the ramblings of a perambulent and often distracted sojourner
“Twould be mistaken to assume you know my mind
The devil’s advocate in me might rise to blind
all further knowledge of my intent
To examine my thoughts requires my assent.
‘Twould be mistaken to assume my passion
Few are those who win such ration
But my drive and energy are plain to see
Transparency plus tied to the Mystery
(c) Dennis Ryle January 2022
I talk a lot – it was my job as a sky-pilot (what Ozzies call a pastor). It came second to listening a lot. Most of my talk was in a teaching/preaching situation, some times through the week and several times on Sundays.
In order to talk meaningfully in this way, one must have one’s thoughts in order. Writing was how I did it. I often enjoyed the process, even when unsatisfied with the result. Somehow the action of writing gets my monkey-mind on track and things fall into place more clearly. Even when drawing the process to a conclusion, however, there’s always a sense of more. The topic is not exhausted and remains open-ended in an ever-expanding sense of wonder. I have years of manuscripts of sermons and lessons collected over the years, but have rarely been back to them. When I do pull one out and read it, it seems like the words, though familiar, were written by a stranger. I’ve moved on into fresh ways of discovery and articulation.
I guess this is why I still write. The process is centering and meditative. I don’t talk as much as I used to. But the process goes on!
Irony. I grew up on American slapstick which entertained me for a while but was ultimately unsatisfying. A lot of it turned real in the hazing typical of adolescence and early adulthood – both as executor and executee. Much of the laughter was hollow. Thank goodness for a healthy family background in good solid, subtle, understated British humour, which can somehow blend Monty Pythonesque prat falls with dry and laconic life observations that are pregnant with wit. This blend, perhaps, has become the hallmark of Aussie humour.
The best lesson learned, however, is how to laugh at myself. Lots of opportunities – slapstick – like when in the midst of one of my Sunday morning sermonic harangues, a tooth came loose and ended in the lap of a surprised parishioner. I simply retrieved it and carried on.
Irony, however, happens every single day and saves one from taking oneself to seriously.
Who is someone who inspires you and why? #Bloganuary Writing Prompt
I’m going to give a shoutout to my wife. I shall defer to her desire to remain in the background by not using her name here – our friends and companions of many years know!
We met when I was a fledgling bachelor minister in my first charge. Our eyes locked on each other the night I was inducted. It took four years for the relationship to deepen beyond minister/parishioner, and it was my pending move to my next charge interstate that hastened our decision to marry.
We are in the forty third year of our marriage and have shared pastoral and community work in circumstances that have been demanding, stressful, challenging and delightful. We have both grown (and continue to grow) in our mutual respect. I once drew a cartoon that attempted to describe our modus operandi. I was hovering in the basket of a hot air balloon, far above the bush canopy, chasing dreams and visions. My beloved was on the ground, firmly holding the rope to which my blimp was tethered, keeping the whole thing grounded. Such is her practical common sense, devotion and utter trust and trustworthiness. I would be lost without her.
Thirteenth day of Christmas! Is there such a thing? There is a parody verse that is sometimes added to the well known 12 days song. The beloved is so overwhelmed by the noisy, messy menagerie of gifts that she wants to return them!
There is a little known “13th day” observation that observes the day following January 5th marked by the Visit of the Magi, as the opening of the magnificent and powerful season of Epiphany (glorious manifestation). It’s as if the Magi, having departed, have left an afterglow from recognising and witnessing the revelation of the divine in the infant Christ. The 13th day prompts us to acknowledge that the depth of meaning in the Christmas season is meant to carry over and permeate every molecule of our being.
Ev’ry bush aflame
Ev’ry molecule dances
All creation sings!
Take off your shoes and sit yourself down – and let the Teacher wash your feet!
If wishes were fishes that swam in the sea
Where on earth would we be? …
Damian Murphy
“What is something you wish you knew how to do?” – Bloganuary Writing Prompt
One day, my eight year old self wished he knew how to fish! Not perturbed that fishing was a skill anywhere near his family’s list of desired recreations, he raided the kitchen knick-knack drawer, found some string and a safety pin., and hopped on the train for the short journey to the Grange jetty on Adelaide’s St Vincent’s Gulf.
Masterfully, he fashioned a hook from the safety pin, tied it to the string and dangled his line off the jetty. There he sat among the seasoned anglers – for three hours. The bait-less hook attracted not one bite. He was not going to go home empty handed however. With no money to use the standard trick of purchasing a catch from the ever-present fishmonger, young Wondering Pilgrim selected a discarded fish carcass from the wooden boardwalk. Slipping it onto the safety pin, he proudly bore it home on the train, displaying it to maximum, advantage amongst his fellow bemused travelling companions. It barely made it past the kitchen door than Mum grabbed it and, holding her nose, chucked the disgusting rancid carcass in the bin.
But he had done it! He could now proudly declare that he had caught a fish!
Ever since, if there was not something I knew how to accomplish, I set about finding out how until I could – fixing taps, unclogging drains, maintaining computers, attending to mysterious car innards, unravelling complex red tape issues – all became doable, more lately with the inestimable aid of YouTube “how to” videos.
Is a wish a fish?
Or a prompt to stretch our will?
Action discloses.
If necessity is the mother of invention, desire chimes in too
Twelve drummers drumming refers to the twelve dot points of the Apostle’s Creed which, in Roman Catholic tradition runs “I believe in God, the Father almighty, creator of heaven and earth. I believe in Jesus Christ, his only Son, our Lord. He was conceived by the power of the Holy Spirit and born of the Virgin Mary. He suffered under Pontius Pilate, was crucified, died, and was buried. He descended into hell. On the third day he rose again. He ascended into heaven and is seated at the right hand of the Father. He will come again to judge the living and the dead. I believe in the Holy Spirit, the holy catholic Church, the communion of saints, the forgiveness of sins, the resurrection of the body, and life everlasting.”
My own tradition, though Christian, distinguishes itself as non-creedal, that is, while affirming the historic witness of the great creeds, it does not require them as tests of fellowship.
Twelfth day of Christmas
What do I say I believe?
Christ love deeply known.
Drummed in with heart-beat rhythm is lasting trust in the eternal Christ.
#Bloganuary today prompts us to write about a favourite childhood toy. I went out to the garage and pulled down the box that stores the remnants of my old Hornby O gauge train set. I think I was about 6 or 7 when it appeared under the Christmas Tree. I had hours of fun laying out the track in various configurations on the bedroom floor, using cushions and empty boxes as hills and tunnels. It started my love affair with trains, and here I am, six decades later still waiting for the space, time and $$$ to build a decent layout! One of those things I’ll get to when proper retirement starts, I suppose. In the meantime, one shelf in my office is dedicated to keeping my appetite whetted.
Toyin’ with my mind
A track looking for somewhere
Locos ready to chuff
A model railway fuses carpentry, mechanics, art and spirit!
I have been chided simultaneously both for being overly strict to form and too free and easy. This means I’ve got it about right. Even so, squeezing “Eleventh day of Christmas into a 5 syllable haiku opening has me bracing myself! I am told the pipers piping are the eleven faithful apostles (after Judas has excused himself)
‘leventh of Christmas
Do ye ken the piper’s cry?
Turn ’round with new heart!
Bagpipes skirling, kilts a-whirling, over the hill they come – let’s follow!
Sometimes it seems as if I am perpetually out of my comfort zone. The paradox is that I have spent a life time – seven decades! – learning to live within a state of what some call “existential dissonance.”
It may sound grim, but I am thankful for it.
I can embrace risk, but not recklessly.
I can welcome other points of view, advancing learning and avoiding dogmatism.
When I relax, mostly by meditating, I don’t have to feel I’ve earned it – I am returning to my authentic core.
Authenticity keeps me anchored while weighing up the swirling chaos of my thoughts and the demands of others. When I was a fledgling church minister, a mentor shouted at me, “Claim your authority!” I’ve come to know that authority and authenticity are inextricably linked.
It’s been a life commandment to which I often return.
Social justice advocacy, refugee ministry, mental health support, community building and a nurturing, teaching role in day to day pastoral oversight of small suburban congregations have offered plenty of scope. Retirement has been no different, for which I am relieved.
I don’t think I’d survive too long in a comfort zone!
Wondering Pilgrim 