Christ rules (on both sides of the Tiber)!

“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.

Fr. John Hope

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.

Oedipus Houston wants a palace.

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?

For whom the Pell tolls...

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.

Another Sydney Blogger!

Someone else is speaking out in Sydney, and this time (shock, horror, gasp) they're a woman!

Not only that, but anyone who can say:

"Jesus never said blessed are those who are biblical scholars but he did say "blessed are those who hunger and thirst after righteousness" and that the law and the prophets can be summed up in Love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul and with all your mind and others as yourself."

... in what's only their second post(!) is off to a pretty good start.

Please take a moment to drop by Aussie Life and say hello to Melinda Menzies - women in Sydney like her need all the support they can get.

Back in the Emerald City

David Williamson's biting satire not withstanding, from several thousand feet Sydney looked more sapphire this morning, if this photo snapped from the aircraft window is any indication.

It's strange, because the more I look at this picture (which faces south: the Harbour Bridge is just to the left of dead centre), the more I find myself both charmed and appalled by the place. From the right angles it's undoubtedly beautiful, breathtakingly so. Yet the vast bulk of Sydney - which this picture doesn't show - is as ugly as the facade is attractive. Think East L.A. without Latino colour and Googie achitecture & signage. And hotter.

Either way, the Duck Noodle Gang is back in town. And wishing all the best to everyone for the coming year, wherever you may find yourself landing.

Slow Emotion Replay

The past few days have been defined by some serious sleep deprivation courtesy of Miss Twenty-Months-old-and-getting-four-big-teeth-all-at-once. Consequently voices sound as if they’re coming from the other end of a long tunnel, and the atmosphere feels like it’s been replaced with some kind of thick fluid manufactured by the DuPont Corporation.

This week I’ve also happened to drive past a few of the old nursing homes in which I once used to celebrate Communion. They’re nasty places, reeking of urine and stale savoury mince served in a cruel parody of what you and I call dinner. Where you end up parked if you’re poor - or even just not quite middle class - and have the misfortune to outlive your body and/or mind.

Visiting these people was my favourite part of parish ministry; when the Eucharistic Sacraments became most real. Men and women would dribble, grab hold of me and spit in my ear, then laugh while cursing uproariously. Claws gripped in equal portions by dementia and arthritis grasping at my surplice for another drink. Or genteel ladies and long-retired freemasons apologising profusely for the behaviour their of fellow patient-prisoners: betrayed by age, and weeping for the desolated temple which was once their body, these were the ones cursed with a crystal-clear mind. The harshest affliction of all.

It is expressly forbidden in Sydney to reserve any element of the Sacraments; any consecrated remnants must be consumed by the Priest in the presence of the congregation. The chalice would be coated with a greasy film, and my reason would silently scream everyrything I’d ever learned about hygiene when faced with the breadcrumb-flecked soup that remained. And I’d drain the chalice with pride, for God had called me to be a Priest, and this was the least I could do for these Children of God in their agonisingly slow transition between this world and That-Which-Is-To-Come.

If you've been kind enough to read elsewhere on this blog you'll know it wasn't the bacteria that ended all this. No point going over it all again here, but I’d love to go back to those nursing homes. Nowadays there’s no longer any Priest visiting them; the demented and defecating don’t constitute a strategic use of ministry resources. Mercifully the people I knew will have died long ago, but such is the world that there’ll be others like them filling the same stained mattresses. The white metal bed-frames won’t have changed.

Last year I asked for permission to once again conduct services in these places, but the Diocesan offices didn’t reply to my letters ...

Since I’m not interested in being on the receiving end of legal action from the multi-millionaire who owns most Australian nursing homes, I’m not going to show a photograph of any of the places I’ve just written about. Instead here’s a video from the Matt Johnson’s The The. It’s a song called Slow Emotion Replay, and it sums up a lot of what I’m feeling right now. Watch out for the wonderful Annie Sprinkle among the cast of glorious eccentrics.

And because I know my taste in music isn’t to everyone’s taste, and I quite understand that, here’s the words. They say it almost as well.

The more I see
The less I know
About all the things I thought
were wrong or right,
And carved in stone.
So, don't ask me about
War, religion or God
Love, sex or death
Because ...

Everybody knows what's going wrong with the world
But I don't even know what's going on in myself.

You've gotta work out your own salvation
With no explanation: to this Earth we fall,
On hands and knees we crawl.
And we look up to the stars,
And we reach out and pray
To a deaf, dumb and blind God who never explains.

Everybody knows what's going wrong with the world
I don't even know what's going on in myself.

Lord I've been here for so long
I can feel it coming down on me;
I'm just a slow emotion replay
Of somebody I used to be.

Ok, maybe it's not as bad as all that. But if anybody out there knows a Bishop who'd let a ne'er-do-well Priest do something vaguely vocational out on the edges somewhere please don't be shy about dropping me a line. Because I miss being useful, and not just because I'm feeling so tired. Thanks.

Remembrance Day 2007: Lest We Forget.

It’s rained everyday this past week. We need the rain, but the two dogs who’ve missed their walks are of a different opinion. Since it’s clearing today we’ve seized this opportunity to get out, and because the dog park doesn’t become a leash-free zone until 5pm we’re in our local church yard: an old and very overgrown cemetery surrounding a pseudo-gothic Victorian fantasy. It’s an interesting place for both dogs and humans alike, they dig holes, chase lizards and wonder, while we read the tombstones, tap our blogs on laptops, and wonder.

The church itself is somewhere I know well; long ago, in what seems like a previous lifetime, I served here as Catechist. It was my final year of study prior to Ordination, and my Rector was a brilliant Priest; a God-sent antidote to the bravura of my fellow Ordinands and our lecturers during the rest of the week. Do I need to mention he also no longer serves in Sydney?

On the vestry wall there is, or was – it’s been many years since I was inside – a picture of the 1912 parish cricket team. Undefeated at the end of the season, the players grin with the confidence of young men who, having proved themselves unbeatable at their favourite sport, are now certain of victory in everything else life may offer.

Further inside the church, on the bare sandstone walls (this is a Sydney church, after all), in a dark and forgotten corner (ditto) is a simple war memorial, erected in 1919. Made in wrought iron at one of local foundries then dominating the suburb, it lists those parishioners who enlisted in the Great War. Nearly all of the cricket team is named: three quarters were killed, and several more wounded. Only a few appear to have returned home unharmed, but who knows what screams ravished their minds in the night? Post-traumatic stress disorder was a diagnosis more than half a century away, and shattered men-boys were urged to simply “put the past behind them and get on with things.”

Perhaps some did, but facilties at a nearby psychiatric hospital were massively expanded during the 1920s to house the appalling number of returned volunteers whose minds were no longer their own.

The horror that was the “War to End all Wars” is something I can’t even begin to comprehend, but how those survivors felt when they saw the world plunge into conflict time and again during the decades which followed is incomprehensible. Kipling rightly worried that it rendered his own son’s death meaningless, but then Kipling was a man who learned the truth in the bitterest of ways possible, and then had the courage to admit his errors:

“If any question why we died,
Tell them, because our fathers lied”

If only today's leaders were as honest.

Private Joseph Henry Miller, 56th Battallion of Newtown, New South Wales.
A groom prior to his enlistment on 19 October 1915, he embarked from Sydney on board HMAT Runic on 20 November 1916 and returned to Australia on 23 July 1919.

The Homecoming
by Joseph Lee

When this blast is over-blown,
And the beacon fires shall burn
And in the street
Is the sound of feet -
They also shall return.

When the bells shall rock and ring,
When the flags shall flutter free,
And the choirs shall sing, -
"God save our King"
They shall be there to see.

When the brazen bands shall play,
And the silver trumpets blow,
And the soldiers come
To the tuck of drum -
They shall be there also.

When that which was lost is found;
When each shall have claimed his kin,
Fear not they shall miss
Mother's clasp, maiden's kiss -
For no strange soil might hold them in.

When Te Deums seek the skies,
When the Organ shakes the Dome,
A dead man shall stand
At each live man's hand -
For they also have come home.

And oldie, but a goodie.

Passing St. Mary's Cathedral (aka "the House of Pell") I noticed a flashing electronic sign announcing there are 262 days until the start of "World Youth Day" and Benny Ratsfinger's big visit.

Which seemed as good a reason as any other to post this clip:



Yes, I know everyone's heard it, and that it's going to be played a thousand times in the next 270 days.
But is there ever really such a thing as too much Tom Lehrer?

Pell's Cell?

We went for a wander around the city yesterday, and snapped this picture of Cardinal Pell's place. The signs explain the scaffolding is part of a restoration for next year's visit from Benny Ratsfinger, but I wasn't fooled. They're reinforcing the tower prior to walling up the pair of them inside.

There's hope for the world after all.

Being a Sydney Anglican can kill you!

It's true! Southern Cross (the Diocesan equivalent to the USSR's Pravda) has confirmed what countless heretics have been saying for years: going to a Sydney Anglican church really can be bad for your health.
The October edition reports:

After hearing that a pilot study of six church sites found that four had loose asbestos, Synod yesterday voted unanimously to pass a new law which will help clean up the risk.

“This is not to say all properties in the Diocese are dangerous, however when sheeting breaks down… there are significant health risks,” said Robert Tong, chairman of the Diocesan Property Trust, in moving the new ordinance.

Mr Tong said the Diocese not only had a legal requirement to comply with the national asbestos management code, but a moral obligation to act quickly.

“There is a moral obligation to ensure that people who use our buildings are not exposed to risk.”

Great to see this new determination to get serious about the moral obligation to ensure people aren't exposed to risk. Now can they please extend it to protect people from the risk of harm caused by mysogyny, homophobia and sectarianism?

A Special Hello...

.. to everyone dropping by after following the link from Mad Priest - future Achbishop of Canterbury (we live in hope), and author of the truly wonderful Of Course I Could Be Wrong

Welcome to this strange end of the world: Sydney is a pretty place (if you only see the expensive parts - and the 2000 Olympic games camera crews didn't show where most people live) - but when it comes to religion things are very, very weird.

... which might help make a little more sense of this blog ;-)

You find this ugly, I find it lovely.

This morning I visited a client in King's Cross, for whom I'm building a web site (don't worry - it's not that sort of a web site: the client is a florist ;-). Walking back along Darlinghurst Road to the train station I saw the city council has been improving the tone of the area by inserting at random points along the footpath plaques bearing snippets of Cross history.

One of them featured a few lines of "William Street", Kenneth Slessor's 1935 tribute to the area: 70 years may have past, along with the ravages of heroin (or more accurately, the legal prohibition of heroin) and all that came with it, but like all truly brilliant poetry, Slessor's work could have been written this morning.

William Street

The red globe of light, the liquor green,
the pulsing arrows and the running fire
spilt on the stones, go deeper than a stream;
You find this ugly, I find it lovely.

Ghosts' trousers, like the dangle of hung men,
in pawn-shop windows, bumping knee by knee,
but none inside to suffer or condemn;
You find this ugly, I find it lovely.

Smells rich and rasping, smoke and fat and fish
and puffs of paraffin that crimp the nose,
of grease that blesses onions with a hiss;
You find it ugly, I find it lovely.

The dips and molls, with flip and shiny gaze
(death at their elbows, hunger at their heels)
Ranging the pavements of their pasturage;
You find this ugly, I find it lovely .

He's right, of course, and always has been. It is lovely.