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Good Friday, Easter

Easter is all very well, but it’s not much without Good Friday. In the Christian story, Good Friday comes first. And it must have been devastating and utterly bleak. It’s hard for us, with hindsight, always viewing Jesus’ death through the grid of his resurrection, to imagine how lost, misled and terrified the disciples must have felt.

Not to mention Jesus himself. If he was genuinely human, he wouldn’t have known that it was all going to come out right in the end. I imagine Jesus had the profoundest faith in God and a sense that if he was faithful to his calling, that was all that mattered. But I doubt he went to his agonizing death and brutal betrayal thinking, ‘I just have to wait three days and it’ll all be fine’. If he was human, he would have felt confused and despairing. He wasn’t simply acting out a charade of death. He died. I find this picture of Jesus more helpful than a glorious godhead, golden and raised up and self-assured. When I read about the massacre in Christchurch, or yet another earthquake in Indonesia, this is the God I need. A deity who isn’t up in the sky, benignly or indifferently looking down, but rather one whose heart is the first to break when human beings are wounded, bewildered or afraid.

When people in my community are knocked sideways by early death, by the sundering of a marriage, by the mental illness or drug addiction of a teenage child – I want to share with them this wounded, vulnerable God who has tasted some of the depths of human pain. When I myself have been plunged into the abyss of depression, I need to be reminded that the God I worship has descended into hell.

So, we need Good Friday. But we need Easter Sunday too. Jesus’ resurrection isn’t simply a continuation of the beautiful and miraculous cycle of life we see every time there is a bush fire –the new little pale green shoots bursting out of the charred wood of eucalypts. Easter is a radical break with the life cycle. It is God saying not simply that life in some form will continue, but that God is stronger than death itself. That even if we destroy this planet for good and all, God will still be there, somehow, bringing it all together in God’s love.

Clearly, God does not reach down and stop a toppling building or pluck one person out of the path of a tsunami. But I do believe that in the end, God will bring it all in, drying every tear, healing every hurt, making us whole, enabling us, at last, to be completely loving.

For me, the message of Good Friday is that God is there with us in the worst that the world can dish up. The message of Easter is that God, who seems so powerless in the day to day tragedy that is human life, is ultimately the end point of creation, of every life, every striving, every suffering and every human heart.

This was published in the April issue of The Melbourne Anglican



Ode to autumn

There’s a time, around now, when we stop shutting the warmth out, and start letting it in.

All summer I am fanatical about shutting up the house. Our house is weatherboard, and the inside temperature only stays bearable if you shut it religiously every morning and open it at night. So one of the most important chores is to close windows and pull blinds down early, and then the reverse at the end of the day.

There is a day, though, around the end of March, when I am shutting and pulling as I’ve been doing for months and stop, mid-action. I leave the blind where it was. I re-open the window. I let the sunshine come flooding back in. It’s that time. Autumn is here.

People have different theories about when the season turns. Firm theories, passionately held. Like those who swear by anything you care to name that your tomatoes must be planted on Melbourne Cup Day, or they will do no good in the summer to come.

Others reckon that Anzac Day marks the turning of the seasons. After April 25th, you start to batten down the hatches and prepare for winter to come howling in. My birthday comes when we’re putting our watches back, and it’s often hot, so I know that there are still little tail ends of summer well into March. But by mid April, most years, there’s a perceptible shift in the air, and our mood shifts with it.

Maybe it’s the end of daylight saving that heralds the cooler weather, and makes our thoughts turn to fires and jackets, thick soups and warm drinks. I’ve always been confused about time changes. The only way I can remember which way to alter my watch is by thinking that the compensation we get for the coming of winter is an extra hour of sleep.

But I don’t really feel that compensation is necessary, because I love winter. I love summer too, but one of the best things about living in Melbourne is the changeable weather. I couldn’t bear to live somewhere that was warm all the time. I like hot Christmases, cold Julys, autumn and spring that are in between.

I love the unpredictability of Melbourne’s weather, the four seasons in one day, the dramatic cool changes. I love the way you never know what the day will bring, you never know if what you put on in the morning will be completely inappropriate by afternoon.

People say ‘talking about the weather’ disparagingly, but I like to talk about it. I grew up in a country where the climate was exactly the same for four months in a row, so Melbourne’s weather is endlessly fascinating.

If I had to choose a favourite season, though, it would be autumn. I’ve lived in the north-east and the south-west of this state, and it was my favourite season in those places too. In alpine Mount Beauty the autumn air was so crisp and pure it practically seared your lungs, you could take great gulps of it and feel it doing you good. The skies were clean and the mountains stood up against them with unbearable clarity and beauty. In coastal Portland, autumn was the least windy season. There was a lovely lull, a serene time of windless sunshine, while we drank in the last of the warmth and prepared for the wild gales of winter.

I think part of the attraction of autumn is that it’s a season of melancholy. The poets celebrated this: the feeling that inevitably seems to come with this time of year of things passing, of death and decline and decay and the fact that we are all, inexorably, growing older. I get weepy in autumn, for no apparent reason.

I suspect this melancholy is particularly poignant in Australia, where summer memories, especially of the beach and the long ago Christmas holidays of childhood are positively drenched in nostalgia. We recall the hot days by the sea, the crowds, the ice creams, the children’s voices, and then we walk along by the water in early autumn, and the beach is empty and the crowds and the laughter are gone, and we feel strongly the passing of all things: youth, beauty, life itself.

And autumn can be so achingly beautiful: cold moonshiny nights when at last you can put away the fan and snuggle under a doona. Followed by clear cool mornings blossoming into sun drenched days with just the tiniest hint of chill. I sit in my garden at the beginning of autumn and wonder if it’ll be the last time that I can sit out there without a jacket. I drink it in, stocking up the light and warmth against the short winter days ahead.

This was published in The Melbourne Age 18 years ago.





Noli Timere

‘Don’t you worry about any little thing, every little thing’s gonna be alright.’

The singer in the Bob Marley tribute band sang the familiar words and the small crowd in the tiny Northcote venue danced with sheer joy. Marley’s music is deeply political. He was no stranger to struggle, pain and illness and died at the age of 36. Nonetheless, he produced this body of work that is protest music that is deeply feel-good with a convincing sense that, despite appearances to the contrary, in the words of my favourite Redgum song, ‘It’ll be all right in the long run’.

‘How can I keep from singing?’, is a song popularised by Eva Cassidy who, like Marley, died of cancer in her thirties. These lines have a key to the attitude espoused by the host of artists who were no strangers to suffering and yet were convinced that evil and hate and pain and violence would not prevail:

While though the tempest loudly roars,
I hear the truth, it liveth.
And though the darkness 'round me close,
Songs in the night it giveth.

No storm can shake my inmost calm,
While to that rock I'm clinging.
Since love is lord of heaven and earth
How can I keep from singing?

Legendary mystic, nun and theologian Mother Julian of Norwich, was born in the 14th century, just before the plague known as the Black Death swept across Europe, killing 60% of the population. Despite this, she preached a deeply loving divinity, maintained that God’s love was like that of a mother and her most oft-quoted line is ‘All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well’.

Nobel Prize winning Irish poet Seamus Heaney’s last words to his wife Marie came in the form of a text message that read, ‘Noli Timere’, Latin for ‘don’t be afraid’.  This is a phrase that occurs no less than 70 times in the Bible, a book filled to the brim with catastrophic events and human agony. As a Christian, I have clung to those words in times of personal anguish or when I have felt utterly overwhelmed by the state of our world and by the griefs of others.

Maybe this is why so many people dance for joy when Bob Marley’s music is played. Because it epitomises the courage and faith that doesn’t take the evils and grief of the world lying down, but at the same time believes that there is love at the heart of the universe and that this love will have the last word.

This was published in The Melbourne Age on 17 March 2019





FOMO for baby boomers

FOMO – Fear of Missing Out – is not just an addiction that affects millennials and Gen Z. We baby boomers might be able to commit to a social engagement way ahead of time, but if a new gadget or travel destination or stimulating discussion crosses our horizons, it’s a different matter altogether.

One of the most obvious ways baby boomers are prone to FOMO is in their rapturous consumption of podcasts, and I’m struck by this because podcasts are not a temptation for me. (Put me in the fiction section of a bookshop, however, and it’s a whole different story!)

I have no objection to podcasts in principle. I reckon they’re a great idea – the best and brightest and funniest and most entertaining or penetrating minds are easily available to anyone with internet connection and a device. You don’t have to be rich or privileged enough to go to university to have access to such pearls. It’s an example of the democratization of learning and knowledge that is one of the good things about the internet.

I’m just not interested. I have so many friends and acquaintances – all of whom I respect – who are enormously into podcasts and seem nonplussed when I say I’m not.

The thing is, I don’t want any more information in my head. I read the newspaper each day, and just taking in and assimilating most of that is more than I can handle. We live in the ‘Information Age’, and information is power, so the saying goes. Up to a point that’s true. But I suspect that at some point the flood of information with which we are bombarded every day of our lives, starts to do other, less helpful things.

  • It immobilizes and disempowers. If I hear too much about the dire things happening in Melbourne, let alone the rest of the world, I feel I can do nothing whatsoever to be useful, because the problems are too vast, too entrenched, too complex.
  • It saps creativity. To be creative, human minds need down time, need, dare I say it, boredom.
  • It lessens wonder. Walking along without being plugged into a device, however enticing that may be, stops you seeing the everyday wonders strewn in our paths, even in the city.

In what is left of my life, I would like not to have more facts in my head. Rather, I long to be able to reflect on life’s facts, feelings, griefs and wonders more slowly, more deeply.


Are these the dying days of paper delivery?

The ‘Thwack!’ of the rolled up newspaper landing on our verandah has woken my beloved and me during almost four decades of married life. That entire time, sitting in bed with our first cup of tea, poring over The Age has been the start to every day, even in the small country town where our paper boy complained vociferously about the weightiness of the Saturday Age. We were only one of two households that had it delivered.

Not that there haven’t been conflicts in this idyllic scenario. It suited my bloke and me when the sports section came separately; he could pore over that while I read the news and opinions. Then there was a separate ‘Metro’ insert which I was happy to read while he looked at the main bits. Once all the sections no longer came separately, it did cause some marital tensions about who had first dibs, but this problem was neatly solved a few years back with the arrival of iPads, to which my husband took like a duck to water, signing up to The Age app as soon as it became available.

So, for the last five years, we have happily coexisted of a morning, as I turn the pages of my beloved hard copy version and he flicks through it on his device.

These days, however, I’m wondering if this cosy habit of a lifetime is about to come to an end.

For one thing, occasionally, our paper delivery is late. If the ‘Thwack!’ that makes me smile with anticipated pleasure at 20 minutes of good reading doesn’t happen till after I have left for work, it’s too late.

Other times there’s a veritable treasure hunt involved in finding it: perched high in one of the trees or deep in one of the bushes in our front yard, under the car, on the nature strip. Our neighbours must chuckle in amusement at pyjama-clad me, prowling anxiously, on the hunt for my daily fix.

But the most compelling reason I’m considering adopting the app is that more than half our recycling each week consists of newspaper, and I need to do something about that. So, maybe it’s time I bit the bullet and went online for my Age reading. It’s the end of an era, and I feel a bit nostalgic. And sad that the accompaniment to my alarm clock – the sound of the paper landing on my front step, will become, like so much else in life, a nostalgic memory.