I have been known as a bibliophile. As a child “bookworm” might have been my middle name. When I retired I culled my library, disposing of hundreds of books. I also kept hundreds and am culling again – only to make room for more.
Reading has changed my life, but no book in particular – not even the sacred texts that might be expected of me as a pastor! After all, the materials which make books are merely paper and ink.
Behind each book, however, is an author with whom one can enter conversations – agreeing, arguing, wondering, questing conversations. This is what changes – even transforms us.
I am glad for the thousands with whom I have dialogued over the years and who continue to challenge me in transformative ways.
What memorable gift is a pilgrim’s boon? From years of sojourning on this planet so small When one looks over life and discerns its tune One hears a melody that threads through it all
Of what does life sing and what is its lyric? Is it symphony, ballad, fairground or rock? Does it dowse my senses or is it something more pyrrhic? Perhaps all of these as my memories flock.
Wherever I’ve lived the gift has been there Where I grew up in Adelaide, then further afield Melbourne and Perth, then Canberra fair Then encore in some; the gift always did yield.
The gift is the stories that we can’t help but receive From fellow pilgrims as life’s wonder we weave.
“Don’t brag about your ancestors; give your descendants something to be proud of.”
This was the sage advice on the back of a tram ticket when I began some tentative digging around in our family story. Genealogy was expensive and laborious back then, considered a bit of an oddity, an eccentricity. To build a paper trail that confirmed and authenticated our extended family narrative was beyond the resources of this impoverished theology student of the 1970s. A different cry now following the advent of ancestry.com and the rise of enthusiastic research by other family members who have even submitted DNA for testing to affirm ancient roots.
How far back can we go? Links to a well-known personage in our line take us back to Northumbria and the Domesday Book, which apparently records our earliest-known progenitor, Rodney the Rude (nothing to do with a certain contemporary and bawdy stand-up with a similar monicker!)
So there we have it – a line that includes, bishops, bankers, silk merchants, inventors, lord mayors, politicians and industrialists stands on the shoulders of Rodney the Rude!
“Write of Rain!” urges the Bloganuary Muse It’s not a theme I’d ordinarily choose ‘Tis a tender topic within the land I dwell ‘Cos there’s either too much or it’s parched as hell.
O’Brien’s Hanrahan watched the changing skies “We’ll all be rooned!” were his constant cries Whether far too much or not quite enough That fickle rain had them doin’ it tough.
Right now the floods spread from north to east Further south and in the west – the sun is a beast! As El Niño and La Niña perform their dances Our stewards of the land assess their chances
So to write of rain is a task quite daunting When such weather seems bent on lots of taunting!
Joy is a habit to be cultivated, in spite of its foreboding nature. I recently explored this phenomenon of reluctance to embrace joy and its fleeting nature due to the defence mechanism we employ to soften disappointment when it passes. It is also an aspect of yesterday’s reflection on “lost treasure” – the capacity to attend fully to the present moment in an awareness of an interconnected and purposeful universe.
So what Ode to Joy might I offer on this hot and sleepy summer’s day (the local indigenous season of Birak) in the outer suburbs of Perth, Western Australia?
Six senses of joy in this moment The caress of the desk fan cooling my skin The aftertaste of breakfast blueberries on my cereal The waft of Vicks clearing my sinuses The sight of an orderly mess on my desk, promising engagement with today’s projects The peaceful sound of silence from a nearby highway The instinct that “All is well, and all shall be well.”
We only need to open our eyes and pay attention. Bloganuary asks “What is a treasure that’s been lost?” Well, it’s all around us. You’ve opened your eyes now, but you still have to go searching.
Some will find clues in quantum physics – that realm of discovery that allows for random, invisible, and transcendent leaps of matter that are beyond the disciplines of empirical knowledge, yet enhance a sense of connection.
Others will find clues in kanyini, the ancient Aboriginal wisdom that describes the caring, supporting, nurturing and responsibility-evoking sense of inter-connectedness of people, land and home.
Perhaps it is in the Hebrew notion of shalom, the harmony of all in balance, embracing God, creation and humanity in all its expressions.
Those in my own faith tradition will find it in the Word that was in the beginning and became flesh and dwelt amongst us, thus awakening the invitation to awareness and participation in an ever-expanding adventure of inner and outer transformation.
The treasure’s not lost – it’s ever within our reach.
My earliest memory “tomato-throwing” episode last night must have prompted some dreamwork while I slept. I awoke this morning with the questions, “Why is this my earliest memory?” and “Is this a metaphor for something deeper?”
So I ponder how “chucking tomatoes from behind a fence” is a picture for a basic life stance. I am by nature a safe risk-taker with an ambivalent attitude to authority. Entering the vocation of Christian ministry following a period of Jonah-like resistance seemed to be consistent. However, I always resisted the trap of using the pulpit as a “coward’s castle.” On the contrary, it was a glass house where my vulnerability was often on display, knowing that when one speaks, one cannot avoid telling one’s own story, even, or especially, unconsciously.
I continue to be a questioner, a devil’s advocate, a swimmer against the tide, but often from within the safety of a faith community. I break shibboleths and can be somewhat iconoclastic, but only in an effort to reveal what is behind them.
In matters of mental health and social disparity, I threw tomatoes on behalf of many who were under my pastoral care.
A Minister of the Crown branded me “un-Australian” when my team helped refugees who were abruptly abandoned having been dumped as the result of a new and draconian government policy. I enjoyed the grim satisfaction that a tomato had landed.
Speaking out on TV in support of marriage equality had some tomatoes coming back over the fence, but I was incensed at how a politically inspired wedge had dragged churches into an unseemly polarising debate on pastorally sensitive matters.
Yes, some issues had me coming out from behind the safety of the fence, chucking tomatoes from no-man’s land. And I don’t really care much if the fence is there anymore, although I cherish my faith community.
I’m 73, and I still chuck tomatoes!
And here’s a pic of La Tomatino – it seems chucking tomatoes is quite acceptable in Spain!
Bloganuary today asks us to recall our earliest memory. This is a tough one because it is challenging to unravel the faculties with which I recall my early days. My cognitive function can regale you with stories of others’ memories of my first years. Some old Brownie snapshots have captured one or two images of my toddlerhood. Certain olfactory sensations – oranges, grass clippings, menthol – trigger something from the primordial depths of my being, as does the sound of the long blast of a ship’s deep throaty horn.
But the image that comes to mind is the enthralling sight and feel of a tomato plant. They grew in the raised front yard of the Semaphore flats we lived in. One morning, my three-year-old self delighted in plucking some ripe tomatoes and chucking them over the fence so they landed on the Esplanade footpath below. Apparently, I managed to decorate some poor lady’s Sunday best hat! I have no recall of the aftermath.
Whether this anecdote represents my earliest memory via lasting primary sensation or secondary oral sources – I like it and own it! They didn’t call me Dennis the Menace for nothing!
One day a pilgrim did wonder If writing poetry would just be a blunder So he set out some prose and it rhymed I suppose thus blowing his fears all asunder.
Wondering Pilgrim 