Well, the posts here have been few and far between, I must admit, but no rarer I suppose than they usually are. Only, this time it's harder to find a computer to sit in front of and procrastinate about whether or not to write a post.
Here, also, there's so much going on that it is quite hard to know what to post about. While some of what I am experiencing here is quite familiar, and prompts the sort of thoughts I could have in Melbourne as much as here, there are some key differences that take a little longer to process but are certainly there.
One thing that has struck me about the trip so far is the key similarities between each of the major cities I have been to - all cities, in fact, with much in common with my home town. They are all cultured, not-too-densely-populated cities, all on the water, all with a strong indie/hipster subculture, all Western...Vancouver, Portland and Melbourne also all rate in those lists of the most liveable cities in the world. And you can see why. All have much to offer their residents, making them interesting cities to visit, because what is most wonderful about them is not necessarily most visible.
Yet the three cities I have been to - Vancouver, Seattle and Portland - all, at a glance, seem to have a greater emphasis on preserving natural beauty than Melbourne. Perhaps they just automatically have much more to start off with than we do, yet what they have they do an amazing job of maintaining - something that we could certainly learn from. And, it may just be an illusion, but I got the real impression that people came together a lot more in Seattle and Portland. They sat together in parks, they shared open-air music, art and culture, something that we have, at best, at Queen Vic Markets, and even then on nothing resembling the scale you see in these places.
I wonder what makes a city agree on having that kind of culture and community. I wonder what it takes to change a city to think and act that way.
Friday, June 26, 2009
Sunday, June 21, 2009
You may case the ground from the Cascades to Puget Sound...
Well, it's now the second un-jetlagged day of my trip to the Pacific North-West - something I never got around to announcing at "Ideas From the North". Oh well - here I am now, and ready to blog away.
Only, I'm not exactly sure what to say. I don't think I've ever blogged from another country before, and have always had trouble knowing what to write when I return. Hence, I think, the one fairly uninformative post I wrote after getting back from China this time last year, despite promising more. The floods of tear-filled complaints I received from all my readers were quite chastening and I swore to give you more on this trip, but travel fills your mind with so many complex and wordless impressions that it can be very difficult to distill them into a post on a blog.
I could talk, I suppose, about how travelling by myself for the first time in my life has been a challenge. I could talk about the highs (heading as far as I could from the beaten track of Bainbridge Island, and finding the magnificent, unspoilt part of the waterfront before they threaten to develop it; the incredible beauty of Northern Washington viewed from the Amtrak coach), the lows (being quietly told off for forgetting to tip in a Chinese restaurant in Vancouver's Chinatown - my first meal in the country); the quirky moments (seeing a man talking to his parrot Venus at the rummage table of Pike Place Markets - "That's what I think too, Venus. Just what I was about to say myself"). I could also talk about the cultural differences, the similarities, the ideas it all gives me about culture, and inclusion and exclusion...
But that would be too much to talk about here, and I haven't had enough time to think it through. I'll do my best to say more as it comes to me, but for now I think I'll just say that, highs, lows and quirks all considered, I'm happy to be here.
Only, I'm not exactly sure what to say. I don't think I've ever blogged from another country before, and have always had trouble knowing what to write when I return. Hence, I think, the one fairly uninformative post I wrote after getting back from China this time last year, despite promising more. The floods of tear-filled complaints I received from all my readers were quite chastening and I swore to give you more on this trip, but travel fills your mind with so many complex and wordless impressions that it can be very difficult to distill them into a post on a blog.
I could talk, I suppose, about how travelling by myself for the first time in my life has been a challenge. I could talk about the highs (heading as far as I could from the beaten track of Bainbridge Island, and finding the magnificent, unspoilt part of the waterfront before they threaten to develop it; the incredible beauty of Northern Washington viewed from the Amtrak coach), the lows (being quietly told off for forgetting to tip in a Chinese restaurant in Vancouver's Chinatown - my first meal in the country); the quirky moments (seeing a man talking to his parrot Venus at the rummage table of Pike Place Markets - "That's what I think too, Venus. Just what I was about to say myself"). I could also talk about the cultural differences, the similarities, the ideas it all gives me about culture, and inclusion and exclusion...
But that would be too much to talk about here, and I haven't had enough time to think it through. I'll do my best to say more as it comes to me, but for now I think I'll just say that, highs, lows and quirks all considered, I'm happy to be here.
Saturday, May 30, 2009
Pigs at Bay
Just in case any of you were wondering - I don't have Swine Flu. Not yet, at least. Just a throat infection. A primary infection - easily treated.
Some of my colleagues seem quite keen to get the new, cool Flu of the year, though. I wonder what that says about the state that most teachers are in at this time of year - that the prospect of a week's quarantine is the only way they can countenance surviving the next few weeks.
Certainly, it's tough at the moment. We're all at our least resilient. A cranky e-mail from a moderately demanding parent last night had far more impact on me than it warranted. In fact, by about 8pm yesterday I was just about ready to pack it all in (teaching, that is - not life!) - e-mails about staff needing to do more to combat graffiti in our classrooms, whinging from stressed Year 12s, Year 8 girls implicating me in why they are being badly behaved in their Maths class (no, I don't teach them for Maths) - it does make it all feel a little bit like too much hard work.
So what better antidote, I say, than to read the poetry of Dietrich Bonhoeffer. Not an obvious response, you might think, and no, it's not, but it often helps to remember that there's someone worse off than yourself - better still to see someone worse off than yourself who maintains a strange kind of grace under pressure: not because he pretended to be okay, but because he admitted to God that he wasn't.
If I look to others for confirmation that I'm doing okay, I'll be just another nervous wreck. Everyone's stressed. Everyone's tired - students, teachers, parents. Everyone. It's that time of year. No-one's really in any position to help anyone else out - not while they're doing their level best to stay afloat.
But there is one place I can go to for complete security, complete stability, complete bouyancy. Bonhoeffer, facing death, knew that only too well. I'm just facing a bad throat infection, and a few cranky kids and parents. If God could give Bonhoeffer the strength to handle what he faced, I suspect that same strength can help me out.
I might give it a try.
Some of my colleagues seem quite keen to get the new, cool Flu of the year, though. I wonder what that says about the state that most teachers are in at this time of year - that the prospect of a week's quarantine is the only way they can countenance surviving the next few weeks.
Certainly, it's tough at the moment. We're all at our least resilient. A cranky e-mail from a moderately demanding parent last night had far more impact on me than it warranted. In fact, by about 8pm yesterday I was just about ready to pack it all in (teaching, that is - not life!) - e-mails about staff needing to do more to combat graffiti in our classrooms, whinging from stressed Year 12s, Year 8 girls implicating me in why they are being badly behaved in their Maths class (no, I don't teach them for Maths) - it does make it all feel a little bit like too much hard work.
So what better antidote, I say, than to read the poetry of Dietrich Bonhoeffer. Not an obvious response, you might think, and no, it's not, but it often helps to remember that there's someone worse off than yourself - better still to see someone worse off than yourself who maintains a strange kind of grace under pressure: not because he pretended to be okay, but because he admitted to God that he wasn't.
If I look to others for confirmation that I'm doing okay, I'll be just another nervous wreck. Everyone's stressed. Everyone's tired - students, teachers, parents. Everyone. It's that time of year. No-one's really in any position to help anyone else out - not while they're doing their level best to stay afloat.
But there is one place I can go to for complete security, complete stability, complete bouyancy. Bonhoeffer, facing death, knew that only too well. I'm just facing a bad throat infection, and a few cranky kids and parents. If God could give Bonhoeffer the strength to handle what he faced, I suspect that same strength can help me out.
I might give it a try.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Swine Before Pearls
When the Black Death hit London, many thought that it was a sign of God's judgment on a decadent people. Dean John Donne pondered this question, and others, in his classic Devotions Upon Emergent Occasions, the work from which comes his most famous bit of prose: "No man is an islande..." through to "Never send to know for whom the bell tolls. It tolls for thee." Donne, convinced that he himself had the plague, knew that he was connected to the deaths of his fellow men. One man dying meant a death for him - in both the very literal sense of contagion, and the sense of him, and of the world he lived in, losing something each time a person died.
We, unlike Donne, have grown immune to tragedy. So, when the now-infamous Swine Flu hit the news, I paid very little attention. I don't usually pay much attention to the news, I have to admit. This was no different. It felt, like most other looming tragedies, not especially real.
The jury is still out on just how bad Swine Flu actually is, but, serious or not, it is most definitely real in my bit of the world. A school teacher, I am a moving target for every Disease of the Week, and now am working in the midst of what is coming to be seen by my colleagues as a circle of Swine Flu. Schools on every side of us are closing down - first Clifton Hill, then Thornbury, then Epping, then the West...Each extreme of my trainline and Department of Education region has this new disease. And, what with the thirty-day incubation period, there's every chance that we too have the disease somewhere in our midst and are just waiting for it to emerge.
So naturally, each time someone gets a cold, the question, partly flippant, partly serious, is, "You don't have Swine Flu, do you?" One of my friends at work told me yesterday that her brother's school has it now. She lives with him. We walk and talk with the potential of disease each day.
Am I overdramatising this? Not really. Most of the time, I'm not especially concerned. But last night, when I considered doing my standard soldiering-on act at work today despite having a bad cold, I had second-thoughts on hearing my housemate, also a teacher in the North-West, say that her principal had ordered them all to stay at home if they felt at all sick. Normally happy, I suppose, to share whatever particular contagion I'm carrying, I felt that now was perhaps a time to keep it to myself. I seriously doubt it's anything more than the standard sore-threat-and-runny-nose that normally accompanies the onset of winter for most Melburnians - but, at a time like this, it doesn't hurt to be cautious.
But it's more than that. The normal response for a teacher, when sick, is to think, "But I can't afford to miss classes today. I'll have so much to catch up on." Only, now I'm thinking also about what effect a quarantine would have on end-of-semester assessment and exams, report-writing, and my planned trip to two of the world's Swine Flu hotspots in less than three weeks' time. Thinking about all that makes me realise: if my school, my life, is hit by the disease, it won't be up to me to decide what I can and can't afford to miss. Everyone's lives will be rearranged dramatically, if only for a time.
I doubt that Swine Flu says anything special about the decadence of our society today - certainly nothing more than you can tell from watching Video Hits on a Saturday morning, or looking at the glossies at the Supermarket checkout. But it says something less than ideal when a society can't afford to get sick. It suggests, I think, a bad case of priorities out of order.
I'm going to have a sleep this afternoon, and hope to rearrange some priorities before I go back to work tomorrow.
We, unlike Donne, have grown immune to tragedy. So, when the now-infamous Swine Flu hit the news, I paid very little attention. I don't usually pay much attention to the news, I have to admit. This was no different. It felt, like most other looming tragedies, not especially real.
The jury is still out on just how bad Swine Flu actually is, but, serious or not, it is most definitely real in my bit of the world. A school teacher, I am a moving target for every Disease of the Week, and now am working in the midst of what is coming to be seen by my colleagues as a circle of Swine Flu. Schools on every side of us are closing down - first Clifton Hill, then Thornbury, then Epping, then the West...Each extreme of my trainline and Department of Education region has this new disease. And, what with the thirty-day incubation period, there's every chance that we too have the disease somewhere in our midst and are just waiting for it to emerge.
So naturally, each time someone gets a cold, the question, partly flippant, partly serious, is, "You don't have Swine Flu, do you?" One of my friends at work told me yesterday that her brother's school has it now. She lives with him. We walk and talk with the potential of disease each day.
Am I overdramatising this? Not really. Most of the time, I'm not especially concerned. But last night, when I considered doing my standard soldiering-on act at work today despite having a bad cold, I had second-thoughts on hearing my housemate, also a teacher in the North-West, say that her principal had ordered them all to stay at home if they felt at all sick. Normally happy, I suppose, to share whatever particular contagion I'm carrying, I felt that now was perhaps a time to keep it to myself. I seriously doubt it's anything more than the standard sore-threat-and-runny-nose that normally accompanies the onset of winter for most Melburnians - but, at a time like this, it doesn't hurt to be cautious.
But it's more than that. The normal response for a teacher, when sick, is to think, "But I can't afford to miss classes today. I'll have so much to catch up on." Only, now I'm thinking also about what effect a quarantine would have on end-of-semester assessment and exams, report-writing, and my planned trip to two of the world's Swine Flu hotspots in less than three weeks' time. Thinking about all that makes me realise: if my school, my life, is hit by the disease, it won't be up to me to decide what I can and can't afford to miss. Everyone's lives will be rearranged dramatically, if only for a time.
I doubt that Swine Flu says anything special about the decadence of our society today - certainly nothing more than you can tell from watching Video Hits on a Saturday morning, or looking at the glossies at the Supermarket checkout. But it says something less than ideal when a society can't afford to get sick. It suggests, I think, a bad case of priorities out of order.
I'm going to have a sleep this afternoon, and hope to rearrange some priorities before I go back to work tomorrow.
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Worthy causes
The past week has seen me back in my old stomping ground of Carlton a fair bit. It's always an interesting experience returning, feeling at once just I've never left and like it's years since my life revolved around that place.
One of the more awkward aspects of city life that I am always reminded of when I go back is the very challenging question of when to give money to beggars - and they abound on Lygon St, particularly outside Lygon Court. I never worked out a consistent strategy to adopt when I lived there, and am no more consistent when I go back. On Tuesday night, going to the Nova to watch a film with my old housemate from the latter Carlton days, we were approached by someone asking for money to get him and his uncle somewhere. My friend obliged with some small change, and so I felt like I might as well. I only had about $1.50, plus a few 5 and 10 cent pieces, so I got out the $1 and the 50 cents and handed it over - only, we were standing just over a drain and, much to our collective horror, the $1 fell out of my fingers and through the grate. The man stood over the drain, looking in and saying, "Is there any way of getting it out?" I didn't really know what to do - I only had what I had already dismissed as worthless shrapnel left in my wallet, which I instantly took out and gave to him as some means of making amends. The larger notes in my wallet seemed too much to give him as well - why, I wonder? Was I playing it safe, and figuring that he could hardly do much damage to himself with only 70 cents, whereas $20...well, who knew what he might do?
What stood out for me most from the whole experience was that I wouldn't miss that dollar coin that was now circulating somewhere in Carlton's sewerage system. I had parted with it because it didn't mean a lot to me, and so I was no worse off. To that man, though, the dollar was worth enough that he even contemplated climbing into the drain to get it. Speech of Arrested Development had it right, I suppose, when he said, "Two dollars is a snack to me, but it means a big deal to you." Pity "Mr Wendall" hasn't dated very well. The social message was probably once very profound.
Then, last night, I sat outside Vina Bar, sadly soon to be closed down, with some friends from my book group, when we were approached by a girl, probably about twelve years old, who was selling handmade friendship bands. We declined her offer without much thought. I wondered as she passed what she was selling them for. I had no use for a friendship band, but would probably give her money for one if it was for a good cause. One of my friends must have had the same idea, calling the girl back to ask what she was raising money for. The girl's answer was that she was trying to buy all the "Twilight" merchandise. I tried to hold back my amusement while a couple of my friends engaged her in conversation about "Twilight" and why it was important to her. The girl was delighted, clearly, to share her love of the books, and her hopes for the movie, just released on DVD - and, I must admit, while my snobbery made me feel that this was in no way a worthy cause, I suspect my friends had the better response to talk to her about it, and to make a gutsy twelve-year-old girl feel a bit more comfortable walking alone on Lygon Street on a Saturday night.
The lines to guide us in situations like this are fairly thin. If we aren't responding with love, we make every cause worthless. With love - even the most worthless of causes can gain some purpose.
One of the more awkward aspects of city life that I am always reminded of when I go back is the very challenging question of when to give money to beggars - and they abound on Lygon St, particularly outside Lygon Court. I never worked out a consistent strategy to adopt when I lived there, and am no more consistent when I go back. On Tuesday night, going to the Nova to watch a film with my old housemate from the latter Carlton days, we were approached by someone asking for money to get him and his uncle somewhere. My friend obliged with some small change, and so I felt like I might as well. I only had about $1.50, plus a few 5 and 10 cent pieces, so I got out the $1 and the 50 cents and handed it over - only, we were standing just over a drain and, much to our collective horror, the $1 fell out of my fingers and through the grate. The man stood over the drain, looking in and saying, "Is there any way of getting it out?" I didn't really know what to do - I only had what I had already dismissed as worthless shrapnel left in my wallet, which I instantly took out and gave to him as some means of making amends. The larger notes in my wallet seemed too much to give him as well - why, I wonder? Was I playing it safe, and figuring that he could hardly do much damage to himself with only 70 cents, whereas $20...well, who knew what he might do?
What stood out for me most from the whole experience was that I wouldn't miss that dollar coin that was now circulating somewhere in Carlton's sewerage system. I had parted with it because it didn't mean a lot to me, and so I was no worse off. To that man, though, the dollar was worth enough that he even contemplated climbing into the drain to get it. Speech of Arrested Development had it right, I suppose, when he said, "Two dollars is a snack to me, but it means a big deal to you." Pity "Mr Wendall" hasn't dated very well. The social message was probably once very profound.
Then, last night, I sat outside Vina Bar, sadly soon to be closed down, with some friends from my book group, when we were approached by a girl, probably about twelve years old, who was selling handmade friendship bands. We declined her offer without much thought. I wondered as she passed what she was selling them for. I had no use for a friendship band, but would probably give her money for one if it was for a good cause. One of my friends must have had the same idea, calling the girl back to ask what she was raising money for. The girl's answer was that she was trying to buy all the "Twilight" merchandise. I tried to hold back my amusement while a couple of my friends engaged her in conversation about "Twilight" and why it was important to her. The girl was delighted, clearly, to share her love of the books, and her hopes for the movie, just released on DVD - and, I must admit, while my snobbery made me feel that this was in no way a worthy cause, I suspect my friends had the better response to talk to her about it, and to make a gutsy twelve-year-old girl feel a bit more comfortable walking alone on Lygon Street on a Saturday night.
The lines to guide us in situations like this are fairly thin. If we aren't responding with love, we make every cause worthless. With love - even the most worthless of causes can gain some purpose.
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Conspiracies for the desperate
Well, yesterday The Age unearthed a religious conspiracy so titillating it's got to be the basis for the next Dan Brown novel.
This week's Saturday Age published a small article in the A2 liftout revealing the little-known fact (something the author said many "good Christian folk" would be fascinated to find out) that Jesus Christ was never actually called that in the original Bible.
No. Believe it or not, his name was actually Joshua. And the "Christ" bit was a transliteration of the Greek version of the Hebrew "Messiah", for "anointed one". Amazing, I know.
Of course, he makes it sound all very farcical, by detailing all the different stages of translation: how the name "Jesus" is an Anglicised version of the Latin version of the Greek version of the Hebrew, or something like that. And he uses words like "bumbling" to make the process sound ridiculous at best, evil at worst, and emphasises the fact that the Hebrew name "Joshua" has meaning that our version, Jesus, lacks. The name "Jesus", in short, is a meaningless result of too many translations.
Now, before you all start to lose faith over all this, it's probably worth noting that, like most religious conspiracies, this is not news to any particularly knowledgable Christian with an NIV Study Bible. When you look up the passages in the Gospels when Jesus' earthly parents are told to call him "Jesus" (sorry, "Joshua"- or, to be more accurate still, "Yeshua"), the NIV note will tell you what Joshua means - not our Anglo-estimate of the word, "Jesus". In other words, Bible translators are aware that what they're working with is...a translation - a notion that any group of schoolchildren from Italy, Germany and Australia could all come to grips with when they realise that they all learnt about the same fifteenth century Italian explorer (the one we call Christopher Colombus), just by moderately different names.
Some details are lost in translation. Most Bible scholars will acknowledge that, which is why we tend to expect that Bible teachers will have at least some knowledge of the original Greek, Hebrew and Aramaic, or at least own reputable books designed to demistify it all for us. Contrary to this knowledge being locked away in the cell of some tyrannical monastic hell- (sorry, heaven-) bent on deceiving for his own bizarre, sadistic gain, these facts are out there in the open for anyone who wants to sit through Mel Gibson's "The Passion of the Christ", or anyone who reads the liner notes in their widely accessible Bibles.
If the translation of "Yeshua" to Jesus, or "Messiah" to "Christ" somehow altered the meaning beyond comprehension; if the original words and their meanings were lost to all but the privileged elite, dressed in suitably Opus Dei-ish robes and flagellating for the camera, then we'd have reason to be concerned. But anyone - seriously, anyone - can access this information which, for the record, makes not a speck of difference to the essence of Christianity, or, if you will, Messianity.
There are other, more important issues of faith that we could be thinking about, I suspect. Like when Richard Dawkins is going to find the gene that predisposes people to become evil and Christian. That I'd really like to read an article about.
For now, I think I'll go on believing.
This week's Saturday Age published a small article in the A2 liftout revealing the little-known fact (something the author said many "good Christian folk" would be fascinated to find out) that Jesus Christ was never actually called that in the original Bible.
No. Believe it or not, his name was actually Joshua. And the "Christ" bit was a transliteration of the Greek version of the Hebrew "Messiah", for "anointed one". Amazing, I know.
Of course, he makes it sound all very farcical, by detailing all the different stages of translation: how the name "Jesus" is an Anglicised version of the Latin version of the Greek version of the Hebrew, or something like that. And he uses words like "bumbling" to make the process sound ridiculous at best, evil at worst, and emphasises the fact that the Hebrew name "Joshua" has meaning that our version, Jesus, lacks. The name "Jesus", in short, is a meaningless result of too many translations.
Now, before you all start to lose faith over all this, it's probably worth noting that, like most religious conspiracies, this is not news to any particularly knowledgable Christian with an NIV Study Bible. When you look up the passages in the Gospels when Jesus' earthly parents are told to call him "Jesus" (sorry, "Joshua"- or, to be more accurate still, "Yeshua"), the NIV note will tell you what Joshua means - not our Anglo-estimate of the word, "Jesus". In other words, Bible translators are aware that what they're working with is...a translation - a notion that any group of schoolchildren from Italy, Germany and Australia could all come to grips with when they realise that they all learnt about the same fifteenth century Italian explorer (the one we call Christopher Colombus), just by moderately different names.
Some details are lost in translation. Most Bible scholars will acknowledge that, which is why we tend to expect that Bible teachers will have at least some knowledge of the original Greek, Hebrew and Aramaic, or at least own reputable books designed to demistify it all for us. Contrary to this knowledge being locked away in the cell of some tyrannical monastic hell- (sorry, heaven-) bent on deceiving for his own bizarre, sadistic gain, these facts are out there in the open for anyone who wants to sit through Mel Gibson's "The Passion of the Christ", or anyone who reads the liner notes in their widely accessible Bibles.
If the translation of "Yeshua" to Jesus, or "Messiah" to "Christ" somehow altered the meaning beyond comprehension; if the original words and their meanings were lost to all but the privileged elite, dressed in suitably Opus Dei-ish robes and flagellating for the camera, then we'd have reason to be concerned. But anyone - seriously, anyone - can access this information which, for the record, makes not a speck of difference to the essence of Christianity, or, if you will, Messianity.
There are other, more important issues of faith that we could be thinking about, I suspect. Like when Richard Dawkins is going to find the gene that predisposes people to become evil and Christian. That I'd really like to read an article about.
For now, I think I'll go on believing.
Friday, April 10, 2009
TGIF
Well, today is Good Friday, as you'll no doubt be aware. And how could you miss it? It's one of the only days of the year when everything shuts down. The TAB make the huge concession of only placing bets on races run overseas. Some people eat fish or chicken. Everyone, except for the poor sods at the TAB, gets the day off.
And you can cast your minds back, no doubt, to the various debates about what should and shouldn't be done on Good Friday. Should there be gambling? Should re-runs of "The Exorcist" be shown?
Which is strange, really, given how little significance the day itself still holds in society. Easter Sunday is an easier day to tackle, because at least then we get to eat eggs. Not that we tend to wait until the Sunday to eat them anyway - they've been on sale in Safeway ever since midnight of Valentine's Day.
But why Good Friday? Is this one last remaining vestige of Christendom, that we still observe it, still keep it sacred, even if we're not quite sure why?
What, I wonder, would our society look like if Good Friday was no longer observed. Probably not much different to how it looks now, I suspect, only we'd have one fewer Public Holiday. No, that's not the important question. What we should really be thinking about is what our society would look like if Good Friday had never happened at all.
It's when we start to imagine that kind of society that the day becomes significant. If you have the time to think about it today, please do, before the chocolate eggs take over and we go back to work. It isn't just tradition that makes us still observe this day. It has a meaning - a deep one, that could really change all our lives if we let it. I hope that it can do that for you this year.
And you can cast your minds back, no doubt, to the various debates about what should and shouldn't be done on Good Friday. Should there be gambling? Should re-runs of "The Exorcist" be shown?
Which is strange, really, given how little significance the day itself still holds in society. Easter Sunday is an easier day to tackle, because at least then we get to eat eggs. Not that we tend to wait until the Sunday to eat them anyway - they've been on sale in Safeway ever since midnight of Valentine's Day.
But why Good Friday? Is this one last remaining vestige of Christendom, that we still observe it, still keep it sacred, even if we're not quite sure why?
What, I wonder, would our society look like if Good Friday was no longer observed. Probably not much different to how it looks now, I suspect, only we'd have one fewer Public Holiday. No, that's not the important question. What we should really be thinking about is what our society would look like if Good Friday had never happened at all.
It's when we start to imagine that kind of society that the day becomes significant. If you have the time to think about it today, please do, before the chocolate eggs take over and we go back to work. It isn't just tradition that makes us still observe this day. It has a meaning - a deep one, that could really change all our lives if we let it. I hope that it can do that for you this year.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
The Real Thing
Driving to church this morning, I saw a publicity sign on Sydney Road - one of those signs that the Melbourne tourism crew put together to make each region feel special. And there was a picture of a typical Coburg scene, with the caption: "Coburg - The Real Thing".
I liked it, even though I wasn't exactly sure what it meant. More to the point, what was it implying about the rest of Melbourne - that it was fake? Nevertheless, there is a feeling of down-to-earth reality in my side of town that makes me love it very much. In fact, I've heard a number of people describe it as more "real" than the wealthier parts of town. I have a feeling I've said similar things myself.
One of the catch-phrases amongst English teachers at my school right now is "Who's Reality?", the topic/context that our Year 12 students study throughout the year. The concept of it all is that they examine the way that reality varies from person to person - a thoroughly postmodern concept, of course, but like all things postmodern it started off okay before it became a law unto itself. And Coburg is a good case in point. For the citizens of Coburg, this is the real thing. This is "real life". For people in Hawthorn, reality is very different. They can simply afford a plusher reality.
So do we only settle for the down-to-earth reality of Coburg if we can't afford an alternative? Possibly, but I doubt it. Many urbane, upwardly mobile types are moving to the inner-northern suburbs, partly because it's cheaper than other options, but partly (and perhaps mostly) because they like it. As someone who rents, I was hardly constrained by housing prices when I decided to live on this side of town. I liked it. I liked how it felt. Anyone who has read this blog for much of its 2 year existence will know that very well. It's no more reflective of any universal "real thing" than "The Wire", but there's a feeling, when you live this side of town, that you are engaged in life along with many others like and unlike you. You are not living in a gated community. You are not buying your isolation. You live, if you will, in solidarity with your community.
At least that's how it feels to me. That's why I like the north. That's why I plan on living, working and serving here for a while longer at least.
Saturday, April 4, 2009
Taking sides
Imagine living at the time of the English reformation - the first one. Imagine deciding whether to stay "Papish" or to join that new, hip Anglican crew. Or, to take it a step further, imagine if, once you decided to join the latter, you found yourself on the wrong side of Mary Tudor's quest to uphold the former. Imagine how you might have felt, reflecting on your choice while you faced death.
Not an easy choice, of course, but for most at the time their decision, either way, would have been very much one of conviction. Or was it? Many historians from Lytton Strachey onwards will suggest that such decisions were as charged with political as with theological implications. Perhaps you just hated Rome and wanted England to govern her own church. Perhaps you cared little about the actual articles of faith pertaining to either side of the debate.
Many Christians today like to think that they have choices of similar gravity to make: to emerge or conserve; to be Calvinist or Arminian or, dare we mention it, Open Theist; to ordain or refrain. And who, can someone tell me, is actually right?
Being part of a church that is at some sort of cross-roads, I know some of how all this feels. Yet, to make it more complicated, I have been brought up to respect views that I may not myself hold. I have also been taught to see both sides to the debate. This makes me fairly tolerant, I suppose, and sometimes unwilling to take a stand, unless I'm completely confident on which side is "right". Add to the mix the fact that I care about how our traditions appear to outsiders - a bad thing when focused on pleasing too many people, and a positive when channeled into being more inclusive - and you get a sense of what I am - a semi-emergent, soft-charismatic, liberal-conservative evangelical Anglican who likes to question the Anglican way of doing things (I couldn't think of a snappy way to describe that last one). In short, I'm a bit of a mix at the moment.
Is that such a bad thing? I'm not sure it is. Because, while I'm not exactly taking sides, I doubt that any of us is necessarily facing decisions that are as grave as we think they are. After all (and you'll have to excuse the pun), the most significant grave any of us is going to face has already been triumphed over. Besides, we have living in us the same Spirit that allowed that grave to be overcome. Perhaps tuning into him a bit more, and a bit less into our own hang-ups, would help us make the right choices - when choices need to be made.
More on this as it comes to mind.
Not an easy choice, of course, but for most at the time their decision, either way, would have been very much one of conviction. Or was it? Many historians from Lytton Strachey onwards will suggest that such decisions were as charged with political as with theological implications. Perhaps you just hated Rome and wanted England to govern her own church. Perhaps you cared little about the actual articles of faith pertaining to either side of the debate.
Many Christians today like to think that they have choices of similar gravity to make: to emerge or conserve; to be Calvinist or Arminian or, dare we mention it, Open Theist; to ordain or refrain. And who, can someone tell me, is actually right?
Being part of a church that is at some sort of cross-roads, I know some of how all this feels. Yet, to make it more complicated, I have been brought up to respect views that I may not myself hold. I have also been taught to see both sides to the debate. This makes me fairly tolerant, I suppose, and sometimes unwilling to take a stand, unless I'm completely confident on which side is "right". Add to the mix the fact that I care about how our traditions appear to outsiders - a bad thing when focused on pleasing too many people, and a positive when channeled into being more inclusive - and you get a sense of what I am - a semi-emergent, soft-charismatic, liberal-conservative evangelical Anglican who likes to question the Anglican way of doing things (I couldn't think of a snappy way to describe that last one). In short, I'm a bit of a mix at the moment.
Is that such a bad thing? I'm not sure it is. Because, while I'm not exactly taking sides, I doubt that any of us is necessarily facing decisions that are as grave as we think they are. After all (and you'll have to excuse the pun), the most significant grave any of us is going to face has already been triumphed over. Besides, we have living in us the same Spirit that allowed that grave to be overcome. Perhaps tuning into him a bit more, and a bit less into our own hang-ups, would help us make the right choices - when choices need to be made.
More on this as it comes to mind.
Friday, March 13, 2009
Thanksgiving
I remember when I was doing my Honours year at Uni and struggling to deal with some fairly serious anxiety, my mother directed me to that well-worn Bible verse about stress and the like: "Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God" (Philippians 4:6). People would always quote that one at me, and it so often felt like a rebuke rather than an encouragement. I would feel like I was disobeying God by being anxious, yet had no idea exactly how to stop being anxious. I felt much like I had done when I was taken into Casualty at Warragul Hospital one Christmas Eve to deal with the (stress-related) stomach problems I was having and the fairly communication-inept doctor, finding that my stomach muscles were very tense, said, "Relax! Why are you not relaxing!" Great. Really helpful. Thanks guys.
What my mother said, though, that transformed my thinking was that giving thanks was the secret to overcoming anxiety. It wasn't about attempting to pretend that everything was fine, or simply not worrying - you gave thanks as the basis for not worrying. You didn't worry because you shifted your focus from what was wrong to what was good; or, better still, you shifted your focus to the goodness of the God that you were trusting in to solve your problems. Or, to steal the words of a song: "Turn your eyes upon Jesus, look full into his wonderful face, and the things of earth will grow strangely dim in the light of his glory and grace."
Like I said, that transformed my thinking. Yet how quickly we forget. It's all too easy to focus on the problems not the reasons for thanksgiving, or to have one anxious prayer answered, only to jump straight into another one without pause to thank the one who answered that prayer. And it gets to a point where we think, strangely, that it was our anxiety that solved the problems, not the fact that, in amongst all the anxiety, we found the presence of mind to pray.
My mother reminded herself of that verse this week, and told me about it. I'm very glad, because it reminded me too. And I found myself being calm and even joyful during a week that very easily could have gone the other way. All the same circumstances that, this time last year, made me a nervous wreck, this week were no problem. And why? Not because I pretended it was fine, that's for sure, but because I stopped at the end of each day to give thanks for what had gone well - quite a lot, when I thought about it. And the result of all that was a day, today, that was filled with reasons for thanksgiving - amazing how they increase the more we think about them.
So here's a little post to say thanks, publicly, to the one who got me through - more than that, who gave me a week that I can truly give thanks for.
What my mother said, though, that transformed my thinking was that giving thanks was the secret to overcoming anxiety. It wasn't about attempting to pretend that everything was fine, or simply not worrying - you gave thanks as the basis for not worrying. You didn't worry because you shifted your focus from what was wrong to what was good; or, better still, you shifted your focus to the goodness of the God that you were trusting in to solve your problems. Or, to steal the words of a song: "Turn your eyes upon Jesus, look full into his wonderful face, and the things of earth will grow strangely dim in the light of his glory and grace."
Like I said, that transformed my thinking. Yet how quickly we forget. It's all too easy to focus on the problems not the reasons for thanksgiving, or to have one anxious prayer answered, only to jump straight into another one without pause to thank the one who answered that prayer. And it gets to a point where we think, strangely, that it was our anxiety that solved the problems, not the fact that, in amongst all the anxiety, we found the presence of mind to pray.
My mother reminded herself of that verse this week, and told me about it. I'm very glad, because it reminded me too. And I found myself being calm and even joyful during a week that very easily could have gone the other way. All the same circumstances that, this time last year, made me a nervous wreck, this week were no problem. And why? Not because I pretended it was fine, that's for sure, but because I stopped at the end of each day to give thanks for what had gone well - quite a lot, when I thought about it. And the result of all that was a day, today, that was filled with reasons for thanksgiving - amazing how they increase the more we think about them.
So here's a little post to say thanks, publicly, to the one who got me through - more than that, who gave me a week that I can truly give thanks for.
Sunday, February 8, 2009
Water and fire deride
The consensus is in: for Victorians, yesterday was the hottest day on record, and that almost on the back of our hottest stretch of days in history. Those questioning the reality of climate change may have faced something of a challenge over the past two weeks, as the state's weather exceeded even the normal scorch of February, and many - myself included - pondered the philosophical (and deeply practical) question of how to keep cool in a responsible way.
Sometimes it was simply a case of biting the bullet. Not believing in air conditioning is certainly put to the test when the mercury passes 40 degrees many days in a row. One of my most idealistic work friends admitted to feeling that she was creating something of a rod for her own back in not having any cooling. But it's a question that we will certainly have to address much more in future Februaries. If our use of power has been irresponsible up to this point, continuing to use cooling as we have done in the past will not be a fair way to combat rising temperatures. The temptation to use more power for cooling purposes will only increase, as will the need not to use it. Days like yesterday may be becoming much more commonplace, as frightening as that sounds.
For those dancing at the Night Cat in Fitzroy last night, it was a time of celebration. We had beat the heat. We were still alive. The front man of the funk band playing there last night announced that the day would go down in history, and that we should be proud to have survived it. But anyone who read the papers or watched/listened to the news today will know that, at the very least, 35 people didn't survive, and the numbers are expected to rise in future hours and days.
Anyone who feels like the world is operating seriously out of kilter would have good reason to do so. Queensland has more rain than it needs right now, while my state is bone dry. Naturally, I'm drawn to the metaphor of it all. T.S. Eliot's poetry in particular offers all manner of neat quotes and images. The title of his famous poem "Ash-Wednesday" has significance for Victorians that has been renewed in the past 24 hours. Yesterday saw our worst bush fires since that infamous day, and the poem speaks of renewal, dryness and death in a way that is fairly meaningful in this time. Other poems - "Little Gidding" among them - speak of water and fire destroying what we have taken for granted, replacing our towns, ridiculing our priorities and sense of security. Yet, much as I love it, poetry has little to offer at a time like this. It can only point out the horror of our situation. It cannot change it.
And, for all our campaigns to stop climate change, we cannot change the illness in the human heart that makes people light fires and delight in them. We cannot change the foolishness of those who went out in their cars to escape the fires, only to be met by them even more fiercely. And it does not reverse the fundamental motion of death and decay that directs everything on this planet, whatever we do.
But there is renewal. There is hope, however it looks - it simply isn't in human hands. Yet it requires our hands nevertheless - to be open to accept it, and then to be ready to turn and share what has been given to us. I for one will be praying that some people can see that in this time. I don't see another way forward.
On a practical note, the Australian Red Cross are opening relief centres for those affected by the fires, and will no doubt be happy to receive donations. My advice would be to go to their website and to select "Where it's needed - Australia" under "Appeals". If anyone knows of a more direct way to donate, please let me know.
Sometimes it was simply a case of biting the bullet. Not believing in air conditioning is certainly put to the test when the mercury passes 40 degrees many days in a row. One of my most idealistic work friends admitted to feeling that she was creating something of a rod for her own back in not having any cooling. But it's a question that we will certainly have to address much more in future Februaries. If our use of power has been irresponsible up to this point, continuing to use cooling as we have done in the past will not be a fair way to combat rising temperatures. The temptation to use more power for cooling purposes will only increase, as will the need not to use it. Days like yesterday may be becoming much more commonplace, as frightening as that sounds.
For those dancing at the Night Cat in Fitzroy last night, it was a time of celebration. We had beat the heat. We were still alive. The front man of the funk band playing there last night announced that the day would go down in history, and that we should be proud to have survived it. But anyone who read the papers or watched/listened to the news today will know that, at the very least, 35 people didn't survive, and the numbers are expected to rise in future hours and days.
Anyone who feels like the world is operating seriously out of kilter would have good reason to do so. Queensland has more rain than it needs right now, while my state is bone dry. Naturally, I'm drawn to the metaphor of it all. T.S. Eliot's poetry in particular offers all manner of neat quotes and images. The title of his famous poem "Ash-Wednesday" has significance for Victorians that has been renewed in the past 24 hours. Yesterday saw our worst bush fires since that infamous day, and the poem speaks of renewal, dryness and death in a way that is fairly meaningful in this time. Other poems - "Little Gidding" among them - speak of water and fire destroying what we have taken for granted, replacing our towns, ridiculing our priorities and sense of security. Yet, much as I love it, poetry has little to offer at a time like this. It can only point out the horror of our situation. It cannot change it.
And, for all our campaigns to stop climate change, we cannot change the illness in the human heart that makes people light fires and delight in them. We cannot change the foolishness of those who went out in their cars to escape the fires, only to be met by them even more fiercely. And it does not reverse the fundamental motion of death and decay that directs everything on this planet, whatever we do.
But there is renewal. There is hope, however it looks - it simply isn't in human hands. Yet it requires our hands nevertheless - to be open to accept it, and then to be ready to turn and share what has been given to us. I for one will be praying that some people can see that in this time. I don't see another way forward.
On a practical note, the Australian Red Cross are opening relief centres for those affected by the fires, and will no doubt be happy to receive donations. My advice would be to go to their website and to select "Where it's needed - Australia" under "Appeals". If anyone knows of a more direct way to donate, please let me know.
Friday, February 6, 2009
Poem
I would like my words to be
kept somewhere safe while holy light
burns in and out and through and through
and all the dross goes ashen white.
I would like these words to see
the better of those latter years,
and feel the joy, the lingering
of truth all through the death and tears
that will destroy both you and me.
I would like my words to stay;
not as my words, but to remain
as lanterns somewhere on the way
to show us what you’ve always been.
I’d like to see that: see those words
fly, disembodied, celestial, high
above the dross, above, like birds –
No, more. I’d like to see what flight
must mean to otherworldly birds
when gravity’s no hindrance to
their wings, for I have sometimes heard
whispered rumours of such things.
I’d like to hear those whispers surge,
hear my words join in the chorus
of those voices as they merge
and amplify, become a scream:
I’d like to scream along with them –
But would my voice be suited to
such perfect noise? For when
I scream, it’s with hate and ash
and lust and death; not with truth.
Then let my words be all you hear,
not my voice. Let my words be proof,
or, if not proof, faint testaments
to what, by then, will be so clear
that these words I speak will only be
one line, one note, one faint, one mere
word-arrow to the bright truth that
skies, clouds and spheres will surely shout.
I’d rather such a humble state
than lose my words when dross burns out.
Yes, I would like my words to be
kept somewhere safe while holy light
burns in and out and through and through
and all the dross goes ashen white.
I would like these words to see
the better of those latter years,
and feel the joy, the lingering
of truth all through the death and tears.
kept somewhere safe while holy light
burns in and out and through and through
and all the dross goes ashen white.
I would like these words to see
the better of those latter years,
and feel the joy, the lingering
of truth all through the death and tears
that will destroy both you and me.
I would like my words to stay;
not as my words, but to remain
as lanterns somewhere on the way
to show us what you’ve always been.
I’d like to see that: see those words
fly, disembodied, celestial, high
above the dross, above, like birds –
No, more. I’d like to see what flight
must mean to otherworldly birds
when gravity’s no hindrance to
their wings, for I have sometimes heard
whispered rumours of such things.
I’d like to hear those whispers surge,
hear my words join in the chorus
of those voices as they merge
and amplify, become a scream:
I’d like to scream along with them –
But would my voice be suited to
such perfect noise? For when
I scream, it’s with hate and ash
and lust and death; not with truth.
Then let my words be all you hear,
not my voice. Let my words be proof,
or, if not proof, faint testaments
to what, by then, will be so clear
that these words I speak will only be
one line, one note, one faint, one mere
word-arrow to the bright truth that
skies, clouds and spheres will surely shout.
I’d rather such a humble state
than lose my words when dross burns out.
Yes, I would like my words to be
kept somewhere safe while holy light
burns in and out and through and through
and all the dross goes ashen white.
I would like these words to see
the better of those latter years,
and feel the joy, the lingering
of truth all through the death and tears.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Your fortune, our morals
This sign spotted on the corner of Moreland and Pascoe Vale Roads on the way home from work today:
"Work From Home
6 Figure Salary
Serious Only
Call ------------"
Serious only? Meaning, I suppose, only call if you're serious. But what, given such little information, are you supposed to be serious about? Earning a 6 figure salary? Working from home? Does it make any difference to you to know precisely what kind of work you will be doing from home before you decide if you are serious?
Or perhaps it means, don't call this number as a joke, or, don't do this job if you have a sense of humour. Perhaps a better stipulation could be: "Non-thinkers only, please."
It makes me wonder - who exactly would ring that number? People who are passionate about working from home? Because I'm not sure how many workplaces would see that as a particularly valuable characteristic. Still, I'm not in HR. What would I know. Good luck to them, I suppose.
"Work From Home
6 Figure Salary
Serious Only
Call ------------"
Serious only? Meaning, I suppose, only call if you're serious. But what, given such little information, are you supposed to be serious about? Earning a 6 figure salary? Working from home? Does it make any difference to you to know precisely what kind of work you will be doing from home before you decide if you are serious?
Or perhaps it means, don't call this number as a joke, or, don't do this job if you have a sense of humour. Perhaps a better stipulation could be: "Non-thinkers only, please."
It makes me wonder - who exactly would ring that number? People who are passionate about working from home? Because I'm not sure how many workplaces would see that as a particularly valuable characteristic. Still, I'm not in HR. What would I know. Good luck to them, I suppose.
Monday, February 2, 2009
All the lonely people
Some years ago, when I was feeling dissatisfied with happy-clappy, "everything's great" Christian music, I found myself drawn often to the music of Jars of Clay, and the relationship has continued. Their later albums did not really live up to the promise of their early efforts, and their music has always erred more on the side of the mainstream than I'm necessarily happy with, but it's their lyrics more than anything that have been of great encouragement to me - the sort of lyrics that capture perfectly the Christian tension of suffering yet rejoicing. Their double disc release from a few years ago, "Furthermore: From the Studio/From the Stage", captured that tension particularly well, with much of the studio disc perfectly encapsulating the hope of those whose experience of suffering has left them broken but acutely aware of grace, something that allows them to continue hoping in the face of renewed suffering: "You have calmed greater waters/And higher mountains have come down."
So imagine my annoyance when, on 2003's album, "Who We Are Instead", they released something as vapid and trite as the track "Lonely People". It's always been a bit of a frustration that the song is one of the album's catchier numbers, with a cool bluesy groove to it that gets me every time. But then there's the lyrics: "This is for all the lonely people/Thinkin' that life has passed them by/Don't give up until you drink from the silver cup/Ride that highway in the sky". Now, in fairness the song is working within a genre and does so quite successfully, but it's a perfect pastiche: empty of its own meaning. Whatever else Jars of Clay were, they were always sensitive. They understood what it meant to hurt, to be broken. Sadly, it seems, they just don't know how it feels to be alone. No-one who's known true loneliness would attempt to encourage anyone with such cliched images. How anyone is expected to fight loneliness by "drinking from the silver cup" is anyone's guess. Give me Wilco's "How to Fight Loneliness". At least that song shows empathy.
So why am I writing about this today? Am I feeling particularly lonely? No, not really. I'm too busy to be lonely right now. Besides, whatever else 2009 may hold for me, it certainly isn't seeing me being bereft of friends when I need them. Though loneliness is something I've battled a lot throughout my life, now is not one of those times, thank God.
No, what prompted this post was in fact listening to that song yesterday afternoon and finding myself feeling those old, familiar feelings: that feeling, more than anything else, of being patronised by someone who didn't know what loneliness was but somehow thought they could encourage me about it. And then I found myself thinking about how I was no longer lonely, but didn't for a moment regret that I had been. Loneliness, when I've felt it, has taught me independence and a kind of self-sufficiency that's invaluable in life. But, more than that, it's taught me to rely on God in a way that I would never have done if I'd had a more bountiful supply of people to rely on.
So I found myself skipping the track, simply because I didn't need that kind of hackneyed encouragement, and saw no need to endure it any more. It also made me thankful that I've known loneliness so that, if I'm ever in a position where I am called upon to support someone else, I'll know enough how they feel not to insult them with platitudes. And I'll hopefully be able to tell them of the true comfort - one that Jars of Clay a little clumsily pointed to, but could have done so perhaps more tactfully had they just used these words:
"Blessed are the poor in spirit for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted."
I'm very grateful to know what those words mean.
So imagine my annoyance when, on 2003's album, "Who We Are Instead", they released something as vapid and trite as the track "Lonely People". It's always been a bit of a frustration that the song is one of the album's catchier numbers, with a cool bluesy groove to it that gets me every time. But then there's the lyrics: "This is for all the lonely people/Thinkin' that life has passed them by/Don't give up until you drink from the silver cup/Ride that highway in the sky". Now, in fairness the song is working within a genre and does so quite successfully, but it's a perfect pastiche: empty of its own meaning. Whatever else Jars of Clay were, they were always sensitive. They understood what it meant to hurt, to be broken. Sadly, it seems, they just don't know how it feels to be alone. No-one who's known true loneliness would attempt to encourage anyone with such cliched images. How anyone is expected to fight loneliness by "drinking from the silver cup" is anyone's guess. Give me Wilco's "How to Fight Loneliness". At least that song shows empathy.
So why am I writing about this today? Am I feeling particularly lonely? No, not really. I'm too busy to be lonely right now. Besides, whatever else 2009 may hold for me, it certainly isn't seeing me being bereft of friends when I need them. Though loneliness is something I've battled a lot throughout my life, now is not one of those times, thank God.
No, what prompted this post was in fact listening to that song yesterday afternoon and finding myself feeling those old, familiar feelings: that feeling, more than anything else, of being patronised by someone who didn't know what loneliness was but somehow thought they could encourage me about it. And then I found myself thinking about how I was no longer lonely, but didn't for a moment regret that I had been. Loneliness, when I've felt it, has taught me independence and a kind of self-sufficiency that's invaluable in life. But, more than that, it's taught me to rely on God in a way that I would never have done if I'd had a more bountiful supply of people to rely on.
So I found myself skipping the track, simply because I didn't need that kind of hackneyed encouragement, and saw no need to endure it any more. It also made me thankful that I've known loneliness so that, if I'm ever in a position where I am called upon to support someone else, I'll know enough how they feel not to insult them with platitudes. And I'll hopefully be able to tell them of the true comfort - one that Jars of Clay a little clumsily pointed to, but could have done so perhaps more tactfully had they just used these words:
"Blessed are the poor in spirit for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted."
I'm very grateful to know what those words mean.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Why so downcast?
There are a couple of reasons to be excited about the new Sons of Korah album.1. The Melbourne outfit, specialising in setting the Biblical Psalms to music, have not released an album since 2005. They've just done a lot of live shows, which have been great, but, as any Sufjan Stevens fan will know, an awesome live show is still no substitute for an awesome new album. The same goes for Sons of Korah.
2. Their albums - fairly prolific from 1999 to 2002 then disappearing until 2005 - have continued to get better and better. Although few songs ever compare to the heart-wrenching closer to 2001's "Shelter" ("The sacrifices of God are a broken spirit and a contrite heart"), the consistency and variety of 2002's "Redemption Songs" and 2005's "Resurrection" were unparalleled in their earlier efforts. So, if they continued to develop as those albums promised they would, 2008's "Rain" was sure to be their best so far.
And the good news? "Rain" is brilliant.
My brother always complained that, where the Psalms themselves vary dramatically in style and mood, Sons of Korah's renditions always sounded a bit too "sameish" to really reflect the emotional tenor of their source material. That, of course, is a complaint that isn't really justified by close listening. On the surface, much of what they do sounds "nice", but closer listens reveal much emotional tension and diversity. They've also covered a very wide range of styles across their previous albums, although always working within an organic and essentially "folky" (and thus fairly timeless) framework. Nevertheless, "Rain" does away with all such complaints altogether. When the Psalmists despair, so does the music. When they fume with anger, the music fumes. There's an experimental spirit here that has always been in Rod Gear's work but has not always pervaded the music that he and Matt Jacoby have produced together. Here that spirit is given full reign. And, when the Psalmist calls on God to break the jaw of his enemies, the eery double vocal overlay captures that feeling with frightening immediacy. It may not be the most loving of emotions, but still one that most people who have ever had an enemy can relate to.
I have long felt that the Psalms should be the fundamental framework for all Christian art. There's emotional complexity here that most Christian music or literature is just crying out for. The Psalmists don't apologise for their emotions. They don't go in for any of the "serenity now" crap that too many Christians think is Biblical and not, in fact, from "Seinfeld". They say when they feel bad. They say when they doubt, or feel distant from God, or don't know what to believe anymore. And yet they always find hope. And yet? No, it isn't in spite of their openness. It's because. They bring themselves to God as they are, and the healing that results is impossible to achieve otherwise.
I'm delighted that "Rain", more than any of the previous Sons of Korah albums, fully captures that emotional spectrum, and the catharsis the album achieves is consequently far greater than before. And they've even saved some of my favourite Psalms for this album, and many Psalms that have been great comforts to me in the past few months. Set to music, as they were always intended to be, those Psalms are now still more comforting.
But still no Psalm 23. When, I wonder, will they do that one?
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Hot hot heat
Oppressive heat has interesting results. It boils brains; it makes everyone flustered; it unifies everyone with the observation of, "It's so hot" (not that it needs to be said). It also makes us feel as if there is some great injustice going on, that we are forced to live through such conditions, even work.
I have had the great (mis)fortune of returning to work right at the beginning of the heat wave. The worst, they say, in 100 years. So hopefully we won't have to endure it again in 100 years - or perhaps not?
Saunas, they say, are good for you because, among other things, they purify us. And how do they do this? They bring all impurities to the surface.
Yes, this is a kind of sauna. We're living in a sauna. Perhaps, instead of complaining, we should try to live with it. Who knows what the results would be.
I have had the great (mis)fortune of returning to work right at the beginning of the heat wave. The worst, they say, in 100 years. So hopefully we won't have to endure it again in 100 years - or perhaps not?
Saunas, they say, are good for you because, among other things, they purify us. And how do they do this? They bring all impurities to the surface.
Yes, this is a kind of sauna. We're living in a sauna. Perhaps, instead of complaining, we should try to live with it. Who knows what the results would be.
Saturday, January 10, 2009
Ideas From the South (Island)
So Ideas From the North will be going on holiday again for a couple of weeks - not that you'd notice, because I've hardly been prolific in my blogging in recent weeks. But now I'm off for some camping, hiking and general sightseeing in the South Island of New Zealand. It's over ten years since I last went there, and was only 13 then, so it will be interesting to revisit old haunts, maybe see some new places.
I'm prepared, of course, to be quite dead at the end of the 4-day Routeburn Track hike, but hope to resurrect in time to write some thoughts/insights/rambles when I return. I'm expecting the whole trip to be a little easier than China at least. After all, they do speak the same language as us, just with a few funny vowels.
I'm prepared, of course, to be quite dead at the end of the 4-day Routeburn Track hike, but hope to resurrect in time to write some thoughts/insights/rambles when I return. I'm expecting the whole trip to be a little easier than China at least. After all, they do speak the same language as us, just with a few funny vowels.
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
Who we won't be seeing on the red carpet
2008 was a pretty good year for movies, which means that my glance over the Golden Globe nominations for this year involved less annoyance and/or confusion than usual. Of course, there are always a fair number of films listed that haven't come out in Australia yet, or that have only just come out, and then the handful that are possibly quite good but I just have no interest in seeing. All this put together means that, in a number of cases, I just can't comment on how well-deserved the nominations are (although my cynicism does kick in with certain obvious choices - "Revolution Road" anyone?).
There were a few, though, that I was very happy to see listed - Danny Boyle's latest triumph, "Slumdog Millionaire", which, a few years ago, would have been my idea of a perfect film: a Danny Boyle movie set in India. And it was pretty close to perfect. There was also David Fincher's most recent offering, the odd, imperfect but dazzling "Benjamin Button" which stayed in my head for some time after seeing it. Nominations like this are so clearly well-deserved and completely unsurprising. Both films have been very well-received and are already in IMDB's Top 100 - which simply means a lot of immediate hype and excitement, but I suspect they'll both be stayers. Though I might be wrong.
I was also happy to see that one of the absolute highlights of the year for me, Ari Folman's animated documentary "Waltz With Bashir", got a guernsey for Best Foreign Film. The Foreign Film category has always allowed scope for odd, eccentric and arty films, and "Bashir" is all of these, as well as deeply, deeply disturbing. It got nominated, but it almost certainly won't win. They'll give it to something more inspiring - though another highlight of my '08 viewing, "The Counterfeitors", managed to win the Foreign Film Oscar last year, despite being far from inspiring. There's hope, I suppose.
Of course, you can't expect the Globes to really reflect the state of cinema. How they nominate what they nominate remains a mystery to me. The Oscars, of course, are notorious for the "campaigns" that they expect f0r films to be nominated. The wonderful Hal Hartley once said that he had absolutely no idea how to launch an Oscar campaign and no desire to do so. I doubt the Academy would pay any attention to Hal if he did campaign for his films, but it's nice to know that the feeling is mutual.
Another thing: the "major" film awards tend to like films that seem "important" or "worthy". They like films like "Benjamin Button" because they have star power, big studio money behind them AND the sense that they are artistically significant. In a few cases (ie. "Benjamin Button"), those factors all coincide to make a great movie. But they often don't. And there are many great movies, and very important and worthy movies, that don't have Sam Mendes directing them or Kate and Leo starring in them, that the Academy will pay no attention to, even if every Guild and Critic's Circle applauds them till their hands hurt. This year's great disgrace was Thomas McCarthy's magnificent film, "The Visitor". Films don't get much more "important" or "worthy" than this one, but it remains what it's main character is at the end: loud, earnest, righteously angry drumming that no-one stops and listens to. More's the pity. For me, it was the best film of the year.
There were a few, though, that I was very happy to see listed - Danny Boyle's latest triumph, "Slumdog Millionaire", which, a few years ago, would have been my idea of a perfect film: a Danny Boyle movie set in India. And it was pretty close to perfect. There was also David Fincher's most recent offering, the odd, imperfect but dazzling "Benjamin Button" which stayed in my head for some time after seeing it. Nominations like this are so clearly well-deserved and completely unsurprising. Both films have been very well-received and are already in IMDB's Top 100 - which simply means a lot of immediate hype and excitement, but I suspect they'll both be stayers. Though I might be wrong.
I was also happy to see that one of the absolute highlights of the year for me, Ari Folman's animated documentary "Waltz With Bashir", got a guernsey for Best Foreign Film. The Foreign Film category has always allowed scope for odd, eccentric and arty films, and "Bashir" is all of these, as well as deeply, deeply disturbing. It got nominated, but it almost certainly won't win. They'll give it to something more inspiring - though another highlight of my '08 viewing, "The Counterfeitors", managed to win the Foreign Film Oscar last year, despite being far from inspiring. There's hope, I suppose.
Of course, you can't expect the Globes to really reflect the state of cinema. How they nominate what they nominate remains a mystery to me. The Oscars, of course, are notorious for the "campaigns" that they expect f0r films to be nominated. The wonderful Hal Hartley once said that he had absolutely no idea how to launch an Oscar campaign and no desire to do so. I doubt the Academy would pay any attention to Hal if he did campaign for his films, but it's nice to know that the feeling is mutual.
Another thing: the "major" film awards tend to like films that seem "important" or "worthy". They like films like "Benjamin Button" because they have star power, big studio money behind them AND the sense that they are artistically significant. In a few cases (ie. "Benjamin Button"), those factors all coincide to make a great movie. But they often don't. And there are many great movies, and very important and worthy movies, that don't have Sam Mendes directing them or Kate and Leo starring in them, that the Academy will pay no attention to, even if every Guild and Critic's Circle applauds them till their hands hurt. This year's great disgrace was Thomas McCarthy's magnificent film, "The Visitor". Films don't get much more "important" or "worthy" than this one, but it remains what it's main character is at the end: loud, earnest, righteously angry drumming that no-one stops and listens to. More's the pity. For me, it was the best film of the year.
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