coincidence that a large part of this "outreach" involves presenting "Bible studies" to that same group of kids? Many of whom also come from some of the diocese's most doctrinaire parishes?

No of course it doesn't. Sure countless more kids are into hip-hop and dance, and we're doing everything in our power to ignore and/or alienate them - but hey: it's not as if they're white or anything. And isn't jazz the first thing that comes to everybody's mind when they think of Sydney?

Excuse me: I've got to go and change my son's nappy. At least what's in there isn't pretending to be something else.

Peter Jensen isn't sleeping with any of my friends.

2008-08-26T23:29:00.003+10:00

At the start of August the Sydney Mornig Herald ran a story amusingly headlined ”It’s s PJs at PJ’s as clergy seek to bed down Anglicanism” about Archbishop Jensen inviting Sydney clergy for overnight retreats at Bishopscourt, the spectacular mansion in which Sydney Anglican Archbishops reside, in order to explain his Connect 09 mission strategies.

The article mentioned that “Detractors suggest the visits might be used by the archbishop to micromanage parishes and subtly test the orthodoxy of diocesan rectors.” and it should be no surprise to learn that I was indeed one of those detractors. Yet at the same time part of me really did hope this was a genuine attempt on the archbishop’s part to get to know how clergy on the ground are feeling; to hear their thoughts and ideas, and to gain an understanding of their hopes and needs. I’d intended to blog about it, but as I’m currently at home caring for two small and quite severely asthmatic children, while at the same time trying to complete a programming project on the side, life sort of got in the way. Then when Father David Heron gave the matter his usual brilliant attention there didn’t seem anything more I could add.

Then during the course of lunch last week with a dear friend whom against all odds is still ministering in a Sydney parish (which is growing like gangbusters, although with typical modesty he dismisses this as “just transfers from all the Matthian parishes driving people away with their soul-destroying Gnosticism”), his wife, and another mutual friend, a profoundly wise and much-loved Roman priest. Remembering the Bishopscourt sleepovers, I asked my friend if he’d been on his yet, and how it had gone.

“Me?” he exclaimed. “No, I haven’t had an invite, and nor have any of the people who talk to me. It’s only the party-line guys who are getting invited to that. The idea is that they get hyped up and come back to tell the rest of what to do. The Archbishop isn’t interested in hearing what people like me have to say.”

Our Catholic friend was shocked. He’s got his own problems with his local bishop – Cardinal Pell – but can still never get over the way dissenting Sydney Anglicans are treated as if we simply don’t exist. “What do you mean?” he said. “Neither of you are invited? He doesn’t even want to hear what you have to say?”

My friend’s wife laughed. “You’ll get an invitation before Jensen has the slightest interest in hearing what any of these two have to say.” At which we all laughed until the people at other tables were staring at us, and then ordered more wine.

Unless you’ve lived here it’s impossible to understand how hilarious what she said was; and sometimes if you don’t laugh at life in the world’s most conservative Anglican diocese you could just start crying. And then you'll probably never be able to stop.

Hey China: I told you we wouldn't forget.

2008-08-26T13:54:00.012+10:00

The Olympics are over and hopefully Australia can regain some sense of perspective on what really matters in life, albeit for just another four years. Meanwhile the Chinese government will undoubtedly be delighted to be able to return to business as usual of imprisoning, torturing, and executing those who dare to have an opinion of their own free from any risk of international scrutiny.

So as a final comment here's a cartoon by Chris Henning published in The Sydney Morning Herald a fortnight back. I looked everywhere to find a copy already online, but it didn't seem to make the web edition. Perhaps it was deemed potentially offensive to Chinese advertisers. So here's a scanned and reposted version instead:

Ee-Aw Represent the ancient Chinese spirit of security. He ensures nothing goes wrong, and no troublemakers ruffle the imperturbable calm of the Central Kingdom as it celebrates the Olympic Games. Ee-Aw looks fierce but he is really very friendly. If you see him chasing Nyah-Nyah, don't worry! The two are old friends.

Fu-fu floats like a cloud above the Games, blessing all with her serene presence. On days when there is lots of Fu-fu, Olympic visitors are encouraged to gather together, look up at the sky and blow as hard as they can to blow Fu-fu away! But take your puffer, dear visitors, in case Fu-fu doesn't get the hint.

Nyah-Nyah loves running away, which is just as well, because she is often being chased! She is the rebellious spirit regrettably present in parts of the motherland. Nyah-Nyah is all right in small doses when Western cameras are present, but when everyone goes home, watch out, Nyah-Nyah! Ee-Aw is coming after you with his big stick.

Bang-bang is the spirit of public relations, so essential to a successful Olympics. Bang-bang is the colour of fireworks, and he is boisterous and noisy. He is also filthy rich after his deals with US TV networks, and he has a remarkably short temper, so it is best to avoid him. If you really want to talk to him, make sure you are very rich and powerful. After all these Games celebrate the People's Republic. They're not for any old riff-raff.

Pan-Pan is a Panda, right? Wrong! He's dressed up like one and he'd like you to think he's one, but really he's from the secret police. Those leaves are his camo hat, so you won't see him up the tree across the road. Don't laugh, dear Olympic guests, or you will end up in the slammer. Also, they contain remote sensing devices so Pan-pan can stand outside your hotel and read your email.

No, Beijing. We have not forgotten.

2008-08-08T21:58:00.002+10:00

"Greater love has no one than this:
that a person lay down their life for their friends."
(John 15:13)

World Youth Day Redux

2008-08-03T11:04:00.014+10:00

World Youth Day has come and gone, and Sydney is continues as pretty much the same place it's always been. Yet an image that's stayed with me is of a group led by the gentleman on the right, who were feverishly distributing pamphlets calling for the pilgrims to abandon their faith and convert to Islam.

I can't have looked like good potential Muslim material, because while he and his followers were eagerly thrusting their six page tract at anyone passing by, I actually had to go up and ask for one, which was handed over surprisingly grudgingly. This amazed me, because if I do say so myself I was considerably politer than many people passing by: it doesn't take much imagination to guess the response he received from a large group of young Catholic pilgrims who sounded as if they were from Texas. And to be fair, what sort of reaction did he expect he'd receive by proselytising by the entrance to Hyde Park, at the very heart of WYD festivities?

But despite the spirit in which it was given, I actually read the entire thing; no mean feat given the rather tortured language and tiny print. And it was remarkably like similar leaflets I've received in the past from Christians armed with nothing more than a soapbox, megaphone and and unshakable faith in the certainty of their own dogma. Ok, so the quotes all came from the Koran instead of the Bible, but that was about it. Neither side had taken the time to fairly represent what the other believes, nor, I suspect, would they be capable of doing so - since that would involve making an effort to actually understand them.

Nor did the tract's central argument - that Islam is the only true faith because it's primary text says so - strike me as any more convincing than it's Christian counterpart, that the Bible is an infallible witness because the Bible says it is. If - and it's a big if - you're asking someone to make substantial changes to their life on the basis of how you interpret a particular document I think it's only fair to provide a better argument than that.

Which is not to say I'm entirely without empathy for any street-corner preacher: back in the day I've even done a bit of unsolicited ~~teaching~~ shouting myself, and I must confess that when I was this young man's age I also on occasion handed out some pretty mindless "evangelistic material" - something my friends and wife today view with a mixture of utter disbelief and unbridled mirth. Yet when you're young, and desperate to make sense of a confused and confusing world, it's exciting to think you've found all the answers, and sadly there's never any shortage of old men prepared to send you out and recruit for their empire. The real challenge is maintaining a sense of wonder when those answers turn out to be as cheap and thin as the paper they were printed on. It's then that most people find it much easier to simply stop asking if there might just possibly be something more, and instead fall for the trap of thinking the most profound questions life has to offer involve their mortgage, or the state of the stock exchange or their favourite sporting team.

What I found most fascinating was that a barely disguised undercurrent of sexuality permeated the young Muslim evangelists' efforts in just the same was as it did amongst the Catholic pilgrims. The girls might have been obliged to keep their heads covered (what kind of a deity is so petty as to think anyone is made more virtuous by wrapping stuff around their head?), but nothing could conceal the admiring glances the'd give the boys coming back to base for another handful of tracts.

The girls on the left were in deep conversation with a Catholic leader whose group of kids left him to race ahead and enjoy a little time "off the leash". Somehow I don't think anyone changed faiths as a result of this dialogue, but I did see several of his young charges furtively holding hands while they shared an ice-cream away from his gaze. So nobody can say God didn't use the exchange to bless someone.

By the way, I know the Islamic gear is supposed to be an indication of the wearer's modesty, but I know I can't be the only guy to find the way those long diaphanous dresses accentuate the wearer's thighs and legs as they fall to the ground really sexy. Nor can the the way those tight shirts accentuate the young men's muscular physiques have escaped others' attention. Which in this infidel's theology is part of the way God intended the world to be, and something for which we can all laugh and together offer our praise.

Hello to everyone visting from D-P!

2008-08-03T10:22:00.002+10:00

As I'd threatened would happen, my guest post is now up at The World of Doorman-Priest, and so I want to give a special welcome to anyone who's dropped by from there.

Thanks for coming round!

... in which the wicked Caliban thanks and is thanked.

2008-07-29T11:24:00.010+10:00

I entered the blogosphere after lurking with longing at MadPriest’s incomparable Of Course I Could Be Wrong. Here were people from around the world, it seemed to me, who’d also been chewed up and spat out of the Church to which they’d come seeking solace – and yet who were not only still laughing, but still seeking to engage with the God who refused to discard them.

From there I first drifted - no; actually I clicked with an excitement I hadn’t felt towards matters theological for a decade - to two places: Doorman-Priest’s Doorman’s Journal, which reminded me of a world I’d also once known so long ago - one which was integral to my Vocation; and Wormwood’s Doxy whose irrepressible passion gave me the courage to start speaking out in a way I’d long not dared to contemplate – something I’ve never told her, and for which I really should have thanked her before now.

What’s happened in the past year since then still leaves me stunned: like the children discovering a doorway into Narnia, I’ve discovered a world where people really are - albeit in our own crazy ways – fighting for a world in which Churches are more Christlike, where ridiculing sacred cows and the pompous clerics who ride them is considered an art, and fear of those who’ve made an idol out of what a former lecturer at Moore College once described as “Mono-Method-Mania” (he left before he was sacked;-) is non-existent.

I’ve also been asked to guest-blog at one of those sites – look for me at The World of Doorman-Priest after August 2, and recieved the Arte y pico award from Doxy: two honours which mean more than I can possibly describe without sounding really soppy – and Aussie blokes who’ve spent as much time in the ocean as me don’t like admitting we can get soppy ;-)

The rules of the Arte y pico award are:

1) Pick five blogs that you consider deserve this award for their creativity, design, interesting material, and also for contributing to the blogging community, no matter what language.
2) Each award has to have the name of the author and also a link to his or her blog to be visited by everyone.
3) Each award winner has to show the award and put the name and link to the blog that has given her or him the award itself.
4) Award-winner and the one who has given the prize have to show the link of Arte Y Pico blog, so everyone will know the origin of this award which is here: Arte Y Pico.

Except as I’ve said here before, I don’t always do rules so well, and once again I’m going to break them as soon as they're posted. Or sort of break them: rather than list all five blogs in one post, I’ll break them up over a few posts to keep each blog distinct.

The first one I should have linked to months ago, and have really felt guilty about not having done so, since Christopher Orczy's … ascending and descending… is a place that’s become an integral part of my spiritual nourishment. Written by another rebel here in Sydney, blogs like this not only help remind me God’s Spirit still flourishes here regardless of whatever nonsense comes out of those who think they hold power, but also (and much more importantly) that following Christ in the face of our current storm runs a lot deeper than just raging back at the winds – it’s important to take time out to listen to the One whose concerns are far, far greater than our bickering.

Even more amazingly, Christopher is the only other person I’ve ever encountered who counts Bo Hansson as one of their influences. Which shows he’s not just someone with a theological insight well worth listening to, but also a man of impeccable musical taste and depth.

Thanks and God Bless the lot of you!

Blogger is Casualty of World Youth Day

2008-07-28T12:57:00.006+10:00

Ok, so after spending the day wandering around the WYD crowds with two small children, a large pram, and a camera I came home and made my first post of the day's findings. Then I cooked dinner, and Mrs. Caliban and I put the littlies to bed...

...shortly after which I began turning as blue as this WYD "installation", and imitating a stranded fish gasping for breath. Whereupon a panic visit to people who specialise in such things pronounced "asthma" as a result of this wretched @$#%&$#! ongoing flu.

Which leaves me in the present (sort of), having consumed more steroids than a Tour de France team, and thanking assorted pharmaceuticals companies with every breath.

It's funny, because aside from a period when I found myself devoid of marbles, I've always been a fairly healthy out-doors kind of person, so these last few weeks have been a bewildering experience. For me breathing has always been something taken for granted, but there’s nothing like a short spurt of oxygen deprivation to change one’s perspective ;-)

I’m also feeling very grateful for modern medicine (somehow I don’t think ancient therapies involving cobwebs and powdered bits of criminals would have worked nearly as well), and the Australian health insurance system, which isn’t perfect, but sure is a whole lot better than you-know-where. Just a tip for the coming election folks – vote as if your next breath might be your last.

And damn but it feels good to be getting back on top of things!

The Pilgrims are Coming! (WYD Update #3)

2008-07-17T19:13:00.012+10:00

By midday today the streets of the Sydney's central business district were filled with groups like this: in the morning the Pope had made a quick drive-by across the Harbour Bridge and to Government House (which is not where parliament meets, but the official home Queen's state representative), there was a lull while he prepared for his boat trip. Most of the "pilgrims" appeared to fill this time by wandering around waving flags, singing their national anthem, and generally acting like very straight kids who for for the first time in their lives feel kind of important.

Which is probably what most of them are. The kids above were from New Mexico and having the time of their lives: the only really obnoxious group I encountered were a group of Canadians acting more like football hooligans than pilgrims. The picture of them below was taken on the escalators at Martin Place station: the two dark figures at the right are Railway cops coming up to speak to them about the almost-empty coke cans they'd been throwing around on the subway platform.

The most inspiring thing was that despite whole thing being, let's face it, just a giant advertisement for Archbishop Pell's life-denying vision of Christianity, human nature and those wild old hormones that only a wonderfully humorous God could have made in such abundance, kept bobbing up at every turn.

The kids in the back of this picture are from Indonesia, while those in the front (the really cute girls) and the guys on the far right came from (I think) Northern Italy. And I'm not going to risk anyone getting busted by saying which girl I later saw flirting outrageously with the super-cool Indonesian guy in the black t-shirt - but let me tell ya: if I was 17 and had seen them I'd have converted on the spot. If that's Catholicism it's the religion for me, no matter what a bunch of grumpy old guys might claim ;)

Incidentally, check out the kid's shirt up close:

There's no way hard-liners of any demonination would approve of that, and him wearing it struck me as one of the most wonderful things I saw. No matter how hard you might try to keep the human spirit down, it always bounces back up in the end. For this boy it was no doubt just a shirt; something that looks cool he'd bought in an upmarket shop: he looked far too young to think through the theology of wht he was wearing. But for me it was a reminder of why God really does love our crazy species so much. Irrespective of what those who profess to speak in God's name might say.

Forward in Faith's new best friend.

2008-07-17T17:15:00.007+10:00

Today is the first day the Pope is actually in town (since last Sunday he's been staying at an Opus Dei property on Sydney's far north-western outskirts) the Pope-on-a-Boat parade takes place, and the media's calling it "Super Thursday". While I won't have any pictures of the flotilla (have you any idea how crowded it is at any of the viewing points? ;-), and I know I've been awfully tardy when it comes to providing other reports (though in my defence not much worth blogging about has happened that other people haven't covered far better, and a return of the dreaded 'flu has left me stuck inside again, drowning in a puddle of bleccchhhhh!) I did drag the two little Duck-Noodles into the World Youth Day central today, and will show what we found...

... but first, in keeping with the spirit of the day, may I present this hilarious opinion-piece from today's Sydney Morning Herald.

You got it: with flawlessly tacky timing Phillip Jensen, Anglican Dean of Sydney and younger brother of the Archbishop (not, of course, that that had anything to do with his appointment) has delivered a sectarian rant pinched directly from one of those "Nuns eat Babies" tracts that were so popular in the early part of last century. "If Martin Luther came into Sydney and saw Roman Catholicism and its Stations of the Cross" says our aspiring acolyte of Ian Paisley, "he'd say, 'Ah, they've cleaned up their act'." But fortunately we have Dean Jensen to see with a clarity Luther lacked, because, he insists, "Things are actually worse than in Luther's day".

You couldn't make this stuff up. Have the Episcopalian Anglo-Catholics who've embraced the Jensens any idea of whom they've entrusted with their future? Are they really that naive?

As for any Roman Catholics reading this: please understand that not every Sydney Anglican is this obnoxious. We mightn't be that crazy about your heirarchy's views on gender, sexuality and contraception, but we're not under any delusions about ours being any better. And we're really proud to consider ourselves part of the same family as you, irrespective of what a few of our idiot relatives might say.

Addendum:
Sindce posting this I've learned Jensen's rant was taken and transcribed by the Herald (without permission) from a presentation on sydneyanglicans.net, which helps explain why it's sounds so disjointed and (let's be honest here) badly written. It was published without the Dean's permission, and its timing was beyond his control: it was, in short, printed to stir up a bit of controversy in the newspaper's coverage.

To be fair, the Herald could have used some far worse quotes. Sit through the whole 28 minutes and you won't feel much sympathy for Jensen, who comes across as firmly stuck in the battles of the 16th century, and absolutely convinced that Luther was a card-carrying sydney Anglican.

World Youth Day Update #2

2008-07-11T12:44:00.011+10:00

This morning while exploring a ruined 19th century swimming baths, which were built as part of a now closed psychiatric institution (another project of mine involving a truly enlightened Victorian doctor (who was almost certainly gay) which will (hopefully) one day have a web site of its own) with my littlest Duck-Noodle and the Hounds of the Atonement (ok, so one's a terrier-cross, but let's not be picky) we heard the strangest sound coming on the wind across the upper reaches of Sydney Harbor.

It sounded like - I swear I'm not making this up - a group of women singing "whoo-hoo" to the X-Files theme. Given our surroundings it was spooky enough to start the dogs howling, and you've got to remember these are creatures that don't bat an eyelid when I play Rammstein.

Now I've got to confess I always found Scully kind of cute in a purely physical way, but Mulder was the much more interesting of the pair, although I suspect his life would have been a lot simpler if he'd tried a little anti-obsessive medication. For a few moments it wouldn’t have surprised me if either of them jumped out from behind a tree, and I turned on our trusty camera in anticipation.

Looking towards the source of this strange chanting, it seemed to be coming from a group standing in front of the Sydney Boys High School Rowing Club. Zooming in revealed the singers to be a group of nuns: it was then I remembered that next week the Pope-on-a-Boat parade will be passing this way en route to the Sydney Olympic stadium, where he’ll be doing whatever it is Popes do in Olympic stadiums with a couple of hundred thousand young people. Clearly the X-Files is part of this aquatic liturgy, and the Sisters were just rehearsing. Which sure makes a big change from strumming guitars and singing Kum-By-Yah.

When we bought this camera Mrs. Caliban expressed concern that I'd get up to mischief with the high-powered digital zoom. Somehow though I don’t think taking telephoto pictures of Nuns was what she had in mind ;-)

World Youth Day Update #1

2008-07-10T16:07:00.025+10:00

It's taken a surprisingly long time to gather momentum, but Pope Fever is finally hitting Sydney. As a blogger living pretty much in the middle of Ground Zero (the poor young fellow who died of polio in 1925 has been staying about 10 minutes walk from La Casa del Caliban until his room at St. Mary's Cathedral is ready) I consider it my sacred duty to bring everyone the stories that L'Osservatore Romano miss.

Starting out is a sign that perhaps there haven't been as many pilgrims as someone has expected: my office is in a very down-market part of town, and while nicking out to the bank I noticed the shop below - a fly-by-night affair selling crappy fake-label clothing (yeah right, I'm sure those $20 bags are genuine Prada) - has a special on "Official" World Youth Day clothing.

I've zoomed in on two of the signs to make it clearer:

In the interests of investigative journalism I went inside and examined the clothing. It had surprisingly official-looking labels, which just goes to show these are quality counterfeits; right after I'd looked at the them the storekeeper ran over and began checking them to see I hadn't stolen or defaced one - it's that sort of neighbourhood. And since he was so obviously rude about it I took his picture, which had the alarming effect of making him instantly run out the back of his store and hide: why do I suspect the gentleman wasn't too keen to be identified with his wares?

One thing that's certain though: if World Youth Day souvenirs have already slid this far down the totem-pole you can be sure demand in the more pious ends of town is not as high as was anticipated. Or else the Opus Dei heavies are breaking the legs of anyone caught cashing in on their turf.

If anyone wants one of these to impress their friends/local priest/that really cute Catholic guy/girl you've had your eyes on for months let me know I'll happily get you one. At OZ$10 a jumper it'll set you back about US$9.60 + postage.

Although I'm not too sure the guy'll let me back into his shop ;-)

The Naked Liturgist

2008-07-09T15:31:00.003+10:00

Recently added to the blogroll is Christchurch New Zealand legend Fr. Bosco Peters - check out this clip for an idea of why I'm a fan:

His site Liturgy is the kind of place that helps remind folks like me why Anglicanism is worth fighting for, and that there's a whole lot more to the journey than just the current quarrels.

See for yourself!

It's an anniversary...

2008-07-07T20:43:00.004+10:00

Today is the 7th of july, which is the anniversary of the day I met a black-haired flamenco dancer.

These days she's better known in these parts as 'Mrs. Caliban', but to me she'll always be the most beautiful woman in the universe.

And she alone will know why I've posted this clip, but I know she'll be smiling when she sees it.

"Believe in me
Help me believe in anything
I want to be someone who believes."

The tide turns...

2008-07-06T16:41:00.004+10:00

Sorry about the absence folks; for the last 10 days I’ve been marinating in my own mucus with a cold and flu of such virulence I’m convinced it was developed in a laboratory somewhere by a team of ‘reasserters’ with the specific intention of making life miserable for people like me. Ok, so maybe that’s an exaggeration, but it’s no less whacky than some of the stuff that’s been recently flying around the world. “Churches within the Church”, and the Sydney leadership urging North Americans to leave their national church and form a new diocese – even though those pushing them into this idiotic move are on record as saying they won’t do it themselves because they don’t want to lose their impressive property portfolio.

The more I think about all this, the more I wonder if Anglicanism has plunged into some modernist production of King Lear - the kings have become fools, and our only hope of finding leadership and wisdom remains with the fools and jesters. Perhaps the metaphor isn’t so strange; after all, the incarnation - that outrageous point in time and history when God became human – occurred in the face of a human claiming to be God: and by the standards of even our time the Roman Emperor made a pretty convincing job of his charade. But we all know how it ended for him.

Which is why, despite a hacking cough and radioactive yellow slime oozing from my respiratory system (hey: why should my wife, kids & dogs be the only ones having to put up with my moaning ;-), I’ve never been more optimistic about the sad old diocese of Sydney and her future. Sure, our Archbishop’s acolytes see him poised on the brink of giving them a global influence of a magnitude they’ve only previously dared fantasise in their puritanical wet-dreams, but at the end of the day all that’s happening is that a fish from a very small and provincial pond is trying his luck at swimming in the ocean…

… and little fish - even if quite big in their own rockpool - invariably get eaten when their transition to the sea is guided more by hubris than wisdom. Especially if the God of Justice and Love is turning the tide in the opposite direction. I’ve never been much good at predicting the future, but this time the stagnant water that’s been choking so many of us has never looked so close to being flushed away.

I can hear the ‘important’ and ‘powerful’ of the diocese laughing already, but this ne-‘er-do-well has never forgotten Jesus’ crazy notions about seeing God through a child’s eyes. So what’s the bet that this time the powerless might fly further than anyone had dared imagine?

GAFCON Leaders Showing their Cracks.

2008-06-24T21:03:00.005+10:00

Ok, so this great article in the Guardian has a slightly different heading, but I think mine is funnier.

It shows that what people have been predicting about the coming fall-out between GAFCON buddies has already started coming true, and sure enough, Sydney is playing to grab power in the rift that develops.

Speaking of +Jensen, the last paragraph contains this gem:

"He also expressed doubts about the long-term prospects for Gafcon. 'This is a coalition of people who would not necessarily work together. Will it work? We don't know'."

"We don't know"???? He certainly seemed pretty convinced a week ago - but I guess that's a long time in the company of the Archbishop's fellow 'pilgrims'.

Also of special interest is the suggestion that:

"It is agreed among the clutch of westerners at the conference that the real power will lie with the Australian delegates, not those from Africa."

Depending who the writer's been speaking to this may indeed be the case, but it's a safe bet that it won't last past next Sunday's closing Eucharist. Forward in Faith and their fellow Anglo-Roman hardliners aren't ever going to hand over control to a bunch of Gnostic Puritans who think making the sign of the Cross is blasphemous. And while Sydney's undeniably wealthy, not even +Akinola's foolish enough to believe they'll be as generous as his American friends. Is he?

Lay Presidency (& more lies Sydney style).

2008-06-24T16:19:00.004+10:00

Thanks to a tip-off from a certain bizarre rabbit I was cheered to see Sydney’s Anglican Archbishop hasn’t quite managed to make the world forget about his dreams of lay presidency. Writing in The Times, Ruth Gledhill asked +Jensen if he hoped that “one day the entire Anglican Communion would adopt lay presidency, or ‘lay administration’ as he prefers to call it.” The response showed just how desperate Sydney is to keep this off the GAFCON radar:

”'It [lay administration] is a subject we have been talking about in our diocese for 30 years,' he said. But he was aware there was 'considerable disagreement' about it around the Communion, and to date his diocese had held back from engaging with it formally.”

Held back from engaging with it formally??!!!? Excuse me while I choke with laughter. Sydney synod voted to approve lay presidency in November 1999,after which the move was vetoed by (then) Archbishop Goodhew. Once +Jensen had seized the reins it reappeared on the table, and a committee appointed to explore ways getting around the national church’s Appellate Tribunal finding that Lay Presidency could only proceed if first approved by General Syod. To further this end the Act of uniformity was formally repealed by Sydney Synod in 2003: we’re now in a situation where the practice is by no means unusual here, just not mentioned in public lest our new-found best friends remember just who it is they’ve jumped into bed with.

So I guess by “engage with it formally” the Archbishop means “let others know that as far as Sydney’s concerned the issues been decided. Our way.”

To be honest though, sometimes I wonder why anything the Archbishop says should surprise me. An interview printed in yesterday’s Sydney Morning Herald said:

”Dr Jensen said gay men and women had no reason to feel discriminated against by the stance he had taken on human sexuality”

Right. So they can’t be ordained, can’t work for the church in any other capacity, can’t study at the diocese’s theological college, can’t get married, nor express their sexuality in a relationship with someone they love. His Priests can publically refuse the Sacraments to GLBTs without any fear of reproach, he insists same-sex couples are intrinsically incapable of raising happy and emotionally well-balanced children, and is proud of his role in driving the church into schism over one man’s consecration as Bishop.

But gay men and women have got no reason to feel discriminated against. Got that everyone?

At least Father Christian knows when he’s telling lies. The scary thing about the Sydney hierarchy is that they really believe their own bullshit.

The web is a weird place.

2008-06-17T08:16:00.003+10:00

He's Like the Pope to Us! is a real "only on the internet" place. Run by The Jensen Fanclub (who politely gave Caliban's Dream credit after using a picture from here), it's made me laugh out loud. And nothing puts those who must be overcome in their place like laughing at them.

See for yourself.

How I Spent a Winter Weekend.

2008-06-16T18:41:00.031+10:00

Mrs. Caliban and the two smallest Duck Noodles were in NZ visiting family last weekend, so the four-legged members of the Gang and I went camping near Hill End, an old gold-mining town about 4 hours driver west of Sydney.

The Australian gold rush began in the 1850s, on the heels of the great 19th century Californian rush, and was no less fervent: in the 20 years from 1850 to 1870 Australia’s population increased by more than 400%. At its peak in 1870 the Hill End area had a population of over 30,000: 51 hotels, 8 churches, 5 schools and 3 newspapers. Today fewer than 100 people live in Hill End and the entire town is classified as a protected historical site.

There were two main reasons for the trip: I wanted to see the Golden Gully – an alluvial goldfield primarily worked by Chinese (whose mines can be identified from the Caucasians' sites by their rounded shape) at the start of the rush, and to (I know how much of a redneck this makes me sound) try out our new SUV (it’s only a small one, so I’m not that much of an enviro-vandal – honest!) on some real 4WD tracks.

The Golden Gully, which was in a now non-existent neighbouring township called Tambaroora is amazing. The temperature was hovering around freezing (hence Fiver’s jacket) as we climbed through the long-abandoned diggings: seeking the gold which had filtered down to the bedrock several thousand miners dug down over fifty feet along about a mile of the river’s course. In the 1850s there’d been gold-panners from every country on earth; now it was silent – we clambered around for several hours and saw nobody.

We did, however, find a mob of large kangaroos – or rather the dogs did. There’s no pictures because I was too busy giving chase: while the ‘roos could easily outrun two inner-city canine warriors the senior male saw no reason to abandon his ground, and was getting ready give a certain Dachshund-Labrador the kick of a lifetime when I managed to catch up. Seeing me the boomer fled, leaving two small heroes convinced they’d defeated a foe the likes of which they’d never imagined existed.

Soon afterwards they found a wombat burrow (with grumbling resident inside) and I unsportingly decided it was time for leads to go back on.

And then the drive home along the old road; a 4WD-only track that needed low-ratio for most of the way: lots of mud, hills and a spectacular drop-off with no guard-rail.

Sorry, but I was too busy watching the road (white-knuckle stuff by my standards;-) to take any pictures during the really scenic stretches: I grabbed these during one of the river crossings.

Finally a late lunch and photograph at the track’s end: I suspect if Mrs. Caliban had seen all the warnings there’s no way she’d have let us go…

… but I know a funny-looking black dog and his little mate (who was too excited to stand still and pose) enjoyed themselves so much that they're not telling anyone.

Woe to you, you Pharisees...

2008-06-16T15:43:00.007+10:00

An article posted at sydneyanglicans.net by the Diocesan spin-doctor on June 13 the diocese claims GAFCON is “about gospel not gays”. Yet in a piece by the same person posted today (“A buzz about the future”) I counted no few than 9 references to Christians in same-sex relationships or the Church’s response to them – no mean figure given it's only 24 paragraphs long. So tell us all again why we should believe homosexuality has no bearing upon Sydney’s decision to participate in GAFCON?

Is it any wonder the masses aren’t queuing up to buy what the Sydney Diocese’s mission has to offer? The last thing a confused and despairing world wants is more political double-speak. If church leaders really want to waste parishioner’s money on attending a homophobic hate-fest they could at least have the integrity to be honest about what they’re doing. Would you buy a used car - let alone an entire way of living and believing – from anyone this duplicitous?

I’d initially planned to start this post by claiming that as a heterosexual man of reasonably mainstream theological inclinations I have no vested interest in the issue. I’m not part of any ‘gay lobby’ (whatever that is); my opposition to homophobia in the Anglican Communion arises purely out of my faith in Christ. But realising this is no truer than Sydney’s denial of the unquestionable fact that homophobia has been the GAFCON’s primary motive I soon dismissed it.

That’s because as a Christian I do have a vested interest; as followers of Christ we all do. If – as is happening today – the name of the One in whom we trust is being hijacked to justify persecution, oppression and exclusion every believer suffers. That which we hold as dearest and most precious is devalued by the tainting voices of bigotry. In dismissing as ‘unclean’ those who have been called and cleansed by God; those who are now our very brothers and sisters in faith, the angry men of GAFCON miss the entire point of the account of Peter’s vision in Acts 10. Having done so they want to continue by dragging the church back into a pointless imitation of the Council of Jerusalem – which itself seems to have been something of a non-event the first time around.

In the process they are guilty of doing the very thing against which we were constantly warned at Moore College – “bringing the Gospel into disrepute”. Think I’m exaggerating? Then ask the next unbeliever you meet what they think of the church spending money on forcing homosexuals out of the church. Ask them what they think about rules preventing women from being ordained or becoming bishops. Then ask them if they think the church stands for justice, equality and God’s love of for all humanity. I’ll guarantee in the spray that follows they’ll offer a clear explanation of why they won’t come along to the marvellous outreach meeting you’ve got planned for next Sunday in conjunction with the Dept. of Evangelism’s finest spruiker.

Perhaps the last word should go to the Rev. Rick Smith of Cammeray/Naremburn (diocesan policies have been so successful in this area – which was once part of the heartland – that two formerly successful parishes are now individually unviable), who is quoted:

"You don’t have to be that clever to realise that the worldwide Anglican communion is in a bit of a mess. It seems we have reached the point, in many places, where practices historically and biblically rejected as harmful sin, are now paraded as good. And doctrines historically and biblically rejected as error are embraced as truth."

Nor evidently do you need to be clever enough to have any awareness of broad range of historical and biblical attitudes to something as ancient as humanity itself before pretending to speak with authority on the subject. If it wasn't so tragic it would be amusing to see Rev. Smith lacks the courage to actually name the “practices” and “doctrines” to which he refers, which are presumably in some way related to people sexually attracted to persons of the same gender as themselves. The bigotry that dare not speak its name?

Perhaps I shouldn’t be so surprised. We have close friends who live less than five minutes walk from one of Rev. Smith’s churches. They pass it every day; but when I just spoke to one of them (he called as I was writing this) he had no idea what goes on there – “I thought that place was closed: nothing ever happens there”.

Solutions to the “mess” which the Anglican Communion allegedly faces might have more to do with how we relate to those living on the next block than it does with those attending a (hopefully) one-off event on the other side of the world. But that sounds like hard work, doesn’t it? Who’s going to buy the Rev. Rick Smiths of this world an airline ticket to visit people living just around the corner? And where’s all the fine-sounding rhetoric going to be when word gets around that God loves them just as much as us?

New Blogger Joins the List!

2008-06-14T10:06:00.004+10:00

From Alaska the Gang is joined by Robert at Musings of an Episcopal Padre - a Priest of the very finest kind.

Given that it's currently 11° Centigrade (52°F) here on a chilly winter morning (& I'm freezing!) I can't imagine what it's like to survive an Alaskan winter, although I suspect their houses are insulated and don't have cracked floorboards through which a steady draft blows, nor do they leave the back door wide-open so the dogs can freely come and go (I also suppose Alaskan houses normally have some kind of heating, whereas our single radiator is in a room down the other hend of the house and I can't be bothered fetching it since I'm about to go out ;-) But that's what you've got to love about the internet: the way people whose worlds are so very far apart and so incredibly different can discover they have far more in common than they could have first imagined. Check out Robert's blog and you'll see what I mean.

More (inspired by David Marr, Mad Priest and Lapinbizarre).

2008-06-13T22:44:00.014+10:00

In response to Behind the Sydney Veil a few days ago Lapinbizarre made the pertinent comment:

"I don't see, in David Marr's portrait of the man who was wrong-footed by Akinola's unilateral announcement that Sydney's bishops will not attend Lambeth, the person who Mad Priest insists will 'make a play for running the whole caboodle'.".

I’ve got to admit that I found Marr’s account (see the first paragraph here) of the real reason Jensen finally committed to the Lambeth boycott fascinating – but completely believable. The Sydney powerbrokers are puritan and sectarian, but they are also deeply conservative. Snubbing their nose at authority does not come naturally. Sitting on the fence, hinting at one’s displeasure with the occasional polite passive-aggressive note of dissatisfaction is far more their style. The Archbishop’s brother Dean Jensen might break into a Cromwellian tirade – but that’s why it was Peter, and not Phillip, who ultimately received the Anglican Church League’s imprimatur for the top job.

Perhaps +Akinola recognised this and decided to seize the initiative, although it’s more probable that he’s simply someone used to giving orders, and to making decisions on other’s behalf – whether or not they’ve asked him to do so. He’s a big man in a society which recognises and respects big men, and the niceties of Sydney’s evangelical heartland would count for little in the rough and tumble world of the lads from Lagos.

None of which means MadPriest was incorrect. One doesn’t have to read much of Sydney’s internal propaganda to gain the (incorrect) impression that we’re already GAFCON’s engine room. You don't have to spend long at the Sydney Anglican online forums to see few of the true believers realise none of their new-found allies in the battle would ever be licensed to celebrate in Sydney. Most have no comprehension whatsoever that the poor hard-done-by former Bishop of San Joaquin is not only an Anglo-Catholic, but would actually have never in his wildest dreams considered permitting their Spartan pseudo-congregationalism to flourish unchecked.

No; the popular understanding here is that the current schism is an “us and them” affair, in which the “us” refers to evangelicals of a Sydney disposition. Certainly, not everyone’s this ignorant of the real issues; but in my experience there’s little understanding of the complexities of American Episcopalianism, and the majority think it’s only natural that Sydney will emerge the leaders. After all, we’re rich, aren’t we? We’ve got Moore College. Isn’t the Anglican Church dying everywhere except here? (Never mind that almost a quarter of our city is being effectively abandoned by the diocese in a race to bolster the ‘strategic’ (i.e. wealthy and white) parishes.)

So cemented is this mindset, which stems from the famous arrogance of which Anglicans in other Australian dioceses have accused Sydney for more than half a century, that for most it just seems natural – a kind of divine right – that Sydney will emerge on top. It’s as unquestioned here as it is illogical and ridiculous to observers elsewhere. It's ridiculous to think men like +Iker and +Duncan (let alone +Akinola) will ever make themselves subservient to a group who consider vestments a “popish folly”, who advocate lay (male-only) presidency, and who claim that “the real seeds of the problem we now face lie in the nineteenth century. John Henry Newman’s infamous Tract 90”.

Yet in the insular world of a diocese on the other side of the globe, where few clergy have trained or ministered further afield, and even fewer active laity have any experience of being part of a congregation not immersed in the Sydney tradition, the nonsensical seems plausible. Whether or not +Jensen believes it remains to be seen: my feeling is that he quite possibly does, but irrespective of this he will find himself swept along by the faith of his followers, who see no means of salvation other than their own. In their eyes they are Christianity – there is no option of an alternative if the Church is to remain Christian. Consequently +Jensen must make a play for the top job. He has no choice; the question has been decided by destiny.

But he won’t succeed, and in a group which has never before tasted failure the fallout will be substantial. Current tensions are nothing compared to what will happen when the two strange bedfellows of ante-diluvian Anglo-Catholics and neo-Puritan Anglo-Baptists start tearing each other apart. Speaking personally, I can’t think of a more deserving bunch.

Meanwhile those parishes in Sydney which aren’t misogynist, homophobic and paranoid of our faith’s history, traditions and liturgy will continue to be among the fastest growing and most successful communities in the diocese. Only in the new day just around the corner they mightn’t continue to be steadfastly ignored by St. Andrew’s House at every point except the collection of their annual assessments.

... and now for something completely different.

2008-06-12T22:42:00.007+10:00

Of all the places & things I've ever seen Japan is unquestionably the weirdest.

... which is not in any way to be considered a criticism.

Sandii is now a famous Japanese hula teacher (I kid you not), running schools in Yokohama and Tokyo, while the really cool dude with the glasses playing rythym guitar and keyboards is Makoto Kubota, who is now a successful Japanese music producer specialising in world music.

I promise we'll return to regular programing shortly...

... in the meantime you've got admit both Sandii and Makoto are a whole lot more attractive than the Jensens (or anyone else involved in destroying the Anglican Comumion).

Behind the Sydney Veil

2008-06-11T11:55:00.002+10:00

Last weekend’s Sydney Morning Herald featured an article which should be required reading for anyone interested in Archbishop Jensen’s dreams of a key role in the murky world of schismatic Anglicanism. Written by author/lawyer/journalist/human-rights spokesperson David Marr (I can’t be the only straight man in the world who finds him sexy ;-), it offers a fascinating insight into the strange brew of Puritanism, gnosticism, Calvinism and Billy Graham arminianism which constitutes Sydney Anglicanism – or rather the sect known locally as “Matthianism” (named after Dean Jensen’s former parish) - currently controlling the diocese.

Any who missed the article can download a copy here - the whole piece is a whopping ten pages, but it’s well worth taking the time to read, since it offers those outside Australia an opportunity to get to know the man who’ll be at the centre of the fighting when schismatic Anglo-Catholics discover they’ve unwittingly opened the door to lay presidency in their own dioceses. It’s also a window into the way Sydney diocese really operates – maybe we’re not as different to Nigeria as I’d hoped.

Of special interest to those of us on the ground is the article’s news that not just one, but two of Jensen’s suffragan bishops privately opposed the move to boycott Lambeth: see the first paragraph on page 9 and the second paragraph on page 10

Rumours abound about that the identity of one of them is “Bishop Falstaff” – who is unquestionably disappointed to miss sipping Beaujolais Nouveau with the who’s-who of Anglicanism, and is well aware that with retirement looming he’s not going to get another chance to hobnob with Her Majesty at the Lambeth garden party. However the second man’s identity remains a mystery. My guess is “Bishop Taskless”, who’s said to be developing a liking for the pointy end of a plane, and clearly seems to prefer being anywhere other than in a region the big end of town considers too hard and “unstrategic” to worry about – but I’m open to alternative candidates.

What’s really disappointing is that these two – whoever they are – lacked the courage of their convictions to speak out. They’re clearly not going to advance any further in their careers, but instead of seizing this chance to display some degree of integrity by leading the call for dialogue and common sense, they’ve instead pulled their heads down low and acquiesced to the party line. But then again: if they took the Gospel that seriously the Anglican Church League wouldn’t have given them their jobs in the first place, would it?

Bad Moon Rising.

2008-06-06T14:48:00.005+10:00

As usual MadPriest has beaten me to the story in today's Sydney Morning Herald. It features +Jensen giving the standard line "this isn't really about homosexuality, it's about the authority of the Scriptures". Yeah, right. That's why women not keeping their heads covered in church features equally prominently on the agenda.

With bullshit like this from those at the top is it any wonder +Jensen's mission to get 10% of Sydney's population attending "Bible-believing churches" is a failure? You may be able to fool some of the people some of the time, but with spin this transparent fooling 10% of them one day a week is simply not going to happen.

As MadPriest correctly predicted two years ago, the Matthians are hoping to come out of the shake-up with significant territorial gains. Then again, so did Germany at the start of the First World War, and look how successful that proved. Yet none of this is new - over 15 years ago the same sort of rhetorical dreams were flying around at Moore College: the only thing different now is that the Jensens' disciples no longer whisper their dreams to each other quietly, these days they're feeling confident enough to stand shouting on the rooftops.

Yet even though the volume's changed, the naivety is still the same - if not worse. Just as few people outside of Sydney have any comprehension of just how Puritan these wingnuts from the far side of the world really are, neither do most Sydney Anglicans realise that our new best friends are by local standards very, very high church. Reading the local Matthian blogs one can be easily forgiven for thinking Schofield is "one of us" - a Calvinist-Baptist clad in a medium-priced business suit and being persecuted for his commitment to reformed liturgy. Yesterday I had a lengthy discussion with a relative moderate who accused me of "slandering" Fr Kennedy of "Limp Willies" notoriety by claiming his wife is also an ordained minister, who preaches regularly. To say he was shocked when shown evidence proving I wasn't making anything up, and that Hostillium is indeed guilty of the afore mentioned, is an understatement. He really had no idea that his heroes of the international war on liberalism (my apologies if I've stolen that expression from GAFCON) sit on a very different side of the church to Sydney's.

All of which is my way of saying whatever happens next in the rapidly developing farce which is the Anglican schism, one thing is certain; Sydney may be one of the wealthiest dioceses in the world (so will somebody please explain why we can't afford youth workers and clergy throughout about a quarter of the city - while some parishes have more than 20 staff?) but all that money is never going to buy the power to force men like +Duncan & +Iker to stop worshipping in a manner that is (as I've heard both Jensens describe Anglo-Catholicism)"sub-Christian".

What's more here's going to be some angry young Matthians when they eventually realise that the reason they're stuck in under-funded parishes failing to "win the world for the Gospel" is because those resources have been spent getting up close and personal with the same "sub-Christians" they grew up being told were Evangelicalism's greatest enemies.

For some reason I just can't get the this song's title out of my head...

What sort of porn are you into?

2008-06-03T13:34:00.002+10:00

Now there’s a question guaranteed to get you strange looks if asked over coffee after the Sunday morning service ;-) Nor do I recommend raising it around the office water-cooler unless you want to gain a really unsavoury reputation.

Yet it’s interesting that when speaking about compulsive or “addictive” viewing of pornography, as well as of pornography in general, people rarely make any distinction between the stuff’s plethora of genres and subcultures. The reality is that far from being an amorphous whole, the porn industry’s dubious produce is targeted at an almost immeasurable variety of niches and ‘tastes’ (to be fair: using the word ‘taste’ in this context always strikes me as kind of odd).

So in asking this question I’m not just being prurient. Casting off any obsessive behaviour becomes easier when a person gains an insight into why that behaviour has developed a hold over them. Often there might be a number of factors at work; for example a serotonin deficiency in the brain combined with a learned anxiety developed very early in childhood; or a series of traumatic events actually unrelated, but seemingly connected by a common event (ie. a number of terrible incidents all occurred on days when the sufferer forgot to put out the garbage) resulting in an obsessive concern about that unrelated common event (“Am I sure I put the garbage out today?”). There’s all sorts of combinations possible – and when one adds the heady brew of hormones circulating in a person’s developing sexuality the potential for things to go haywire is very, very real.

That’s why understanding what’s gone on to make someone obsessed with doing something of which they are ashamed, and which they feel compelled to repeat even though they find this behaviour appalling, and understand the damage it is doing to themselves and potentially those around them, is important. If simply saying “no” worked, it would have. If it hasn’t the next question is “why?”. Hence the title’s question.

Some guys I’ve met are into silicone-enhanced Playboy “soft-porn. Others are into pictures of body-builders having oral sex. Some people are excited by viewing images of violence and suffering being inflicted, and a truly frightening character I once knew (who is now in gaol, thank God – but not after causing immeasurable pain and grief to a great many people) was obsessed with images of suffering naked children. Whatever the fantasy or fetish somebody’s probably into it – no matter how weird it may seem to the rest of us - and human creativity being what it is somebody else is probably trying to discover a new niche to exploit right now.

Often when thinking about all this I’m reminded of a great line from a Sting song: “Men grow crazy in congregations, they only get better one by one”. This doesn’t mean community has no part in finding oneself underneath whatever compulsive behaviour has taken hold, but rather that I don’t believe there’s such a thing as any ‘one-size fits all’ answer. People fall into a mess like compulsive porn usage for a unique set of reasons, and only by addressing those reasons within the context of the individual do I believe they’ve much hope of getting out.

Which goes back to original question – “what sort of porn?” – which is another way of exploring “what sort of mess are you in, and how did you get there?” Having found out how you got somewhere, and why, can often making finding your way back a whole lot easier.

***

I’m not a psychiatrist, nor a psychologist, and I refuse to pretend that I’m able to provide any of the professional help most people experiencing any form of compulsive behaviour need. I’m a Priest, which means I’ve spent a lot of time studying and thinking about belief, ways of believing, and ways of expressing that belief; and that I’ve made a vow (which I take very seriously) to never betray any confidences. If anyone wants to discuss their own journey and struggles with me privately I’ll be honoured (send me an email here) but otherwise please let’s not get too graphic in the comments below. The question we began with can only really be answered to oneself, or at least within the context of a professional therapeutic environment. The question for public discussion - as in one which can be answered in the context of community – is “Then where to next?”

Not all the Jensens specialise in nasty theology.

2008-05-30T12:22:00.005+10:00

Some of the family firm are experts in a different kind of crap.

... and the Wichita lineman...

2008-05-29T12:41:00.005+10:00

The guy from Wichita was late this week, but I'm glad to see he finally made it. I was getting worried something had scared him away.

In honor of his reappearance on the morning's stats I thought this clip appropriate. As a general word of advice: if anyone ever gets the chance to see Jimmy Webb (the guy performing here, who also wrote this song - along with a whole bunch of other classics) take it. Absolutely unforgettable.

Nigeria is a long way from here.

2008-05-28T15:51:00.009+10:00

In the wake of Sydney’s growing friendship with +Akinola and his similar minded friends from surrounding parts of Africa I’ve lately I’ve become fascinated by the Nigerian media. Thanks to the internet it’s possible to read the latest news from Abuja, as well as papers from regional centres such as Lagos or Kano and the Muslim north.

Some, such as the national Guardian clearly work hard to present credible and professional journalism, and the courage of those producing these papers cannot be understated. Others, such as the tabloid National Mirror seem more interested in generating Adsense revenue than they are in reporting the news. But my favourite is the Daily Sun

Newspapers like the Daily Sun exist in every country, and if you’re after serious analysis it’s unfair to compare them to papers like The Guardian. Yet they can offer a marvellous window into the hopes, dreams and concerns of the average person. They show a community’s popular culture in a way that more scholarly journals never can. They can even help explain why that nation’s leaders behave in ways which seem to make no sense by one’s own standards.

In Nigeria’s case the Daily Sun suggests that the background of the Bishops who Sydney (and more importantly, significant sections of the US) are embracing is very, very different to that of our own societies. +Akinola certainly comes from a deeply religious community (the Sun’s length list of regular features includes both "MAN IN THE PULPIT" and "ME & MY GOD",where local religious worthies discuss whatever it is that gets them excited. Let’s be honest here: none of them approach anything in a way to which your average western evangelical can relate.

This is in no way to be taken as implying the people of Nigeria (or anywhere else) are in any way inferior to those of the west, so please don’t bother accusing me of racism. The point I’m trying to make is that Nigeria is a very different culture to upper-middle-class Sydney (or North America), and that assuming either side fully understands where the other is coming from is naïve – if not positively dangerous.

As an example: not many high-circulation Australian newspapers would feature an article titled "God can still deliver cultists who made money through rituals if..." This fascinating piece revolves around an interview with the Rev. Dr. Francis Chukwuma Uwah (JP), who is the General Overseer of the Hundredfold World Outreach Church International Incorporated, and advises that ”God is so kind and merciful that He can afford to deliver any occult man who made his riches through ritual sacrifices”.

Or somehow I think not even the US National Enquirer could run Dr (Mrs.) Stella Kalu Ozonanze Queen (Eze nwanyi)’s (pictured right) wonderful account “I’m in mermaid cult, but I also believe in Jesus (Ok, I take that back. The Enquirer would love her, but I can’t think of anyone else who'd give her a run.)

Overlooked in all the breathless conservative reports of +Akinola’s brave stand on the global stage is the fact that his is clearly a See in the developing world, and that far from being a stalwart leader of his nation he is actually just one of a countless voices fighting to be heard in the rich Nigerian religious tapestry.

In a milieu which includes High Priest Daniel Oguejiofor (pictured left), the general overseer of Yaweh the King Holy Sabbath ("How my prayer paralysed a native doctor"; the Church of God Mission Inc (CGM) ("Pastoral work ruined my company"); and The Lord’s Brethren Charismatic Reconciliation Revival Ministries ("Satan using women to destroy the Church") featuring in a national secular daily it’s a safe bet to assume there will be some pretty big cultural gaps for both sides to cross before either of us is in a position to assume administrative oversight of the other’s congregations.

In the mean time is it really so liberal to suggest that we all concentrate on fixing the planks in our own eyes until both of us can understand the other whole lot better? And in the meantime how about a few prayers or kind thoughts or whatever it is you're into for the team at the Guardian? Anyone exposing Nigerian corporate and government corruption has a job more dangerous than yours or mine will ever be, and deserves all the help they can get.

I've been memed.

2008-05-22T22:28:00.004+10:00

Lindy (who most certainly does not have "just another blog"!) tagged me for this, and there’s no way I can pass up a chance write about any book I love. Especially this one. But before going any further here’s the rules:

Books are scarce in the world. They are illegal in some provinces. They are not easily replaced if not impossible to replace if lost in many if not most circumstances. If you can replace a book or buy one it is usually through the black market at astronomical costs that you cannot afford. Yet you have been able to maintain one of the best collections in the world. If your entire library was about to burn up (think of the firefighters in Fahrenheit 451 invading your home) and you could only have one book to take with you other than the Bible, what would that be and why?

Simple Rules: Answer the question. Offer one quote that resonates with you. Tag five people whose response is of genuine interest to you and inform him or her that they have been tagged. Cheers!

Ok folks – so my choice isn’t exactly highbrow, but I still think it's on of the greatest things ever written. I’ve bought and given away more copies than I can remember, but most of my friends couldn’t finish reading it. Some found the language too strained – lots of sentences without verbs, followed by others containing nothing but. Other’s just thought it too weird, but then they also say the same about me.

Perhaps because sometimes when reading this book I feel like I’ve already lived large junks, or at least imagined I have. Even though I’ve never been to Newfoundland, and everyone I’ve met who has says I’d be bitterly disappointed, in the dark times it even helped me believe that somewhere on the far corner of the planet there’s a place that even someone like me might just fit in. It’s the story of a man named Quoyle, although in some ways I’ve always known it as the story of a Priest named Caliban – but that’s a tale for another time.

The book is, of course The Shipping News by E. Annie Proulx.
Read this – the novel’s final paragraph – out aloud. Preferably somewhere windy near water, with a glass of dry red wine in your hand: shout it out till the seagulls scream back and you’ll know what I mean. Especially if a funny-looking wet black dog is running beside you. Or maybe you won’t, but it’s still breath-taking writing.

"Quoyle experienced moments in all colors, uttered brilliancies, paid attention to the rich sound of waves counting stones, he laughed and wept, noticed sunsets, heard music in rain, said I do. For if Jack Buggit could escape from the pickle jar, if a bird with a broken neck could fly away, what else might be possible? Water may be older than light, diamonds crack in hot goat's blood, mountaintops give off cold fire, forests appear in mid-ocean, it may happen that a crab is caught with the shadow of a hand on its back, that the wind be imprisoned in a bit of knotted string. And it may be that love sometimes occurs without pain or misery."

Now when it comes to tagging others I'm not much good, since although I like these things about as much as most people seem to find them stressful, and I worry terribly about causing good people any stress.

Maybe it's just that for me after writing so much about porno and crappy churches any change is fun, buy I'm honestly interested in everyone who drops by here and their favourite book, so please, if you got the time and a book ou'd like to share feel welcome to pick up the meme and run with it. Just please remember to let me know here so I can link to it - as well as find a copy of the book if I haven't read it.

I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore, Toto.

2008-05-20T11:51:00.010+10:00

Well it’s Tuesday morning here in Sydney and the guy from Wichita has just dropped by after usual his search. Google Analytics shows he stayed for just over 2 minutes before cruising on to wherever it is that guys in Wichita go when surfing the web for “hot boat porn Christian” sites.

The other search expression that brought a few people here overnight was “covenant eyes crack”. I’m assuming they were looking for ways to get around the software that seems to be gaining a cult following here, and not just looking for some kind of fetish which involving things can’t even begin to imagine. In which case I’m sorry, but two more disappointed visitors just left us: even if I did know a way around the program (and I don’t) it wouldn’t be here. Playing those kind of self-deceptive games with oneself and others about what you’ve been viewing (even if you just don’t want any Moore College faculty to know you lurk at Caliban’s Dream) never helps anyone.

What I can offer is the suggestion that we do something hypothetical here when talking about porn. Let’s all pretend it’s completely unconnected in any way with a person’s morality, ethical standing, relationship with God, or anything else which effects the way people view a person. When we’re here let’s imagine a person’s fascination with pornography is something purely psychological, like for example, an interest in model aircraft, or collecting beer coasters.

Now please – I’m not saying it is in the same category. Got that? At the risk of sounding rude I’ll repeat it shouting:I AM NOT SAYING PORNOGRAPHY AND MORALITY ARE UNCONNECTED! What I am saying is that when discussing it around here let’s try and think about it as if they are. Just as a kind of experiment, ok?

I realise that’s going to seem awfully challenging for some, and if you can’t handle the idea then don’t feel compelled to stick around; there’s no shortage of places on the web taking a more traditional approach. But if they really did have all the answers I’ll bet we wouldn’t be having this conversation, would we? Sure, I know the idea of perving at the old whacko material cuts across just about every rule concerning personal purity you’ve ever heard preached by the Father Christians of this world (and, to be fair, plenty of people a whole lot nicer than he is), but let’s just try and put that to one side when discussing the subject here. For the purpose of this place we’re just going to pretend it’s only an interest some people have, there’s nothing sinful about it, nothing immoral about it whatsoever. Then let’s see where this idea might take us…

PS. Since there’s a fair bit more going on in the world besides porno (nearly all of which I happen to consider vastly more important) I can’t promise a post on the topic every day: in fact for everyone’s sake
(and especially my own ;-) I’d really like to vary the topic occasionally. If there’s anything you’d really like me to grab and run with now please just leave a comment in on any topic, or send an email to the link at the top-right corner on the page. Otherwise just keep dropping by: I promise we'll get back to this topic sooner rather than later.

A few minutes nostalgia.

2008-05-18T20:19:00.002+10:00

It's not only a great song, but also one of few genuinely funny music videos ever made. Where would the world be without Billy Bragg?

Porn, porn, porn (& more about "Covenant Eyes").

2008-05-18T14:53:00.006+10:00

Lately an old post has been attracting comments: it’s the one I wrote back in January when the manufacturers of a dubious application called Covenant Eyes criticised an an earlier post in which I made fun of Moore Theological College (where you’ve got to study if you live in this town and want to be ordained) for making its installation mandatory for all student and faculty computers.

Guys – I don’t know how to break this to you – but there are bigger problems in the world than your spending time polishing Mr. Lonely. I know it feels a big thing to you (no pun intended ;-), and naughtynursenancy.com or wherever it is you’ve been secretly hanging out seems really wicked, and like a giant wedge between you and God, but porn really isn’t the huge barrier between you and God that you’re making it out to be. The guilt, pain, anguish and unworthiness you feel as a result of your obsession is in your head, not God’s. The shame and embarrassment your society places upon you should as a result of your fascinations and urges are didn’t originate with anything Jesus said.

Look, if you feel Covenant Eyes really helps you that’s great. If someone feels more in control of their life and sexuality by rubbing yak butter behind their ears that’s also fine – whatever helps you be more in control of being yourself. But just because the yak butter works for one person doesn’t mean it’s going to help everyone. Nor should those for whom it doesn’t work feel like failures, or second-rate Christians whom God couldn't call for anything.

They’re the people I’m most concerned with. I’ve met an awful lot of people who’ve tried “just-say-no” cures to all sorts of things, and only ended up even more depressed when these didn't work. I’ve also had pretty much all I can take of people reducing Christian morality to sexual abstinence, meanwhile ignoring the things that Jesus mentioned quite explicitly (sorry if that word causes anyone to stumble ;-) - judgementalism, bigotry, religious hypocrisy, materialism… why isn’t there the same market for some kind of software that can filter these out of our churches?

Clearly, if my Google Analytics figures are anything to go by, porn reigns on the internet – even in the micro-niche of quasi-religious blogs about the Diocese-that-time-forgot. Google “French boat porn” and number one (out of 234,000) is a post I put up back in last December about fast sailing craft, and I still regularly get hits from people who’ve come looking for something other than trimarans. Then there’s the guy from Wichita who drops by every Tuesday morning (Sydney time) after googling “hot boat porn Christian” – that gets 1,070,000 hits and I’ve no idea how far he’s got to search down the list before finding this place (nor why he bothers week after week when he must be disappointed with what he finds here). But that’s human sexuality for you. A strange beast, that can indeed seem an uncontrollable and irrational force. Yet if God is all-knowing none of it’s going to come as a surprise, and none of it can ever apply as an exclusion clause to “For God so loved the world…”

Let’s face it, as men each of the apostles had at some time taken their own one-eyed lizard for a stroll, Paul included. Nor can you tell me that the women of the Bible were as sterile as how they’ve traditionally been depicted. They were humans! Which also means that, given there was more than ten in the entire entourage, at least one of the people alongside Jesus preferred thinking about their own gender while self-administering the sacrament of soothing.

And guess what? Jesus never told off any of them for it! Not a single mention. Which, given the joy people find in reporting on other’s predilections in this department, is strange. Surely if Jesus had made some profound off-the-cuff criticisms of one of the disciples for spending too long in the john after one of the Marys had a wardrobe malfunction, it’s pretty certain someone would’ve remembered it. But instead we get nothing. Either Christ’s priorities were wrong, or ours are: take your pick, but I know which way I’ll be voting.

I’ll try and rant some more about this topic soon, just as soon as we can all pull ourselves together for another round (boom-tish!). In the meantime, if you're the guy in Wichita can you please tell me how far down the list we come? And why isn't it easier to just add this place to your favourites?

Signs and Wonders.

2008-05-15T16:12:00.015+10:00

It’s just over a month since the Reverend Career Blind-Alley (or whatever his name was) of St Stephen’s Bellevue Hill hit the spotlight after sending a couple of very childish (not to mention downright nasty) letters to Justice Kirby, one of Australia’s most respected public figures.

Since then Rev. Blind-Alley has been an obedient Matthian, and lain low without making a sound until all the fuss dies down. Rumours that this was influenced by coadjutant Bishop Falstaff are completely unfounded, as is the report that Bishop Falstaff was seen carrying 50 feet of rope and several roles of duct tape into the St. Stephen’s manse.

So, as is the usual means of dealing with hiccups on the path to world evangelical domination, all reference to the event has now been removed from the official histories. All that remains is an unwritten (and oh-so softly voiced) warning for Sydney clergy to in future ignore powerful and popular persons of alternate sexuality, and simply continue picking on their traditional target: the vulnerable and easily intimidated. Consequently I was deleting my unused pictures of St. Stephen’s, since the story has no further mileage and they won't be needed any more, when when I noticed something...

As you can see, when it comes to noticeboards St. Stephen’s believes more is better. That’s not unusual in these parts: perhaps someone in the Cathedral offices a few years ago had a brother-in-law in the sign business.

Look at the close-up of the left sign above, and you’ll see the Sunday evening “Contemporary Evening Meeting” (no + Iker –your new friends from Sydney never call it “The Eucharist”. Ask them why at GAFCON – they’ll be happy to explain.) is held at 7pm.

Yet the sign on the right says it starts at 6pm. So which is correct? When should anyone interested arrive?

One thing is certain: they don’t run two services. Matthians like their sermons long (anything less than 40 minutes suggests the preacher has liberal tendencies), so there’d be no time for Rev. Blind-Alley to double up. Besides, Bellevue Hill isn’t exactly a hot-bed of revival (bet you’d never guessed, right?), so anything more than a dozen bums on pews for one evening service would be surprising.

This indicative of something you see in churches everywhere: it’s certainly not just a Sydney Anglican thing. Those in the know, the pious insiders, have the correct time, and they undoubtedly show up every week as regular as clockwork. The reason the signs haven’t been fixed is because the people responsible don’t care about those not in their clique. They have more important things to do than worry about signs. It doesn’t matter that outsiders don’t know when to arrive for the evening service, because outsiders aren’t really welcome.

If Sydney’s commitment to mission and growth is anything more than lip-service and a "we can do it too" response to World Youth Day (and they’ve a long way to go before I’ll be convinced it is) the men in charge are going to have to start caring about those who aren't on the inner. Showing they care. Listening even. Actually loving those who have not yet attained the authorised (and self-assessed) degree of sinless righteousness.

And gee, it’d help if they could let people know what time things start.

God spare us all this Mercy.

2008-05-13T21:58:00.007+10:00

Since yesterday I've done a little more reading on Mercy Ministries. Ok: so actually I've read a lot about these scum - I use the word 'scum' in its most theologically-considered sense - and please believe me when I say they're a nasty, nasty organisation.

But don't just take my word for it: here's an article from last month's Sydney Morning Herald. Or even better, jump on over to Sean the Blogonaut's place and download a copy of the Mercy Ministries program handbook.

That way you can see for yourself what these psuedo-Christians inflict on the poor, the ill and the insecure. While the handbook is supposed to be 'secret' (you'll understand why they'd be ashamed of it when you see it), Sean, a fellow Aussie who is unquestionably what we call down here "a bloody good bloke", has been doing everything he can to expose this scam, and to provide survivors of Hillsong's abusive scam with somewhere to share their experiences. One of them has passed on this frightening document, which is given to women after they've signed on the dotted line and entered the program. If the rules look more like those of a medium security prison than a supportive and therapeutic environment to you, just imagine how they feel to a mentally ill person who's come hoping to find help, only to be hit with all 16 pages of this.

Click the cover image above to go to Sean's blog and read what Mercy Ministries are really like. While you're at it have a look around at the other stuff there about these pharisees, and let him know what a great job he's doing. While he mightn't share the beliefs that many of us here have, his actions prove him a lot closer to Christ than many folk I've met sitting in pews (and much more than most occupying a pulpit in my part of the world), and he deserves all the support he can get.

The Hills aren't singing, they're crying for justice.

2008-05-12T20:36:00.008+10:00

At the start of this month I wrote about Hillsong the local Assemblies of God megachurch run by Brian 'Oedipus' Houston and his irritating wife ~~Barbie~~ Bobbie.

What I didn't mention is that Hillsong also operate the Australian arm of Mercy Ministries, a charity whose stated mission is to provide assistance and treatment for women aged 16 - 28 who are experiencing "issues such as eating disorders, unplanned pregnancy, self-harm, addictions, depression or abuse."

Now obviously these are very serious matters, and I don't know anything of how Mercy Ministries operate elsewhere, but lately Hillsong have been getting a lot of well deserved heat over their Mercy Ministries residential program. To an outsider like me the general philosophy appears to have been "they might think their life's hell now, but we'll show them that they ain't seen nothing yet". Then add a loathsome requirement that these ill and vulnerable women sign over all their welfare payments for the privilege of seeing any remaining shreds of their self esteem destroyed - should I mention the exorcisms now?. Couple this with a healthy injection of corporate sponsorship funds, and the whole moneyspinner helps Barbie pay for the most expensive acrylic nails money can buy. Or perhaps the repayments on Oedipus' Porsche.

What is wasn't doing was helping anyone recover - or any of the other promises made to those seeking professional care and treatment. Read this eye-witness account written someone who survived the Hillsong Mercy Ministries program. And afterwards please take a moment to let her know she's a hero for surviving to speak out against this evil.

Just a fisher of men.

2008-05-11T13:44:00.002+10:00

"Would you believe it was this big?"

This week's anthem contender.

2008-05-10T14:12:00.008+10:00

Looking over the last few things here has left me worried that I've been coming across rather gloomy, which is really not what I'm like. Absurdly busy: yes (hence the absence of any new posts this past week), chaotic: probably, and sleep-deprived; absolutely, which is perfectly normal when you're a parent. But depressed? Not any more. Pessimistic? No way.

So correcting this glaring inaccuracy is this week's anthem, from the one and only Ian Dury. God bless 'im - one of the Britain's finest. Ever.

A cold autumn.

2008-05-04T14:21:00.018+10:00

Driving home from church this morning we came upon a young man laying screaming on the ground next to his crashed motorbike. A car had just knocked him down and fled the scene, leaving him for dead.

We pulled over, and I ran to help. Having studied a bit of first aid (and even written a first aid course two years ago as part of a contract for a merchant bank – itself a long story: large sections needed revision to cover their executive staff; turned out the classes on CPR were irrelevant since none of them had hearts ;-) it was a relief to discover how much I could remember: if you’d asked me any questions ten minutes earlier I’d have known nothing. Emergency (it’s 000 in Australia, not 911) dispatched an ambulance and began going through the DR ABC checklist (if you don’t know what that is you should: knowing could save someone’s life - why schools seem to think it’s more important to teach algebra than first aid is completely beyond me) and it was reassuring to be able to confirm each step had already been taken.

The rider began to settle: his left arm, leg and collarbone were in pretty bad way, but he had movement and feeling in his fingertips and toes, no significant bleeding, and no head injury – helmets are compulsory for a reason. A passing fireman stopped to take care of the fire hazard: fuel from the bike had splashed everywhere, and then the emergency services arrived.

The police explained that an off-duty officer travelling in the opposite direction had seen everything and given chase, arresting the hit-and-run driver at the next intersection. She (the police officer) returned while I was giving my details, and looked every bit as proud as she deserved to feel: the driver was a tall and angry man easily three times her size, and confronting him would have taken considerable courage.

I’ll drop over to the hospital to visit the rider later today and see how he’s going: in parish I used to do a lot of hospital work, and it still feels like one of the most rewarding ways possible of spending a Sunday afternoon.

***

All of which brings to an end what has been very dark week. On Thursday a close friend’s ex-wife lost her son in an accident on Sydney Harbour: their daughter was tragically killed about 10 years before, and the grief into which they have been plunged is more than anyone can even begin to comprehend. While at the same time this weekend, which is for us late autumn with high clear skies and cold afternoons, marks 20 years since another dear friend developed tertiary aids.

In those days, which were long before the appearance of antiretrovirals, his future was so much of a forgone conclusion that everyone went into a kind of denial. Quasi-fundamentalist and strangely bohemian at the same time, we were all about as functional as an acupuncturist with Parkinsons. A close-knit community for whom the years have not been equally kind, we’ve long gone our separate ways, and for some those days are only a vaguely remembered science-fiction.

But I know each of us remembers Dusan, and the months following this weekend, which lead to that awful August-September of 1988. I’ll post more in his memory as the anniversary of his death draws nearer, and I promise that it shan’t be too bleak. To write of Dusan in any way other than with laughter and energy would be to deny the life that he brought to everyone around him. This is a song from “back-in-the-day” local band Died Pretty called D.C. I couldn’t believe my eyes when I found it on YouTube, and who knows: it might even be about him...

Oedipus Houston wants a palace.

2008-05-03T15:15:00.008+10:00

Sydney’s largest Assemblies of God congregation is Hillsong, a mega-church run by Oedipus Houston, and his wife Barbie. Together they make all Australians proud by proving our most expensive dentists are every bit as good as any Hollywood can offer.

Lately Pastor Oedipus and his happy-clappy ~~revenue sources~~ ~~revolving door~~ congregation have come in for a bit of criticism, since local residents are strenuously objecting to plans to build a 2,700 seat “worship & ministry complex” and seven-storey administrative tower in the middle of Roseberry, a residential community about 20 minutes walk from the Casa del Caliban.

One of the key problems is that Hillsong’s development application (allegedly based on a design directly from God) fails to include anywhere near enough parking spaces. Naturally the prosperity-focussed “kids of the King” who attend Hillsong’s 4+ services every Sunday (not to mention the dozens of mid-week meetings) wouldn’t dream of demonstrating their lack of faith by catching public transport, and since the area already has a shortage of parking the enourmous traffic pressures which will be caused by Oedipus’ tacky Taj Mahal are naturally causing everyone great concern. Not to mention the noise; can anyone begin to imagine how loud almost three thousand donors to the Pastor's Porsche Fund can get when they all start braying at God together?

In an attempt to persuade Sydney City Council to permit the development, Hillsong presented a petition from whom they claimed were locals supporting the project. However when the Roseberry Residents Action Group reviewed this list, they found just 29 of the 4000 addresses provided were valid! In one stunning example of clerical integrity an assistant pastor’s name and signature appeared in four separate entries. Elsewhere the former high ranking Hillsong employee, Leigh Coleman and his wife Vera had signed the petition twice, listing two different addresses. This great cartoon from our local paper Central says it all:

Anyone interested can find out more about Oedipus Houston’s grubby plans, and how a community has come together to resist them here.

But on the bright side, isn’t it refreshing to see someone in Sydney other than the Matthians act as if their claim to have a monopoly on God gives them the right to do and say whatever they want?

Walpurgisnacht 2008

2008-04-30T17:11:00.012+10:00

Walpurgisnacht is that point in the year’s cycle when the fabric stretching between these Shadowlands and That Which Is To Come was traditionally believed to be at its thinnest. In our bright shining world of IPhones and HDTV most Christians dismiss all this as superstition, and maybe they’re right. But if they turned off the lights for a few hours tonight and went for a walk somewhere beyond their comfort zones, who knows? Perhaps even the most certain might just for a moment reconsider...

It’s also the evening on which Hitler, Goebbels and a few other loathsome and cowardly toads killed themselves and their families. Which not just signifies the terrible end of a terrible chapter, but also points to something far greater. Something that should give us all courage: no matter how invincible any dictator may appear, or how insurmountable and overwhelming the bureaucracy, or even just how monocultural, nepotistic and unchallengeable the Family Firm; only God lives forever.

Flowers will always break through cracks in the pavement,
and only Love endureth.

Dean Jensen: "Let's party like it's 1517!"

2008-04-28T11:19:00.005+10:00

This week's Message from the Dean shows the tradition of sectarian ranting lives on. Then again, it's also kind of funny; but how can a homily beginning "Protestantism is a protest. Our protest is against the enormity of the claims of the Roman Catholic Church." be anything else?

What's even funnier is the logical contortions he undergoes in order to stress that although Catholicism is the nadir of heresy, there's nothing wrong with the state government spending buckets of taxpayers money subsidising World Youth Day. "In the larger picture of our finances" Dean Jensen explains, "it is a small amount of money". Yeah right: the current figure of $86 million is nothing. Loose change in our pockets.

Of course there's no secret about the real reason for going soft on this appalling diversion of public funds away from frivolities like hospitals, schools and child-care. If the politicians spend money on the Catholics this year there's a good chance the Sydney Anglicans can squeeze them for a few dollars next year, isn't there?

For whom the Pell tolls...

2008-04-27T21:02:00.005+10:00

One of the small consolations of being a Sydney Anglican is that your Roman Catholic friends here understand exactly what it’s like to have a leader who seems to think the Pharisees are the Gospels’ good guys. That’s because while us Anglican’s have got Archbishop Peter Jensen, they’ve got Cardinal George Pell.

Even though the two each believe that the other’s church preaches a false gospel condemning believers to an eternity of fire and brimstone, and that God cares far more about people’s sexuality that about injustice, oppression and discrimination, they actually enjoy quite a cordial relationship. Proof perhaps that hatred of your fellow humans can run deeper than your love of a God constrained and limited by a doctrinal straitjacket.

GAFCON pretensions notwithstanding, only the most blinkered Matthian believes +Jensen will ever rise any higher in the global Anglican hierarchy. Let’s face it, the sect that's Sydney is not exactly an exportable commodity. On the other hand rumours of Cardinal Pell’s elevator having considerably more floors to pass before hitting the rooftop have been buzzing around for some time.

Thanks to a tip from FranIAm (hey: it’s her anniversary so click the link and wish the happy couple all the best!) I've discovered the Irish Catholic Priest Sotto Voce and his blog Clerical Whispers. In a very well reasoned post he explains just why Sydney Catholics can feel justified in hoping ‘Benny’s Bunny’ might soon be hop, hop, hopping away. Which is great news for Sydney Christians, but bad news for Catholics everywhere else. Sorry guys, but we could do with a break...

To help you all prepare for what’s ahead, here’s a snap of our Cardinal taken during the last World Youth Day in Germany, showing what a fun and down-to-earth guy he really is. Wearing a jaunty but casual little number selected by one of his coterie, the famous Pelle’s Belles, he’d just stepped outside for a short stroll. Perhaps he was looking for a bus called Priscilla.

And again!!!

2008-04-27T09:24:00.008+10:00

Closely following the great news of Bishop Kay Goldsworthy's appointment comes further proof that at least some parts of the Australian Anglican Communion take the Bible seriously enough to recognise that an omnipotent God is indeed capable of calling women to the office of Bishop.

Canon Barbara Darling of St James Dandenong, has just been named by the Melbourne Archbishop as Australia's second woman Bishop. Having lurked on several occasions in St. James I can speak from experience in saying she's a wonderful priest, a wise and insightful preacher, and will undoubtedly prove a faithful and compassionate Bishop. The people of Melbourne have indeed been richly blessed.

... and now let the Duck Noodle Gang celebrations commence!

Anzac Day 2008.

2008-04-25T22:22:00.037+10:00

For those not familiar with the Australian calendar, April 25 is Anzac Day. It’s a public holiday; our Veteran’s Day or Armistice Day.

That’s because today in 1915 was the first time members of the Australian and New Zealand Army Corps - the ANZACS - saw action in WWI. They’d landed on the Gallipoli Peninsula in the Dardanelles as part of a naïve Allied plan to gain control of the Black Sea and capture Istanbul, thereby knocking Turkey out of the war and opening an attack on Germany from the east. Understandably the Turks had other ideas, and being better equipped and militarily far more astute than their Anglo-centric invaders could imagine, the attacking Anzacs were slaughtered. By the end of 1915 they had withdrawn. The Gallipoli campaign was abandoned as a failure.

The following years brought Australian troops death in the Western European mud, but April 25 had already been established as our day of commemoration. And so it continues today, as the Australian media wax lyrical about the “Anzac spirit” being “forged in blood and fire.”

Yet the popularity of Anzac Day as a time of national remembrance by those not having served in the Armed Forces is a relatively recent phenomena mostly resulting from the Howard years’ facile jingoism. During the 1970s popular opinion was that the commemoration, which features street marches in every major town, would soon disappear due to lack of interest and the inevitable aging of veterans. Not so: today children parade on behalf place of long deceased ancestors, and any display of enthusiasm which appears less than vigorous runs the risk of public shaming as ‘unAustralian’.

But in 1925 mainstream Australia wanted little to do with those who’d fought for God, King and Empire. The surviving Anzacs weren’t eulogized as they are today; letters to the letters pages of local papers were filled with complaints about anti-social returned servicemen “refusing to get on with life” and “expecting the country owes them a living.” Much as Vietnam veterans were viewed in the 80’s, returned Anzacs in the 1920s and 30s were commonly regarded as misfits, not heroes.

It’s hardly surprising that men who had experienced places like Gallipoli and the Western Front developed problems. The horrors they’d endured were quite literally beyond the comprehension of their friends, family, neighbours and employers who’d stayed behind. Some returned soldiers tried to cope with the nightmares by embracing extremist political groups such as the New Guard or Wobblies: few sought any comfort in Sydney Anglicanism - working class inner-city parishes never regained their pre-war congregation sizes. Other men simply drank till they went insane, and many subsequently took their own life. Still others simply came home crazy and stayed that way.

In which case they usually ended up here: B Ward in Callan Park: a sprawling Victorian psychiatric hospital now partly occupied by Sydney College of the Arts, partly by health related groups, and partly, like B Ward, being slowly demolished by neglect.

There are no foundation stones on the buildings of B Ward, no plaques proudly declaring an opening on such and such a date by Major General Sir So-and-So in the presence of Bishop Longtoss and a raft of similar worthies.

The truth is people were ashamed of the incontinent screaming wrecks sheltered inside. Wards were thrown up as needed, and now these men have lived out however many years they were cursed to endure after losing their minds in a cloud of cordite and barbed wire it’s as if society wishes this remaining evidence of war’s obscenity would just disappear.

For me the most haunting reminder of these forgotten casualties of Archduke Ferdinand’s assassination is a miniature Sydney Harbour Bridge constructed in 1931 by the patients in memory of their fallen comrades. They beat the real bridge’s completion, which wasn’t opened until 1932, but the real feat is that few if any of the men who built the memorial had ever seen the real thing’s construction. Nor did they later cross it regularly; as military patients they were confined to the ward and, if they ‘behaved themselves’, the grounds. For most this was the template for however many fragile decades remained of their haunted lives.

In reading this you’ve helped ensure they are not forgotten; thank you. I’ve no doubt the men would also be touched to know we remember them, even though ours is a world beyond their comprehension. They would, however, undoubtedly recoil in horror from the war in which many of our countries are currently embroiled. We should be ashamed by how they would feel we have learned nothing at all from the past.

May we at least pray that those whose minds are indelibly terrified by our leaders’ ‘war on terror’ will be treated with greater compassion and grace than these men were. May these little ones at least be loved by the Church in a way that the men of B Ward never knew.

HMAS Sydney: Lest We Forget.

2008-04-24T22:36:00.016+10:00

Today in St. Andrew’s Cathedral a memorial service was held for the crew of HMAS Sydney. Recently discovered where she sunk after engaging the German Maritime Raider Kormoran in 1941, the loss of the Sydney and all 645 men on board has been Australia’s most enduring wartime mystery.

Not solved however, is my own small HMAS Sydney mystery. Let me explain:

At the start of 1987 I had a job painting buildings belonging to the Good Samaritan Sisters in Tempe, an old industrial suburb in Sydney’s inner south. It was a complex which had once been a “place for penitent girls and women”- the Sister’s description, not mine: I can’t be that cruel. There were endless corridors, a chilly dormitory everyone found positively creepy once the late afternoon shadows grew long, and a gloomy dining room/assembly hall in which we were all convinced someone (or something) watched us. Worse though, was the old abandoned commercial laundry.

A few years back there was a movie made about one of Magdalene Laundries in Ireland. I honestly don’t know if the place I hosed and scraped and painted had been as evil as the institution featured in that film, but I’d swear you could hear screaming if you pressed your ear to the wall. And the air hung thick with tears.

Sadly I didn’t think to take pictures at the time, and this is all I’ve been able to find. Taken a few years after I worked on the site; it shows the destruction caused by a fire which resulted in the complex’s demolition, but it doesn’t convey how I remember the place: in my mind it's always cold, grey and damp. The building in the centre housed a kitchen and offices added in the early 50’s, more than half a century after the laundry just showing on the right was constructed.

Inside the far end of the laundry was a sunken passageway leading to the dormitories. Over the years this had become a dumping ground for old laundry baskets and broken machines; for several days my task was to clean this out, replace the lighting, and paint the walls. Judging by the age of the detritus it had not been an official route for a very, very long time: after the day's work it was no doubt deemed more edifying to march the young inmates outside and across the quadrangle (perhaps via the chapel) than to permit them taking the easier direct passage.

Yet don’t think the passageway was unused. The junk was riddled with tunnels leading to small hidden clearings just big enough to let a few girls hide from the Sisters for a few minutes and rest. Or maybe read a contraband movie magazine and dream of film stars and Hollywood and anywhere on earth other than a reformatory for "immoral and uncontrollable girls" claiming to redeem it's captives by forcing them to wash soiled hospital linen. The passage had been regularly occupied for decades, but only furtively so; and the secret kept hidden from the Nuns must have passed down through generations of inmates.

The walls of these hiding places were covered with graffiti scratched into the grubby institutional duck-egg-blue plaster. Most of it was the usual timeless stuff: “Sue Loves Tom Forever” and “Mother Dorcas is a Bitch” (there’s absolutely no doubt in my mind she was a bitch - sadly there’s people like that to be found in the administration of every institution, in every age). But one etching shall live in my mind forever, and it’s the reason for this post.

It was of a crudely drawn ship, with two funnels, two masts and a prominent bridge. Underneath was written “HMAS SYDNEY” followed by two boy’s names, each clearly carved by a different hand, and each surrounded by hearts. At the bottom was the date 27 February 1941 – the date the ship last sailed from her home port, the city after which she had been named. The city in which the girls now imprisoned had loved their handsome young sailors.

The girls who’d created this never saw their young men again, for they spent the rest of 1941 patrolling the Indian Ocean. Until 19 November; after then they were listed as missing presumed dead. Fate unknown. That the graffiti predated their death I have no doubt: the date was of their departure – not their disappearance – and besides it just seemed so cheerful, so optimistic in a place where there was no joy at all.

As I’ve said, I didn’t have a camera to record what I found. I tried explaining to my boss its importance, but his idea of what’s important was different to mine. Being much younger and sillier in those days I shut up and did what he told me: I sanded the wall back and painted over this precious fragment of the past. Nowadays I can’t believe I didn’t even think to record the names listed, but that was a different time and place, and why I was there is another story.

This picture of Sydney crewmen was taken in 1940: perhaps two of these boys (I can’t bring myself to think of such hairless chests, and faces barely needing to be shaved as belonging to men) were the girl’s sweethearts. If not then there’s no doubt they were just as handsome, just as cheeky, just as sure that nothing , but nothing, could overcome them.

The girls, if still alive, must be quite old now: if so I dearly hope life came to bring them more than what they found during their dark days in the Tempe Magdalene Laundry. Somehow though, I suspect they may also have now moved on to the world beyond these Shadowlands. I’ve no evidence for this, and so it’s only my foolish heart dreaming, but while listening as the Sydney memorial service was broadcast on the radio today, I’d swear I could also hear a couple of young girls flirting; they were laughing with two sailors only a year or two older than themselves. You couldn’t quite catch what they were saying, but you could be certain the Sisters wouldn’t have approved.

Then again, the Sisters have probably also found forgiveness now. As, dare I say, so shall we. But today, however, belongs to a couple of kids. May the Lord tonight and always give them the joy which was their birthright, but which was stolen from them by others, by war, and by bitterness itself.

No Comment.

2008-04-22T20:25:00.005+10:00

Please accept my apologies for not bringing this to everyone’s attention earlier, but I’ve just discovered an article on your.sydneyanglicans.net announcing that the Sydney Anglican public health network Hope Healthcare, formally a wholly owned subsidiary of The Anglican Deaconess Institution Sydney Limited, has been sold to Hammond Care - "an independent Christian charity with no official connection with any denomination."

Not stated is how much money changed hands: readers are told "the sale price has not been made public”. Hammond Care CEO Dr Stephen Judd describes the acquisition as “a strategic move for Hammond Care."

Nor does the article mention (as of the time this was posted) that Dr Stephen Judd is also a member of the Sydney Anglican Diocesan Secretariat.

Time for another anthem contender.

2008-04-19T08:24:00.022+10:00

A little known fact about yours truly is that (among other strange predilections) I'm a chronic Shakespeare aficionado, and one of my favourite productions ever is Baz Luhrmann's 1996 film Romeo + Juliet. It's simply brilliant, conveying Elizabethan perceptions of 'those fiery Mediterraneans' better than anything I've ever seen. Sure the purists have issues with it, but I couldn't care less.

... and damn but it's a beautiful looking picture!

They just don't get it.

2008-04-16T11:24:00.015+10:00

Don’t worry: this portrait wasn’t taken post mortem. It’s Dr. Laurie Scandrett, chief executive of the Sydney Anglican Schools Corporation.

Now before we go any further, let's make it clear that I was going to post something more cheerful today, since we've all had more than enough depressing homophobia this week. But then, after meditating over a delightful cleanskin Shiraz (on sale at my local for the princely sum of $4.00 a bottle), I reconsidered.

“Alcibiades Caliban,” I thought, “what would your old doctrine lecturer think of you – giving up while there was still a point to be rammed home?” And so, with my face set once more towards Jerusalem, I’m stepping back into the ring for another round.

For international readers Dr. Scandrett’s fine name won’t mean much, but in these parts he’s famous for having (with two others) in 1992 launched a Supreme Court action to prevent the Australian church from ordaining women as priests. History shows how God blessed this nasty exercise in wasting at least $100,000 of Sydney parishioners’ money on legal fees, but it takes more than a snub like that to keep this grand old Anglican Church League lay-warhorse out of the papers. And so now he’s decided to weigh into the argument about teenagers at a mega-buck church school in Brisbane not being allowed to take same-sex partners to their end of school formal.

Lest anyone mistakenly thinks issues in Brisbane schools fall under Dr. Scandrett’s oversight, let’s just remember that there’s about 930 km (578 miles) between the two cities – it’s kind of like the folks in Salt Lake City telling Las Vegas how to run their businesses, or a road-worker in Edinburgh commenting on repairs in Paris. Why he should feel obliged to say anything is anyone's guess, although that’s not the biggest problem with Scandrett’s unsolicited advice.

No, the biggest problem is the sheer unthinking idiocy of believing that simply by banning kids from expressing their developing sexuality that somehow they’re going to turn straight. Does anyone really think two teenage boys are going say “Uh-oh: our school and a interstate lay-leader say we’re not allowed to partner each other to the school dance. From now on we’d better find girls sexually attractive instead.” Yeah right: and if you honestly believe reorienting one’s sexuality is that simple, let me quietly tell you about a great Opera House here in Sydney that I may just be able to sell you. It’s going cheap, so you’d better not tell anyone, but if you move quickly, and send cash…

What’s more, if Dr. Scandrett had any experience of teenagers (and as the chief executive of the Sydney Anglican Schools Corporation one would hope he does) he must surely know that the best way to get kids to think anything is attractive and exciting is to ban it. Surely if, as Sydney Diocese clearly believes, being gay or otherwise is simply a matter of making a choice, they would have the sense to not want to make what they consider to be the ‘wrong’ choice so interesting?

Then again, if those of Dr. Scandrett's like had any sense to start with they might take Jesus’ example more seriously, and realise there are much bigger priorities in the Kingdom of God than obsessively hunting down those who happen to be attracted to others of the same gender, and whom in that context aspire to develop loving, supportive relationships which reflect the Grace of God in an often dark and all-too confusing world.

And is it really too much to ask that the church encourages and supports all young people, and provides positive role models for everyone; not just those whose sexuality happens to coincide with that of a few litigious men - at least one of whom looks like something out of Madame Tussaud's? But is actually a whole lot scarier.

UPDATE: A few hours after I first posted this Archbishop Jensen backed up his leading layman with a similar statement to the media, reported here in the national newspaper The Australian. "I would completely denounce any violence against gay persons - it is morally wrong and reprehensible" he is quoted as saying - and yet he finds it's perfectly acceptable to believe God will torture practising GLBTs for eternity. And honestly appears to have no comprehension of how his unabashed discrimination encourages this sort of behaviour in others.

Now repeat after me everyone: We shall not despair, We shall not despair, We shall not...

Shush! Nobody mention Lay Presidency!

2008-04-15T11:36:00.007+10:00

I know I'm not the only one who's noticed Sydney's big men have recently grown very quiet about a topic most dear to their hearts: lay presidency. It couldn't possibly be because nobody wants to risk upsetting our new and very best friends in GAFCON, could it?

Personally I think this is a mistake. After all, surely our dear wise and Bible-believing buddies will see the importance of supporting our initiative once we've taught them how to read the relevant Scriptures correctly?

Just to help, here's a simple little illustration to show our new friends what we know the Bible teaches:

Popish Priestly Presidency - Bad.

Lay Presidency - Good!

All clear now? See how simple it is?

Ugly is as ugly does.

2008-04-14T16:10:00.022+10:00

This ugly inter-war brick building is St. Stephen’s Bellevue Hill, home of the Rev. Richard Lane - a faithful Matthian from way back. He’s recently achieved notoriety by sending two even uglier letters to Justice Michael Kirby: a much respected member of Australia’s High Court, and a profoundly Christian man equally as open about his faith as he is about his sexuality.

Anyone unfamiliar with the background to this spectacular example of Sydney Anglicans in action should read Noble Wolf’s account of the talk at which Rev. Lane's spectacular nastiness became public knowledge. At the time Justice Kirby kept the author’s name private; it wasn’t until The Sydney Morning Herald picked up the story a day later and outed the not-so-good Reverend that his identity became known.

In commenting on the issue Archbishop Jensen said the letters “needed to be read fully and in context”. Consequently one might imagine the Archbishop would be helping clarify any misunderstandings by providing public access to the exchange, but he’s done nothing of the sort. Which, once you've read his protégé's epistles, is hardly surprising: the word “loathsome” doesn’t even begin to do them justice.

Caliban’s Dream just happens to have been sent a copy of the correspondence by a sympathetic Duck Noodle Gangster, and unlike some versions circulating the letters here are in chronological order, starting with Lane’s unsolicited “turn or burn” missive and concluding with Justice Kirby’s amazingly patient second response, and appear complete. Read them all for yourself here.

Be warned: Lane’s “call to repentance” is positively vile stuff. The first letter is run-of-the-mill hate-exegesis, but his second is surreal, ridiculing Justice Kirby’s spelling, patronisingly addressing him as “Kirbs”, and sarcastically belittling his gracious effort to show that their might be more to reading Scripture in general, and those few passages concerning homosexuality in particular, than Rev. Lane has hitherto encountered. As I said, make up your own mind – but don’t say you haven’t been warned.

Strangest of all has been the hierarchy’s response: silence. Had Rev. Lane been writing to an average parishioner or perhaps a bewildered young man questioning his sexuality, those in power would be wholeheartedly supporting him. But Justice Kirby isn’t an average parishioner, as those in power are well aware. Lane’s regional Bishop, who shares few of the Jensen’s more puritan traits (he was known among certain disrespectful ne’er-do-wells - and not in an endearing sense - as “Reverend Falstaff"), once publicly refused communion to a lesbian couple, and the resultant media attention did nothing to diminish the support proffered by his fellow clergy. Yet this time things are different. Justice Kirby is a well known and much loved figure who gives selflessly of himself to the public. While at least Lane's homophobia is egalitarian, those in charge of the Sydney machine realise this is going to far, and appear to be trying to quietly lay low until things blown over. Perhaps after spending more than two decades encouraging and fostering bullies somebody has suddenly realised the danger of raising serpents as children?

Naturally the usual “blog nasties” are singing Lane’s praises and appear puzzled by this lack of support, although several seem to have quietened down when confronted with the second letter (it really is that bad!). My favourite is the blogger who's reposted letters sent to the Herald in support of Lane, and who claims that because the number of letters in favour of Lane was only slightly less than those criticising him Sydney Anglicans aren’t as unpopular and irrelevant as people say they are! He conveniently fails to mention was that one of the letters is his own, while another two are from clergy who studied with Lane, and are presumably close friends. Wonder how long before the spittle-flecked snake handlers (I’ve been dying for a chance to use that expression since seeing it at Padre Mickey’s, & still can’t say it without chuckling) realise people are laughing at them, not with them?

The funniest non sequitur of the debacle, however, is from someone apparently unknown in diocesan circles: one Lucy Chik of Faulconbridge. I quote it in entirety:

If Michael Kirby was in the surf and Richard Lane saw a shark approaching, would we not expect Lane to sound a warning?

You may have a point Ms. Chik, but Justice Kirby isn’t in the surf. He’s in a loving monogamous relationship, and has been so for 39 years. Contrary to what you might have been taught by your church leaders, there is a difference. Nor is there any shark approaching. Just an ill-mannered little man with a poor understanding of the Bible, and an angry urge to understate the vastness of God’s love.

YES!!!!

2008-04-11T14:42:00.007+10:00

Just announced is the news that Australia's first woman bishop - The Venerable Kay Goldsworthy - will be consecrated on May 22 in Perth! For more info see here.

Ok, so Perth is as far away from Sydney as L.A. is from New York (except in our case hardly anyone lives in between) - but the precedent's now been established, prayers have been answered, and by God's grace our church has taken a giant step forward in support of justice and equality.

Anyone near the Casa del Caliban tonight is welcome to drop around and join the celebration - let the champagne start flowing!

PS. The official press release from the Archbishop of Perth is here.

Clean Bum?

2008-04-11T10:07:00.004+10:00

This morning Missy Two was laying in bed with me, studying the intricacies of alternative Anglican blogging on the notepad ("Give me a child until she's five and I'll give you someone with a top ten Google ranking for life") while her mother showered. Coming back into the bedroom, swathed in towels, Mrs. Caliban was cheerfully greeted with the following:

"Clean face?" asked Miss Madam.
"All clean." replied her mother.

"Clean back?" came the next question.
"Back's clean."

"Clean bum?"

Now if anyone's looking for a salutation which guarantees strangers remember your moment of first meeting... if this doesn't beat "How y'going?" hands down I don't know what does.

More Chocolate Cake please!

2008-04-08T16:07:00.003+10:00

For everyone who liked the song from My Friend The Chocolate Cake yesterday there's a special bonus courtesy of ABC Radio National (that's the Australian public broadcaster ABC - not the other one) show 'Music Deli'.

Recorded live at Victoria's Queenscliff Music Festival in November 2007, it's pretty damn impressive indeed - classic Melbourne music. My faves are "Let's Go Walk This Town" and the classic "I've Got A Plan" - but click here to listen and decide for yourself. You'll have to be quick though: the ABC doesn't usually leave these up for very long.

PS. Guess what Mrs. Caliban is going to be hearing on high rotation for the next few days... ;-)

It's just a matter of time...

2008-04-07T17:02:00.005+10:00

A very dear reader kindly drew my attention to an article on page thirteen of last weekend’s Sydney Morning Herald headed Church seeks standby plan on women bishops.

The great news is that hopes are up for Australia to have our first woman Bishop appointed very soon – possibly even before Lambeth in July – and probably in either Perth or Melbourne. As it's no secret that this isn’t going to please some of the less Biblically focused dioceses (such as you-know-where), a leading Melbourne layperson is suggesting ”Melbourne synod last November went calling for protocols along this line. It also called on the diocese of Sydney and others opposed to women to offer alternative ministry by women for those within their borders who would like the ministry of women. We'd like to see reciprocal arrangements.”

To which I can hear more than a few congregations and clergy around Sydney cheering. If traditional parish boundaries are going to be broken down, surely it’s only fair that they be broken down both ways. Isn’t it? Or does this new independence only apply in the case of schismatic ‘evangelicals’ like San Joaquin? (Don’t laugh – that’s how the Anglican Church League wants us to think of our new Very Best Friends. Yep, that happy looking big bloke with the robes is actually a Matthian at heart. Right?)

It was the official response from the Bishop of South Sydney, Robert Forsyth that caused my informant to splutter: he appears to have remarked that the church was facing a difficult situation and needed to find a way forward: "It's going to require a lot of hard work, Christian grace and sensitivity."

I won’t print exactly what the nice lady who sent this to me said in reply, since she probably doesn’t want to be sued any more than I do. Suffice it to say that she has some past experience of the said Bishop’s notions of ‘hard work, Christian grace, and sensitivity’ and doesn’t seem eager to experience more.

As for my $0.02 on that: I noticed that the Herald misspelt Bishop Forsyth's name. This will possibly cause him great dismay, and may require his urgent attention. For some time. Some issues are more important than others.

Or maybe this should be our anthem?

2008-04-07T16:02:00.007+10:00

They're called "My Friend the Chocolate Cake", they're a quintessentially Melbourne band founded by two very talented people called David Bridie and Helen Mountford, and sometimes they can sum up just about everything that's great about life in inner-city Melbourne/Sydney/Brisbane on a sunny autumn afternoon.

Which makes it a pretty strong contender in my search for a blog anthem...

This song's called 'Home Improvements'. It always makes me smile, think of my friends, and enjoy being part of the notorious Duck Noodle Gang.

Whoever they are ;-)

I've never posted while crying before.

2008-04-05T16:20:00.009+11:00

There's an onshore breeze lifting sharply and I should be loading the sailboard onto the car and heading off to catch it. Instead I'm going nowhere and the dogs are looking alarmed, as if I'm about to do something really stupid, like bring home a cat or make them turn vegetarian.

Because all I can do is sit here and write with tears streaming down my face, and hope that nobody who isn't canine sees me like this. And pray that please, for fuck's sake please, can God kick the arse of everybody on this entire planet who professes to believe in anything remotely connected with Christianity (or any other ism or anity God feels like kicking) until we can collectively make sure nothing like this ever happens to anyone again.

It's not hard: let's just make sure pregnant young women - child-mothers - are treated with the respect, care and love they deserve. If they choose to terminate, then let's support them in that choice, giving them first-rate medical care and support. Or if they choose to give birth, and give their child up for adoption, or raise it themselves, then let's help them with all we've got as a society and church. Whatever: it's their call, and our call (if we're going to pretend we've so much as the flimsiest veneer of civilization) is to support and empower them. Who gives a damn about what it might cost: how about for a change we all just take seriously our responsibilities as human beings.

Click here and read for yourself the account of fear, pain and courage that's left me so shaken. And then can one of the fundamentalist Sydney trolls who lurk around here (your IP addresses give you away every time fellas - you might think I'm a theological fool, but don't think that also means I'm not IT savvy enough to know who you are, and when you come around) please explain why we need to take your crap exegesis about the submissive role of women literally, and this passage is only figurative? Because by the hermeneutic you guys use, there's deep shit coming for a whole lot of you 'men' who've wasted the church's money, energy and reputation on things other than helping little ones like these.

Unless that is, God's mercy should happen to be a whole lot bigger than that which you've in the past shown those who've failed to meet your own 'moral' standards. Which is what I happen to believe may be the case. But then, what the hell would I know?

On Anglican Unity, Evangelicalism, and Conversion.

2008-04-04T13:53:00.014+11:00

At Evangelicalism’s heart is not a belief system shaped by the Bible (or to be more accurate, a late 19th century Anglo-American interpretation of the Bible), regardless of how loudly its adherents may profess otherwise. Evangelicals don’t want people to believe their exclusivist dogmata per se: they want people to 'be born again' – to experience Conversion as Evangelicalism has defined it.

Thus when the 16 year old Peter Jensen came forward with his dearly loved younger brother at Billy Graham’s 1959 Sydney crusade, the two weren’t embracing a way of understanding Scripture which seeks to shape conservative white upper-middle class contemporary society without in any way challenging the fundamental injustices, inequalities and systemic evils of that society: in all probability the two had both as children done that quite unconsciously years before. Rather they simply wanted to be 'saved' in response to the evangelist’s call. Their’s had been a childhood in a church which sung Amazing Grace, with the triumphant lines “I once was lost, but now am found” celebrating this moment of transition. They, like the countless others alongside them, now wanted such an experience for themselves. They had believed, but what their belief had lacked up until this chilly autumn evening was this one cathartic moment to which they could point and cry “My conversion!”.

In reality it’s highly doubtful the Jensen brothers were “lost” in any sense but the most intangibly metaphoric. Barely adolescent boys from old money suburbs in Sydney’s east, enrolled in one of the Australia’s most exclusive (and expensive) boys’ schools, and having attended Sunday school and youth fellowship classes since infancy, rarely wander too far until at least a few years later in life. Occasional cheekiness, certainly, perhaps even a day’s truancy and a covert cigarette behind the cricket stadium (although in the case of the Jensens I find even this much very hard to believe), but Hell’s Angels they weren’t.

“Yet aahh” cry the Evangelicals, “that’s just the point! Whoever has sinned in only the least of ways has broken the whole law, and stands justly condemned before God. Childhood mischief or serial murder – they’re all sins which leave us irrevocably separated from the Father, but for the atoning sacrifice of Christ…” Which is exactly why the Evangelical need to feel 'converted' is so powerful: what some of us might laughingly dismiss as naughtiness is, in the Evangelical's understanding, viewed by God exactly as if it were multiple homicide, or pack rape. It’s all the same, and their consequent relief at having left the weight of this guilt behind is understandably overwhelming – albeit incomprehensible to anyone whose faith is outside Evangelical traditions.

As an attempt to transcend ecclesiastical persuasions GAFCON shall ultimately fail for exactly the same reason that all previous attempts to establish union between Evangelical hard-liners and those with different understandings of the process by which we express our faith have failed: the soteriological gulf is invariably too vast for the Evangelicals to accommodate. Any common ground – even that as poisonous as the currently shared misogyny and homophobia - is powerless in the face of the greater, more primeval, difference in soteriology. “I have been born again” (ie. ‘I have had a defining conversion experience’) “and you have not. I therefore am a sheep, and you a goat.”

And how long does anyone think the tough boys in colourful chasubles are going to accept a few chaps from Australia (where????) in business suits telling them that they’re not really Christians?

... to be continued ;-)

First day of the Billy Graham Crusade,
Sydney Showground, April 12, 1959.

New members of Standing Committee announced!

2008-04-01T11:41:00.015+11:00

Speaking at a press conference this morning, Archbishop Jensen proudly announced the appointment to the Sydney Diocesan Standing Committee of four new members.

"Every one of the new appointees has in his previous role displayed years of unquestioning allegiance to a rigidly enforced corporate profile" the Archbishop explained, "and can be trusted to vote exactly as instructed, irrespective of the issue. They're completely incapable of independent thought, and collectively represent exactly the kind of men we need to run this diocese on our behalf."

When questioned about the absence of Birdie the Early Bird, Archbishop Jensen insisted he is committed to providing biblical ministry opportunities for women, but "God has clearly established different roles and paths for each of the sexes. That there just happens to be more opportunities for men, and that men's roles are better paid and don't involve cleaning is simply one of the miracles of His Word."