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neurotribe · 5 years ago

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Scenes from a funeral

Today's post is addressed to a specific audience.

One of the areas in which I have taught over the years is the subject of spiritual formation. In this discipline I cover the effects that family of origin has upon the shape of our spirituality. I find the best way to teach is grounding the theory in my own experience. It seems to me that this is the most helpful approach. Seeing what it looks like grounded in another person's life, students can then easily do the necessary translation. Consequently, I have shared my experiences of growing up in a home marred by domestic violence. It was always a difficult prospect because I live in a web of relationships. Not only was the perpetrator still alive, but I was still in relationship with him and there were other people involved in my story. Trying to know how best to manage the telling of my own story whilst being bound up in the stories of others is complicated.

As I shared my experiences in teaching contexts, I have been profoundly moved as students hearing me tell my story find their own voice and in turn the courage to share their story with others, often with me. In many instances I have then been utterly honoured and humbled when some time later I would be contacted by former students who would share their own formative stories of attempts at transformation, reconciliation and some kind of resolution.

I have connected with many ex students and people who have heard me speak via social media. If that is you, reading this post now, you are my audience today.

Two weeks ago, my father fell and sustained a massive brain injury. After about two weeks in ICU and then a palliative care ward, he died because of this injury and from complications associated with it.

Towards the end of his life, I spent close to three days, two of those alone, with him. During that time, I wrote. Some of the writing included some of the stories that I have shared in my teaching work. I thought that what I had written was going to be dad’s eulogy. After writing it, and then reading it to him, alone, holding his hand as he lay dying, I felt the writing had done what it needed to do for both of us. I felt that when it came time for his funeral, I no longer needed to say anything. I felt that what needed to be done was done.

As it turned out, the Catholic priest who has been a long time friend of the family had the occasion to read what I had written. After having some time to digest it, he called me the day before dad’s funeral and asked me to give dad’s eulogy. On Friday, the immediate family gathered for dad's funeral where I gave the eulogy.

For those who have found some help or hope in my story and my attempts to reconcile a difficult past, I post dad’s eulogy. May you find it helpful and hopeful.

(Please be advised that the following includes a description of family violence. If you are or have suffered family violence and are seeking help, in Victoria please contact Safe Steps Victoria at https://www.safesteps.org.au/ or 1800015188 or seek relevant local help.)

What I am going to read here is a shorter version of something I wrote as I have reflected upon my relationship with dad over the years. I actually read the longer version to dad, as I sat by his bedside, holding his hand, about a day before he died. I shared my writing and experience with Fr Vic. He encouraged me to share this shorter version on this occasion. This version is as a result of his guidance. Thankyou Fr Vic not just for your support today, but for being a gift to our family over many years. Inħobbok ħafna sabiħ.

I want to tell three stories about Charlie. The first story took place at our family home in St Albans one hot summer Saturday morning. I was probably seven or eight years of age. This morning, as was often the case in our house, dad exploded in a fit of rage. As a young child, I was terrified by the sounds, his actions, about the prospect of one of us being hurt, because in previous situations like this, and subsequent ones, getting hurt was not uncommon. I remember mum shepherding us children out of the house and onto the driveway, where we stood around the car, hesitating. It took me a few moments before I realised the reason mum was hesitating was because we had nowhere to go. Eventually mum packed us three kids into the car, and we drove around the streets of St Albans for about an hour or so, before heading back home, hoping that Charlie's rage had run its course.

I’ve come to learn that one of the most important experiences in a child's life is an experience, a knowing that they belong. If a child is to have any chance of moving into some kind of healthy adulthood, it is a vital experience. In that moment, standing on the driveway, feeling like there was nowhere I belonged, and that there was no safe place for me, a traumatic wound was inflicted upon a young child, a wound that I have carried with me through my childhood and teenage years, into adulthood, into the present.

The second story I want to tell about Charlie occurred a couple of years later. We were at home and one of mum's sisters called on the phone, obviously in significant distress. I remember dad angrily, but quietly springing into action, heading out the door, returning a little later with my three terrified cousins, all covered in the paint that was a result of the shenanigans that had reduced my aunty to tears. Dad ordered them into the bathroom and cleaned them all up. Later, we had dinner together, where my sisters and I joked about what we thought was an hilarious incident. Not long into our meal, our cousins thought so too. I vividly, distinctly remember all of us, mum, dad, my sisters and my cousins, all sitting around that same kitchen table together, sharing a meal, laughing, being together.

The final story involved my distinctive red BMX, as well as some other details that I have never shared with my wider family until today. As a 13 year old, one Saturday morning a friend and I took off on one of our epic bike riding adventures. We met two girls at a park. We started talking to them. I was pretty obnoxious and rude so the conversation ended rather quickly. My friend and I thought nothing of it and we continued on our way.

Later that afternoon, my sister and I, accompanied by one of our cousins headed on down to the local milk bar, they on foot and I on my distinctive red BMX. Whilst my sister and my cousin went inside, the weekly Saturday night Greek Orthodox church service had just finished. About a dozen well dressed Greek boys emerged from the church building. When they saw me, they raced toward me and surrounded me, trapping me against the milk bar window.

I quickly realised that these boys were friends of the two girls we had met earlier that day. The girls had told them of my appalling behaviour. That’s the bit I haven’t shared with anyone else until this day. This was all my fault. The boys recognized me by my distinctive red BMX.

The leader of the pack, frustrated by his inability to provoke me in throwing the first punch, hit my left eye with a chunky ring, damaging my vision for a few days as well as giving me the biggest black eye of my life. I desperately willed myself not to move. It was like I was frozen in time.

And then I saw one of the most beautiful things in my life to this day. I saw Charlie's yellow Land Rover four wheel drive, dangerously screaming through the busy intersection and then bouncing wildly into the car park, horn blaring. Before the car came to a halt, dad flew out of the cabin, barefoot, dressed only in his singlet and unbuttoned shorts. He was swinging this packing hook, a brutal metal and wood hook used by dock workers on Melbourne’s waterfront. Like a terrifying bat out of hell he flew at the boys who fled the scene in abject terror. I can still see the looks of fear on some of their faces. After they had scattered, I collapsed onto the ground shaking, not knowing whether to laugh or cry.

What had happened was that my sister could see the scene unfolding from the inside of the milk bar. As soon as she realised what was happening she phoned dad. Within seconds, dad was there. My dad, most likely, had literally saved my life. My father's anger rescued me.

Each of these stories have left a significant mark, a significant legacy in my life.

The first story tells of Charlie's lasting legacy of anger, and the violent ways in which he expressed it and the wounds that it inflicted, leaving scars upon my body, and my soul that I carry this day, and for the rest of my days.

The second story also leaves an enduring mark upon the shape of my life. For most of our married life, Lisa and I welcomed young people, often at risk young people, into our home. We have tried to live our lives in such a way as to give people that critical experience, an experience of what it is like to have a home, to belong.

The course that my life has charted, seemingly without any intent on my behalf, this significant part of who I am, whether I like it or not, whether it makes sense or not, is because of an unskilled, overworked, underpaid, migrant shift worker, struggling to make some kind of life. On his one day off from a gruelling job on Melbourne’s waterfront, on a day where he by rights should have been trying to simply catch his breath and catch a break, he instead opens his meagre home to his wife's children, without thought, without hesitation. Yes dad was angry, at them, at the situation, at the circumstances. His anger led him to what he concluded was simply the only appropriate response. This angry act, that led to hospitality, as dysfunctionally as it played out, has also powerfully shaped the course of my life. Because of what dad did in that moment, to me every problem looks like a problem of belonging, and I feel like the only possible response is one of hospitality and welcome. I feel like I have to be this way, not because someone told me this is what we do, or because I feel guilty or obligated, it’s because it feels right. It is because someone, my father, showed me what to do.

Over the years, I have discovered, not from dad mind you, but from others, that dad quietly invited people into their home on several occasions.

The third story is perhaps the most difficult for me. For the first time in my life, I felt his anger, aggression and power not as something to fear or flee from, but something that could make me safe. This part of who Charlie was has also powerfully shaped the man I am today. There are many who have confided in me that my commitment to them, my commitment to their safety, the lengths I am prepared to go to in order to protect them, keep them safe, the ways in which I help shepherd them through the moments where they have had to deal with the consequences of their unwise choices; these people have told me that they have been transformed as they have witnessed my anger at their injustice and my acting on their behalf.

When I hear people speak of me in this way, I know, without any doubt, that this part of who I am is due once again, not to what dad told me I should be, rather it is because of who, and how he was in this world. This kind of life is not a consequence of following his advice, it is as a result of my instinctively following his irresistible example.

Countless times, it feels like I have come close to losing my mind when I try to reconcile these three stories, these three parts of who Charlie was, and what each part represents. How can a man in one moment terrify his young son, yet in another be such a breathtaking example of care and concern? How do I reconcile these three seemingly irreconcilable stories? To say that Charlie was a collection of contradictions would be the understatement of my life.

There were times in my relationship with my father, where I was able to move beyond my own anger and bitterness and move towards him. There were moments where I actively tried to understand. I tried to ask him to tell me stories about his childhood, about what it was like in Malta, what it was like to migrate to the other side of the world, what it was like being a foreigner, trying to find work, facing the prejudice of race and class, trying to make a life?

I don’t feel as though we were ever able to connect. I don’t know if I understood him. I don’t know if he understood that I was trying to understand, that I cared.

My relationship with Charlie was a constant up and down. When I no longer feared him, his contradictions brought us into conflict for the majority of my adult life. There have been stretches where I have chosen not to be in his life, because it was simply too painful. The last time we spoke prior to his brain injury was another one of our arguments.

But I am noticing something. I’m aware that the confused look that must have adorned my face when trying to figure out my father's contradictions is mirrored back to me in the faces of those around me. I see the look upon the faces of my partner, my children, when they see me in one moment acting with great courage and nobility, and in the next when I act with selfishness and cruelty. I realise that as I move between being a beautiful human being and a terrible one, often with a speed that can be deeply disorienting to those around me, I realise something. I realise that I too am a man of contradictions. I realise that I am my father's son.

When I become aware, often too late, that I have made choices and decisions that hurt those around me, and I crave nothing more than their understanding and their forgiveness, I realise, I am my father's son. I realise, if people are ever going to accept the contradictions that exist in me, perhaps I need to accept the contradictions that existed in Charlie.

Hear me carefully, I am not saying that domestic violence is ever acceptable or excusable. Domestic violence is unacceptable, it is inexcusable. Period.

The Austrian psychologist Viktor Frankl, said:

Between stimulus and response there is a space. In that space is our power to choose our response. In our response lies our growth and our freedom. - Viktor E. Frankl

The task at hand, my task, is to find that space between stimulus and response, to reflect in that moment, and in that moment, to make a decision to choose not to be the worst parts of Charlie, but to choose the best parts of Charlie. My task is, in that moment between stimulus and response, is to realise that one of the greatest gifts my father has bequeathed to me, is a righteous anger that, if harnessed, can be a gift to the world.

My task is not to try and reconcile the contradictions. My task, which is not too different to Charlie's task, when he made his way to Australia as a teenager with nothing and attempted to make a life, my task is to take the hand I have been dealt, and to do my best.

Dad, for the ways in which you have wounded and broken me, I forgive you.

Dad, for your examples, for the great and beautiful gifts that you have bequeathed me, I am forever indebted, and I am forever grateful.

Rest in peace dad.

#spirituality #theology #discipleship

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neurotribe · 5 years ago

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Mystical Revolution

There is no doubt that this is a unique time in history. The timing of COVID and Black Lives Matter create the kind of environment conducive to revolution. When I think of revolutions, I cannot do so without thinking about that line from The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy, describing a department of the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation:

A bunch of mindless jerks who'll be the first against the wall when the revolution comes.

Revolutions are dangerous things, particularly in the hands of human beings. Once again, an insight from the mind of heart of Henri Nouwen sheds wise light in this kairos moment:

It is my growing conviction that in Jesus the mystical and the revolutionary ways are not opposites, but two sides of the same human mode of experiential transcendence. I am increasingly convinced that conversion is the individual equivalent of revolution. Therefore, every real revolutionary is challenged to be a mystic at heart, and one who walks the mystical way is called to unmask the illusory quality of human society.

Mysticism and revolution are two aspects of the same attempt to bring about radical change. Mystics cannot prevent themselves from becoming social critics, since in self-reflection they will discover the roots of a sick society. Similarly, revolutionaries cannot avoid facing their own human condition, since in the midst of their struggle for a new world they will find that they are also fighting their own reactionary fears and false ambitions.

#Culture #Spirituality #COVID #Wisdom #Henri Nouwen #Theology

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neurotribe · 5 years ago

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What is it to care?

I struggle to see the ways in which my fellow sisters and brothers of faith are squaring up on either side of the #BlackLivesMatter issue in this unique time in human history. It is a heavy burden on my heart, for so many reasons. I found solace in the words of Nouwen today, indeed I find a prophetic call to reconsider who we are simply by reminding us of the etemology of the word “care”.

What then is care? The word care finds its origin in the word kara, which means “to lament, to mourn, to participate in suffering, to share in pain.” To care is to cry out with those who are ill, confused, lonely, isolated, and forgotten, and to recognize their pains in our own heart. To care is to enter into the world of those who are only touched by hostile hands, to listen attentively to those whose words are only heard by greedy ears, and to speak gently with those who are used to harsh orders and impatient requests. To care is to be present to those who suffer and to stay present even when nothing can be done to change their situation. To care is to be compassionate and so to form a community of people honestly facing the painful reality of our finite existence. To care is the most human gesture, in which the courageous confession of our common brokenness does not lead to paralysis but to community. When the humble confession of our basic human brokenness forms the ground from which all skillful healing comes forth, then cure can be welcomed not as a property to be claimed, but as a gift to be shared in gratitude.

#Theology #BlackLivesMatter #Discipleship #Spirituality

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neurotribe · 5 years ago

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5 Tips from a Reluctant Maker of Change

I was invited to contribute to a book. The subject is “5 Tips for Changemakers”. I don’t like change. I don’t like having to change. I don’t view myself as a change maker, and feel uncomfortable with being viewed in that way for all sorts of reasons.

I was going to delete the invitation, then I thought I’d give it a crack whilst I worked on updating the software on my daughters laptop.

I almost deleted the email then decided I would leave it to the editor to decide if it should be deleted or not.

Here is what I wrote.

Listen for the hardest voices to hear which I find are often the internal ones. They tend to be subtle and they can say things that are difficult to hear. They tend to range from condemnatory through to overcompensatory self promotion. I find the trick is to sit with those voices long enough to start to hear "through" them, before our sense of inferiority or superiority distorts what our lives are trying to tell us. Being still long enough is difficult.

Love. I almost didn't write this one. This word has become so profoundly bereft of meaning that it feels so superficially cliche to add it to a list like this. Yet love is the only thing that really changes, transforms anything. Love as a collection of committed intentional actions that seek to rehumanise and restore dignity to others regardless of prejudice. I wrote that last sentience choosing my words quite judiciously. I did not comment on the size of the acts, rather I tried to draw attention to the fact that the degree of consistency is what matters.

Be kind to yourself. Again another cliche that I hesitate to include. I teach martial arts and the owner of the dojo approached me in class one night to compliment me on my patience and dignifying approach I take with the pre-teens and teenagers. He noted that I am adept in finding the line between pushing them to their limits and conveying a loving kindness that will carry them there. He finished the conversation by wondering what my life would look like if I treated myself in this same way. He wandered off before I could return my jaw to its rightful place. He helped me ground this notion of "being kind to yourself". I'm eternally in his debt.

Withdraw often. Change is difficult and demanding. Get away from it often and make sure that the things that you do to recreate are not simply different versions of the same activity. Withdraw, renew, reengage.

Celebrate. Again, a cliche. I find that the default for change makers often largely unconciously, is that they only see that which is in need of change and transformation. This can be exhausting. Take time to see not only that which is in need of change, but also that which has changed, especially that in which you have had a part to play. And celebrate it like it's 1999.

I will now go and practice what I preach. Or try anyway.

Thank you for kindly considering me to be a change maker.

#Change

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neurotribe · 5 years ago

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The Crisis of Reckoning - COVID19 bringing us face to face with the vast emptiness of our lives.

I guess I really can’t use the excuse “I am too busy” for not writing hey? I, like so many other people on the planet, now find myself with more time. I am finding that it is this newly acquired time that is causing quite a few problems for quite a few people.

I often use the following quote in my teaching on contemplation and spirituality. It is in some respects brutal and confronting.

“When we look at what our life really consists of, we are terrified by its vast emptiness.”

What is of most significance is the word “when”. When teaching contemplative practice, the biggest challenge is trying to get people to stop. Not to find the time, rather to make the time. I do what I can to bend the assessment of the subject in such a way that the participants have to make time and have to engage in contemplative processes. It is difficult getting people to stop.

One of the things that immediately happens when people do slow down and begin to reflect upon their lives, is that things tend to get worse. When you look, when you really look at the things that make up your life, it can be quite frightening.

My own experience and the experience of many of my former students tells of feelings that come to the surface when you first engage in the practices of silence and stillness. Feelings of bitterness, sadness, anger, frustration, hate, unforgiveness, resentment; these and other powerful emotions come to our attention. Many of these emotions, associated with events that we have never really addressed let alone begun to understand, come to our attention and it can feel as though we are experiencing the trauma of those events all over again.

I have noticed that when people stop and reflect upon what is inside, it can feel like, and it may actually be that things are getting worse rather than getting better. The upside of doing this in a class context means that when people experience this kind of destabilisation, there is a supportive community, some content as well as some tools and structure to help cushion the effect of this unsettling.

During this time of forced isolation, I have been inundated with messages from friends and former students experiencing this reckoning with “the vast emptiness of their lives”.

It seems that the global forced isolation that we are experiencing as a result of COVID-19 creates a very similar environment to the one that contemplative teachers seek to create in order to precipitate this crisis of reckoning.

Since the beginning of lockdown, I have been in dialogue with people who seem to be having this crisis of reckoning in one of two ways. The first experience is those isolated from others and left alone with their internal world for long stretches of time, unlike any other time in their life. The second experience is those stuck in close proximity to significant others and unable to withdraw and therefore secretly practice the kinds of coping behaviours that in the past have helped them deal with the pain associated with such relationships.

Friends in both categories have reached out in this time of distress, wanting to talk about this unsettling experience. They want to know if they are crazy, if their experience is weird or unusual. When I have had an opportunity to assure them of this unpleasant, yet normal and common experience, when they have had an opportunity to begin to reflect upon it with another person, we start to explore some of the tools and frameworks in the world of contemplative practice that can serve them in what I consider to be an incredible invitation to transformation.

I wanted to write about this experience for two reasons. The first is bringing this crisis of reckoning to our attention. If this is something that you have experienced in some part, whilst it can feel quite painful, it is actually quite common and quite natural. The challenge is, in a culture like ours, one that does not really have a wisdom tradition to draw from, it can feel unlike anything you have ever experienced before and depending on the severity of the emotions involved, it can feel like a kind of dying. If this is the case, be assured, the pain, whilst very real and profound, will not kill you. Pain, like physical pain in our bodies, is often an attempt to draw our attention to something that needs healing.

The second thing is to process what is going on. Here you have some options.

Write. Write like you have never written before. Whether it be a physical pen and paper, or an electronic document, open up the book/document and write. In as much detail as is helpful. Try to make a record of your feelings and thoughts. Clearly name what it is that you are thinking and/or feeling.

Talk it out. If possible, try to find a trusted friend who has the ability to listen. This is tricky because as I said, we are not exactly a culture with a rich wisdom tradition. Many of us are uncomfortable with pain. Our culture is one characterised by addiction and self medication. The consequences of these twin dysfunctions mean that not only is it difficult to find someone to talk to, but if we are able to, the “listener” will probably feel uncomfortable with the level of introspection required to reflect upon such difficult material to the point where they will want to offer encouragement or advice rather than simply trying to listen and to “be with” the person needing to process their experiences out loud. If you are able to find someone to talk to, someone who can simply listen and be with you, asking the odd question or two, that is a great gift that will serve you well long after this period of forced isolation ends. If you are unable to find such a person, perhaps you can gently ask a person who does volunteer to listen to you to refrain from offering advice and/or encouragement, helping them to become the kinds of “soul friends” (anam cara) that our culture tends to lack?

The Spirituality of the 12 Steps: I have found practicing Alcoholics Anonymous’ 12 step program one of the singularly most helpful frameworks to those getting started on the contemplative pilgrimage. The invitation to honest reflection, the humility required to reach out and submit to a “higher power”, the invitation to engage in a “fearless and searching moral inventory”; these and many of the other “steps” have been practiced for decades by many other souls who have found themselves in exactly the same position as many of us now, forced in to isolation, separated from our coping mechanisms, and forced to reckon with vast emptiness of our lives.

We are living through unprecedented times. I hear people often reflecting on the fact that in many respects, this is an invitation to the human race to reconsider what is “normal”, what we have taken for granted all of our lives. I have read much inviting us to renegotiate what it means to work, be a family, be a community. I believe that there is also an invitation here to reconsider what it means to be human, and what it means to be whole. I just don’t think it is possible to do that on this side of the crisis of reckoning.

If what I have written here has connected with your experience of forced isolation in some way, I pray you find the courage and the kind of companionship necessary to explore that vast emptiness, in the hope that you will discover that not only are you not alone, but that you are beloved.

#COVID19 #Spirituality #Discipleship

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neurotribe · 6 years ago

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On Australia Day 2020, I acknowledge...

This is an annual post that I make leading up to “Australia Day”. I make minor adjustments to it each year as I hopefully learn and grow. Here is the 2020 instalment. I trust that some of you find it helpful. (Photo’s from this morning’s service at St Kilda Baptist Church.)

I acknowledge that I live, love, work and play on the land of the Wurundjeri people, of the Kulin Nations.

I acknowledge that my parents migrated to, were married, raised a family and gave birth to me on the land that the Wurundjeri were dispossessed of.

I acknowledge that I was raised by a migrant family that for whatever reasons, as part of my upbringing and formation did not tell the story of the Wurundjeri, their dispossession and the ongoing consequences generations later.

I acknowledge that it was not until my 20’s that I started to become aware of the dispossession of the Wurundjeri people.

I acknowledge that I have learned that Australia’s first peoples have survived overwhelming systematic and coordinated efforts to exterminate them.

I acknowledge that against all odds, Australia’s first people are still here, having endured, and continue to endure much suffering, illustrating the profound resilience of their culture, customs and traditions, and have much to teach me and my family about life on this land.

I acknowledge that since I have learned about the struggle of Australia’s first people, I have experienced and continue to experience all sorts of emotions regarding the dispossession of the Wurundjeri people, including anger, guilt, frustration, shame, powerlessness, apathy, hope and a desire to make a difference.

I acknowledge that the 26th of January is a date that is difficult for many of our indigenous sisters and brothers.

I acknowledge that many descendants of settler Australians cannot or indeed will not choose to understand or empathise why the 26th of January might be difficult for many indigenous sisters and brothers.

I acknowledge that it is my responsibility to compassionately figure out how to build a bridge between those two groups, for the duration of my life on this land.

I acknowledge that this is my reconciliatory work.

I acknowledge that one small step in that direction is to once again, acknowledge “Australia Day” in 2020 by practising our family tradition of taking the Gawa Wurundjeri Resource Walk, learning the story of the Wurundjeri people, and hopefully sparing my children the ignorance I experienced as part of my own upbringing.

I acknowledge that empathy and compassion are the only avenues to transformation.

I acknowledge that against all hope, the future might be different.

#Australia Day #Change Australia #Theology #Spirituality

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neurotribe · 6 years ago

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This is what Nouwen reckons “church” is.

Henri Nouwen has been a significant figure in my spiritual life. I receive a daily devotional email. When I slow down enough to read them, in just about every instance they are significant. It took me a few readings of todays email to realise that he was describing “church”. Check it out, let me know what you reckon.

Christian community is the place where we keep the flame of hope alive among us and take it seriously so that it can grow and become stronger in us. In this way we can live with courage, trusting that there is a spiritual power in us when we are together that allows us to live in this world without surrendering to the powerful forces constantly seducing us toward despair. That is how we dare to say that God is a God of love even when we see hatred all around us. That is why we can claim that God is a God of life even when we see death and destruction and agony all around us. We say it together. We affirm it in each other. Waiting together, nurturing what has already begun, expecting its fulfillment—that is the meaning of marriage, friendship, community, and the Christian life.

#Nouwen #Church #Ecclesiology #Formation

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neurotribe · 6 years ago

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Experiments in grief

I have been avoiding the keyboard. There have been a few challenges and all have been compounded by the grief I have been feeling at the loss of my uncle. I have been finding it hard to be motivated to do most things. Each time I see the item on my list of things to do prompting me to engage in my weekly writing, I intellectually try to find something “more productive” to do.

I didn’t realise that I was kicking the can of grief down the road. Until Henri of course. I was working my way through my backlog of emails when I stumbled onto his reflection so beautifully titled “Love Remembers”.

If you are someone who still grieves the loss of a loved one, whether it be recent, or a loved one who has died a long time ago, I trust that you find Henri’s reflections as transforming as I did, accidentally, this morning.

It is possible to have intimate relationships with loved ones who have died. Death sometimes deepens the intimacy. . . . [I believe] that after separation certain people continue to be very significant for us in our hearts and through our memories. Remembering them is much more than just thinking of them, because we are making them part of our members, part of our whole being.

Knowing this experience allows me to live from the deep belief that I have love to offer to people, not only here, but also beyond my short, little life. I am a human being who was loved by God before I was born and whom God will love after I die. This brief lifetime is my opportunity to receive love, deepen love, grow in love, and give love. When I die love continues to be active, and from full communion with God I am present by love to those I leave behind.

#Theology #Discipleship #Grief #Saddness

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neurotribe · 6 years ago

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Personal Update

I thought I might write a brief note to address my radio silence over the last few weeks.

Firstly, my colleague and dear friend Rowan Lewis recently experienced the death of his father. In order for him to take the necessary time to grieve well, I (and a few others) stepped in to pick up his teaching load. This has kept me reasonably busy. Rowan is back on deck today and I look forward to working alongside him once again.

Today is also the first significant deadline for my masters research. My first chapter (5,000 of the 40,000 words required) will be forwarded to the University of Divinity for my confirmation panel. For the record, it was largely complete on Thursday of last week!

Finally, St Kilda and Elsternwick Baptist Church yesterday voted in favour of my taking on an interim part time (2 days a week) role as co-pastor, serving alongside Rev Andrew Woff (a long time friend and co conspirator). The role commences this week and ends in December of this year. I am looking forward to serving with Andrew and learning loads from him. It has been a taxing few weeks and I apologise for the radio silence. Things should settle down into some kind of routine and more regular posts from here on in.

#Life #Update

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neurotribe · 6 years ago

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The things I learn...

Things I learn from my attempts to practice martial arts that inform my attempts to practice the Christian faith:

"Forget your sadness, anger, grudges, and hatred. Let them pass like smoke caught in the breeze. You should not deviate from the path of righteousness; you should lead a life worthy of a man. Don't be possessed by greed, luxury, or your ego.

You should accept sorrows, sadness and hatred as they are, and consider them a chance for trial given to you by the powers... a blessing given by nature. Have both your mind and your time fully engaged in budo, and have your mind deeply set on bujutsu."

Souke

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neurotribe · 6 years ago

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The Parable of the Mexican Fisherman and the American Investment Banker

Over the next few weeks, I have some significant deadlines so I will probably make some posts like this, effectively posting other people’s thoughts that I have found evocative over the years.

This one was inspired by spending some time on the NEXT2 retreat with some old friends of mine. Enjoy.

An American investment banker was at the pier of a small coastal Mexican village when a small boat with just one fisherman docked. Inside the small boat were several large yellow fin tuna. The American complimented the Mexican on the quality of his fish and asked how long it took to catch them.

The Mexican replied, “only a little while. The American then asked why didn’t he stay out longer and catch more fish? The Mexican said he had enough to support his family’s immediate needs. The American then asked, “but what do you do with the rest of your time?”

The Mexican fisherman said, “I sleep late, fish a little, play with my children, take siestas with my wife, Maria, stroll into the village each evening where I sip wine, and play guitar with my amigos. I have a full and busy life.” The American scoffed, “I am a Harvard MBA and could help you. You should spend more time fishing and with the proceeds, buy a bigger boat. With the proceeds from the bigger boat, you could buy several boats, eventually you would have a fleet of fishing boats. Instead of selling your catch to a middleman you would sell directly to the processor, eventually opening your own cannery. You would control the product, processing, and distribution. You would need to leave this small coastal fishing village and move to Mexico City, then LA and eventually New York City, where you will run your expanding enterprise.”

The Mexican fisherman asked, “But, how long will this all take?”

To which the American replied, “15 – 20 years.”

“But what then?” Asked the Mexican.

The American laughed and said, “That’s the best part. When the time is right you would announce an IPO and sell your company stock to the public and become very rich, you would make millions!”

“Millions – then what?”

The American said, “Then you would retire. Move to a small coastal fishing village where you would sleep late, fish a little, play with your kids, take siestas with your wife, stroll to the village in the evenings where you could sip wine and play your guitar with your amigos.”

#Parable #evocative

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neurotribe · 6 years ago

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“I don’t see colour” or The Complicated Dishonest Politics of Identity

I didn’t blog last week because this post took me a lot longer to write than I thought. So please accept this post as last weeks and this weeks reflection. It’s quite long so grab a coffee or tea, and settle in for a bit of a read.

I was on my way home from a conference I was speaking at some years ago. It was a Melbourne December so for my northern hemisphere friends, that means one of the hottest months of the year.

In the warmer months, I tend to keep my hair quite short. This time, my hair was clippered to the point of almost being bald. I had a serious case of the five o’clock shadows and in addition, I tend to tan quite significantly during the summer months, a benefit of my Maltese genes.

So there I was, stopped at a set of traffic lights at a busy intersection in Melbourne’s eastern suburbs. It was hot, the window was open, my elbow sticking out the side of the car probably listening to a 24 hour news station, nerd I know.

It took a few seconds for me to hear the yelling over the sound of the radio. I looked out the window and I could see the source of the yelling. It was two, twenty something white Caucasian males. The seemed to be yelling and it appeared to be aggressive. I turned the sound down and listened.

“Go back to where you came from you f***ing Arab!” they yelled. I looked in the opposite direction trying to find the target of their vitriol. I was the only car in this part of the intersection waiting for the lights to change. I looked back at them and once again in the opposite direction, thinking now that their target was someone walking on the other side of the road. I scanned the footpath and it too was empty as far as the eye could see. As I looked back at the young men still screaming, it suddenly dawned on me, they were yelling at me.

It was half way through December 2005, a time when Australia was experiencing a thing we now call the Cronulla Race Riots.

Putting on my best Aussie bogan accent, I yelled out “I am mate, back to Diamo! Cheers!” “Diamo” being the truncated version of Diamond Creek, a very white settler suburb close to where I live which ironically has experienced a shift in demographics since that time.

I didn’t really think about the incident until after the conference. I had some time to reflect and as I did so, in particular in the light of national events surrounding the riots, I realised the effect that this and many other incidents prior to and since that one continue to have on my sense of identity.

You may have missed something significant last week. A question was asked on the ABC’s Q&A program (you can see the question here, skip to the 32 minute and 15 second mark). The white, middle class Australian man who must be at least in his 60′s asks, “After working and paying taxes for about 50 years myself, I believe that no person living in Australia today should be entitled to any special benefit or recognition, which is based not simply on need or achievement, but on race or how long their ancestors were here. What do the panel think of that?”

The host threw to Sami Shar. Lucky bloke. I thought he responded well given no notice and the incendiary nature of the question. “It is easy to dismiss the value of race when it is not something that has been a defining aspect of your life, when it’s not something that has been used to vilify, deprive and destroy community ... when you’ve never had that kind of vilification ... it’s easy to say it’s a fair go, everybody is born equal, and “I don’t see race”.

In the US, yet another Trump inspired political firestorm is unfolding, this time as a result of a tweet telling four congresswomen of colour they should go back to where they came from.

I am not sure if you have heard of the term “identity politics”. The phrase, these days is often used in a pejorative sense however that was not originally the case. Back in the 1970′s was articulated as a framework that helped “those feeling oppressed by and actively suffering under systemic social inequities to articulate their suffering and felt oppression in terms of their own experience by processes of consciousness-raising and collective action.” The intent of identity politics was a mechanism that was "seen as ways to gain empowerment or avenues through which to work towards a more equal society.”

If you could for a minute, put aside your thoughts and feelings regarding the phrase for a minute.

Think with me for a minute.

If there were a mechanism that could help us see the systemic ways in which we could clearly see that for example black women experienced a significant and disproportionate level of violence over and against that experienced by other demographics, surely we can agree that this mechanism is a good thing? If this lens helped us to see dynamics at play that we were unable to see prior to the introduction of such lenses, again surely that would be a good thing? If this lens enabled us to begin imagining solutions that empowered this demographic, and helped us collectively move towards a more equal society, again surely we would consider this to be a good thing?

Now remember, prior to the previous paragraph, I said that in order to see the goodness of such a mechanism we would need to park our bias concerning the mechanism and the name of this mechanism, namely identity politics. So if you can’t quite see the goodness that I am referring to in the above paragraph, perhaps skip back up the article and try again?

Regardless of how you are feeling at this stage of the post, this was exactly the intent of the origins of identity politics. Namely:

A framework that helped us see something that we could not see before and,

Once seen, solutions could be conceived of that would move us towards a more equal society.

Arguably, identity politics as a mechanism is responsible for some of the most significant social transformations during the last four decades including but not limited to the ongoing struggle for women’s rights (in all spheres), the civil rights of minority groups and the civil rights of those who do not conform to gender or sexual “social norms”.

Fast forward four decades and we have all sorts of people using the phrase identity politics negatively, almost as a profanity. The arguments against identity politics are many including but not limited to:

It is a concept that emerges from Marxism, Socialism (insert whatever “ism” will gain the most negative of reactions in the audience that the critic seeks to persuade),

It is destructive,

It is negative,

It divides people rather than bringing people together.

The use of the phrase “identity politics” and the associated negative attributions are one of the quickest ways of shutting down debate around who holds power and more importantly alternative visions to the status quo that may emerge after honest reflection.

And it is the lack of honesty in these criticisms that angers me most.

Those who seek to criticise identity politics as a divisive tool are employing the very same mechanism they seek to discredit in their attempts to discredit it! In their attempts to discredit identity politics, critics use a specific form of identity politics referred to as “white grievance” or “white identity” politics, a form of identity politics!

Professor Ashely Jardina, Assistant Professor of Political Science at Duke University noted that Trump’s “go back” tweet was a strategic and well thought through strategy designed to speak directly to the anxieties of two groups of people:

"The first subset are white voters who are racially resentful, who have hostility to voters of colour, they don't believe they play by the rules," she says. "Telling women of colour in Congress to go back to the countries they come from is going to resonate with racially prejudiced voters."

It will also play well, she says, with a different subset: voters who are worried about the changing demographics of America but don't harbour the same hostility towards racial minorities."For these voters, the idea elected officials don't uniformly look like them is symbolic of the loss of political power that white Americans have enjoyed for a long time."

So critics of identity politics,

using the very same framework,

on the basis of an identity “white anxiety” or “white grievance”,

on the basis of the fears of real or perceived loss of power,

and therefore as a consequence of using identity politics to clearly articulate the fears experienced by this demographic,

attempt to shut down debate arising as a result of identity politics.

Dishonest. Brilliant. But yeah, dishonest.

It seems to me that when one group becomes aware to their lack of power, and when that group seeks to find it’s power, and when a society needs to adjust and specifically when those who are accustomed to having a monopoly upon power find themselves in a position of needing to share their power with others, well quite frankly it gets ugly.

Case in point the national debate surrounding Australia’s treatment of Adam Goodes as a result of the release of the documentary The Final Quarter.

So where to from here? I have four thoughts (and an optional fifth):

1) The dishonesty needs to be exposed When those who attack the use of identity politics use the exact same tactic, well firstly, to be totally honest, I congratulate them. Well played. However the fact that they are using the same strategy to reinforce the status quo, that dishonesty needs to be exposed.

2) Be compassionate when dealing with people who are afraid (including yourself) There is something exhilarating about discovering and beginning to use ones power. Conversely there is something quite terrifying to discover that you are about to lose power, especially if the power you are about to lose was something that you didn’t realise you had and the imminent loss comes as a surprise. I have written about this before. The full post appears here. This quote which I used from that post speaks to this phenomenon well:

“To the privileged, equality can feel like a loss. Over time I have come to the idea that independence requires equality and, therefore, a sense of loss for many.” - Jesse Alan Downs

3) Holding power as opposed to holding power to account I am a geek, I have noted that several times. So to make this point, I reach to sci fi, in particular The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy. In describing the marketing department of the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation, the writer reflects they are simply "a bunch of mindless jerks who'll be the first against the wall when the revolution comes".

Revolutions are dangerous things. How many times do we need to go through he cycle of replacing one set of ruthless dictators with another? How do we move towards a more equal society if the process requires creating a new minority without power?

This is the trickiest of issues. Why? Because in order for minorities to take their place in a society and be involved in wielding power, those with a monopoly on power need to have the wisdom and courage to recognise this and relinquish their monopoly. That takes a profound kind of leadership. Which brings me to my final thought.

4) Encouraging and getting behind honest, compassionate and wounded leaders of the status quo I jumped into my car and therefore came part way into an interview. I thought I recognised the voice of the person being interviewed but couldn’t quite place it. I listened to this political leader discussing identity politics. They noted the when identity politics are used in ways to identify those who suffer and help us imagine alternative futures, identity politics is a good thing. However when identity politics are used to divide groups of people and deny us the ability to imagine creative solutions, it was a bad thing.

I listened to this interview for about twenty minutes and only at the end, discovering that the person being interviewed was Barnaby Joyce. That’s right, the former Deputy Prime Minister of Australia who lost his seat because he was a dual citizen of Australia and New Zealand, only to win the seat back and then lose his position as Deputy Prime Minister because his affair with his former staffer and expected child became public news. (And so on and so on and so on).

It struck me as I listened to Joyce describe the ways in which identity politics helps us see groups who suffer that we are unable to any other way, and then to creatively imagine solutions, I was listening to a man who had experienced not just one, but several national humiliations. (I couldn’t find that interview, if someone can, by all means let me know and I will post a link to this article. However, I was able to find this article that you might find interesting.)

Another powerful white male who has given me pause to reflect upon the judgementalism I carry in my own heart is Eddie McGuire. There were many moments in the Adam Goodes doco that moved me. One of them however came from an unexpected place. There is a very short scene, where McGuire, after making several racial gaffes has had a moment to reflect publicly on the effect of his casual racism on Adam Goodes. Suddenly Eddie struggles to find words and chokes up with tears that he tries to hold back. He stands emotionally in the place of “the other”. He realises that he has hurt another human being in a way that will most likely leave a mark for the rest of his life. Yes Goodes may heal, however whenever Eddie interacts with Goodes, he will be mindful of the scar on Goodes’ soul, a scar that he inflicted. So as I have reflected on this doco, the world we find ourselves in, and as I have despaired at the apparent lack of a way forward in this tribalised world, I wonder if part of the way forward is to look harder for and then encouraging the honest, compassionate, wounded leaders of the status quo, or at the very least, looking for opportunities for their formation?

5) Optional fifth thought I have a fifth thought, exclusively for my sisters and brothers of the Christian faith. I have spoken at length with many a sister and brother in Christ about this stuff. One of the most demoralising things is the idea that issues of race are not “core gospel concerns”. In many of those discussions, Paul’s statement from Galatians is cited: “There is neither Jew nor Gentile, neither slave nor free, nor is there male and female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus. If you belong to Christ, then you are Abraham’s seed, and heirs according to the promise.” as thought this somehow confirms the fact that this collection of my thoughts in this post is at best peripheral and at worst irrelevant to the practice of the Christian faith. However, after reflecting on Paul’s words and more importantly the context, I realise that they cannot be used to dismiss the issue. Paul in Galatians is taking on the fact that everyone seems to have succumbed to the negative dimensions of identity politics, in the way that Barnaby Joyce warned about in his interview. When you work your way through Galatians, everything up until this statement, it is clear, Paul is not commanding people to cease and desist. He is not telling people to cease playing the worst kind of identity politics game. He is in fact offering us a vision of what could be, a vision of a community where many tribes, tongues and cultures come together, as equals under the lordship of the only person we can trust to hold power, therefore relieving us of all of our fears.

#TheFinalQuarter #IdentityPolitics #Discipleship #Theology #Culture

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neurotribe · 6 years ago

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Making sense of my weekend.

I’m still trying to make sense of my weekend. I had the privilege of being invited to participate in a conference held by the Baptist Union of Victoria (BUV). It was a conference pitched to migrant churches, and in particular the youth and young adults of those churches.

The BUV have 95 LOTE (languages other than English) churches. That is a significant amount of churches for a Protestant denomination.

One of the ways in which I was asked to participate was to lead some sessions for pastors and other leaders. I was staggered by the amount of leaders in these churches who engage in these roles as unpaid volunteers over and above full time work and family commitments. I was rapidly making connections between their experience of migration and that of my parents, aunties and uncles. When I think about the hours that these people had to work in precarious employment arrangements that is the casual and manual labour type roles often the lot of new arrivals, the calculus quickly results in an awareness of the degree of sacrifice required by incredibly faithful people in order that these faith communities can even exist, let alone thrive. But thrive they do, with so little resource and support.

I was constantly thanked for my input and I struggled to accept such a generous affirmation because I felt that the level of my “sacrifice” in preparing and presenting didn’t come close to their daily sacrificial efforts. These faithful servants work tirelessly in helping guide their next generation through the challenge of taking their place in a multicultural society yet they have to undertake this onerous task in the currents of various fears created by populist nationalism and tribalism.

My work was good. The interactions I had with leaders was life giving. There was transformation yet my drive home from the conference on both the Friday and Saturday night were for me sombre experiences. These faithful people are so under resourced and the importance of their work seems so unnoticed let alone appreciated if it is indeed appreciated at all.

This morning I responded to some lovely emails from leaders who attended my seminars asking for presentation slides and notes. I have just finished responding to them. It feels like a pathetic gesture when measured against their sacrificial commitment.

The last words of the conference were given by Charlene Del Santos, one of the two organisers of the conference. I had the privilege of working with both Charlene and Meewon Yang in the lead up to the conference. What a gift to be able to contribute alongside these migrant women, passionate about practising the kind of hospitality traditional cultures are known for, a hospitality that expresses itself in a way that creates a space for those who live between two worlds but are not totally at home in either so that they can feel some kind of normal for just a little while.

I also had a chance to speak to the youth and young adults. The subject I was asked to speak on was “Discovering your God given gifts.” What follows are my notes for my final point in my seminar.

Finally, what is the greatest gift?

It is a gift that only you have…

Migrants and the children of migrants,

No one else!

Those who never make the move,

Those who are never forced to make the move,

Those who never have to leave home, move to another part of the world and build home from nothing all over again,

Do not have the gift that you do:

Your gift is seeing the world through the eyes of many cultures!

We face one of the biggest challenges in the world today:

The rise of racism globally…

The terrible fear and hatred towards asylum seekers…

The terrible fear and hatred towards anyone who is different…

When you only have one lens,

You can only see two kinds of people,

Us and them.

But in a great mystery, a great irony,

When you have more than one lens,

You can only see one kind of people,

Us.

I think that the greatest need in this world at the moment,

In our churches,

In government,

In business,

In education,

Everywhere…

We need the wisdom that only comes to those who know how to live in many different cultures at the same time,

People who are able to cope with difference,

People who are able to reconcile difference,

You are that people.

You are a gift.

Do not dare to say “I have nothing to give.” Do not dare say “I have nothing to contribute.”

You have a gift. You are a gift.

That’s all I had. I trust it was enough.

Thanks for bearing with me as I make sense of my weekend.

#Culture #Theology #Politics #Ignite 2019 #BUV

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neurotribe · 6 years ago

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“The brown!” or “What Captain Picard can teach us about communication in an age of toxic politics.”

“The brown!” she said again forcefully and with some sadness in her voice as once again she tried unsuccessfully to communicate to me what she wanted for lunch.

We had been going at it for about ten minutes. I had asked my daughter, then two years old, what she would like for lunch. “The brown” she said with a great big smile on her face. I had no idea what she meant. I asked her several times to explain what it is she meant, however she simply kept repeating, “the brown” as though I should understand what that meant.

I opened the fridge calling out and pulling out various things that could possibly be the culprit all to no avail. When she became sad and I felt I had exhausted all of the possible candidates in the fridge, I picked her up, gave her a hug and then walked into the pantry with her. I took a deep breath and started again, pointing to and picking up things that could be this elusive “brown”.

After about ten minutes in the pantry and twenty minutes in total, with a huge smile on her face, her body tightening in the excitement of discovery, she pointed to the jar of Nutella on the lower shelf and shouted “the brown!”

A few minutes later, my daughter was happily munching on a slice of bread upon which we had slathered generous amounts of Nutella, or “the brown”. Peace had been achieved!

In September 1991, an episode of Star Trek the Next Generation called Darmok aired for the first time (the full episode can be viewed here). In 2014, Gizmodo’s io9 ranked the episode as the fifth best of any of the Star Trek franchises.

The episode introduces the Tamarians, a species who’s language can be deciphered by the technology available however the words are meaningless to the crew of the Enterprise as each phrase is a metaphor that can only be understood in the context of Tamarian mythology. For example, if I were to say “Juliet on the balcony”, those versed in the Shakespearean play would immediately ascertain the tragically romantic meaning implied in the statement. The crew of the Enterprise, not having any access to the Tamarian mythology are unable to.

Initially, captain Picard indicates that he is hopeful that this instance of contact with the Tamarians will lead to the beginnings of relations between the two space faring nations:

“In my experience, communication is about patience, imagination. I would like to believe that these are qualities we have in sufficient measure.” - Picard

(Spoiler alert!) In what appears to be an aggressive move, the captain of the Tamarian vessel abducts Picard beaming them both to the planets surface for an encounter with a dangerous beast. The Tamarians then use their superior technology to prevent the crew of the Enterprise from interfering as a dangerous scenario unfolds.

The crew of the Enterprise try several strategies to free their captain, one of which is deciphering the language of their “enemy”, however given that they are not interacting directly with their “enemy” they struggle to do so. Data, the android aboard the Enterprise given the task of deciphering their enemies language states:

“It is necessary for us to learn the narrative from which the Tamarians draw their imagery. Given our current relations, that does not appear likely.” - Data

It is only through tragedy that Picard becomes the first person to decipher the metaphoric language of their “enemy”, realising the depth of the alien captains “commitment to the hope of communication, to connection.”

It is Star Trek at its finest. The episode concludes with Riker, the Enterprises XO asking Picard, “New friends, Captain?” to which Picard responds “I can't say, Number One. But at least they're not new enemies.”

These last few weeks in Australia in particular, and these last two years in national and international politics in general illustrate our collective lack of commitment to the hope of communication and to connection. These events illustrate out inability to see the wisdom in the maxim seeking first to understand before being understood. Such an egocentric approach only pours fuel on the fire of the culture wars that continue to rage around us.

We live inside of stories, individual, family, communal, regional and national stories. Each level of narrative is steeped in experiences, anecdotes and interpretations that have mythic power. When I use the word myth I do not mean stories that are not based in fact, rather I am using the word to describe the power they have over our fears and hopes.

Fear is a powerful motivator, a motivation that when understood immediately sheds light on the things that people say and do in the name of “free speech” for example. Knowing the mythic stories and consequently the mythic fears that people live inside of can open up all sorts of avenues to the hope of communication and connection.

The more I observe people and tribes tearing each other apart across the barricades of the culture wars, the more convinced I am that I need to do less speaking and more listening.

#Theology #Culture #Star Trek #Culture Wars #Discipleship #Wisdom

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