Letter from the almost Outback
From Wellington Cathedral of St Paul
Contents |
September 20
- Monday in Perth, WA.
Kangaroo paw
It’s two weeks since I last wrote on this site – two weeks which seem an age ago and a continent away. We flew from Roma to Brisbane, enjoyed Evensong at St John’s Cathedral (sitting next to Helen and Ken Deighton) and a brief swim in the sea at Caloundra, before flying west to Perth. For years we have been promising my sister we would come and visit her and discover the joys and beauties of this western city. A compulsory cathedral visit, the botanical gardens and Fremantle prison suggested enough of the city for the moment, and Christine and I took to the road and headed north.
With a loaned car and tent, plenty of water, warm clothes, sun screen and a good book of maps, our first stop was New Norsia. After all the work I had done on St Benedict in the past two months it was fascinating to visit this huge Benedictine monastery with school and children’s homes carved out of the bush 160 years ago. Equally fascinating was to see just how the vow of continual conversion worked its way out in the ever-changing focus of the monastery. Initially set up as a mission station among the Aboriginal people, it morphed into a school to equip the local people to cope in a fast changing exploitative world. For some decades it became one of the infamous places where “stolen children” were housed and educated. Now there is a just a small number of monks engaged in the traditional tasks of prayer, study and manual work, and thousands of tourists discover something of the rich Roman Catholic heritage in this part of the world.
Spring is wild flower season in WA and the land is covered in colour at the moment.
Some months ago Raymond preached about using the travelling one does to pray for the people one visits, flies over, rushes past. Christine and I have enjoyed the rhythm of Morning Prayer, usually sitting in the shade of our tent, and praying both for those who live locally, and remembering our own – including last weekend’s synod. The first hymn we sang four months ago, at the start of our trip, and in a hotel lobby in Singapore, was “The day thou gavest Lord, is ended”. Last night we stood looking out over the western sky as the sun sank below the horizon. Behind us the music in the pubs of Perth’s beachfront throbbed while a few hardy souls embraced the water.
So we come to the end of what has been a quite wonderful four months. Like the disciples after Pentecost (our last Sunday in Wellington Cathedral) we have gone all over the world – Singapore; Munich and Oberammergau; Athens, Corinth, Ephesus and Thessaloniki; Barnstable in North Devon, London, Lichfield and Manchester; Brisbane, Mitchell and the Arcadia Valley; and then 2000kms, but really just a tiny strip on the west coast of WA, and Perth. Wherever we have been we have found churches where God is worshipped, plastic bottles and aluminum cans discarded, people working hard to protect and conserve, people working hard to build a new life, or a better life, or simply a life. We have heard stories of human endeavour which have included love and war, struggle and triumph. Now it is time to come home.
Thank you, people of Wellington Cathedral, for giving us this sabbatical space. It has been great.
Ah well … time for one more walk on the beach and a swim.
September 4
- Our last letter from Mitchell
September 4 – Saturday
Late Saturday night means we have just one more sleep here, an 8.30 Eucharist in the morning, a couple of hours to pack and clean the house and then we’re off! Our two months in Mitchell has passed and we have mixed feelings at moving on. It has been everything we hoped for – a comfortable house to live in, good people to get to know and worship with, quiet enough to get the thesis done (and it is), and plenty of sunshine (not without rain, wind and very cold mornings).
A big parish wedding, conducted by a former vicar, today, so it seemed a good idea to get out of the way, which we did. An 80km drive up what is now a familiar road looking out for the kangaroos and delighted to spot two wedge-tailed eagles again, took us first to an historic campsite. In the 1840s Major Mitchell, after whom this town and a cockatoo are named, was exploring the area. With a team of thirty men (two thirds of them convicts), several bullock drays and two boats, Mitchell set out to find a northern inland route. Forty kms from here he established a base camp – now an historic site (actually little more than a picnic spot if you care to drive off the road). We felt sorry for his sidekick who was dumped here for four months with supplies for the return journey and told to plant a vege garden while his boss went off travelling. (Now, does that sound familiar to a certain canon in residence?)
What started as a hot windy day turned within minutes into a much cooler rain drenched afternoon.
We returned to gather up more emails and news from Christchurch, and put a call through to my sister there. I’ve heard of survivor’s guilt; the feeling of being so far away when a catastrophe strikes must be something like it. Our prayers and thoughts very much with family, friends, colleagues and all the people of Christchurch and Canterbury at this time.
August 29th
- A busy week
As weeks in the Outback go it’s been a busy one. First, and most important for me, is that I am now a whisker away from completing the thesis. It has been very good to have this block of time to get stuck into the work; not sure I could have found the head space to do it while in Wellington.
The week began with rain. People are now saying that Christine and I have brought a little of New Zealand’s weather with us. It is lovely to see the eyes of farmers light up when rain is mentioned. But, being farmers, they are never happy. The concern now: will there be enough trucks to cart the expected bumper wheat harvest away? (That’s assuming the locusts don’t get here first.)
Last Wednesday afternoon we went down to the caravan park for afternoon tea with some of the campers. Their two month stint is up and people are heading back south. It has been good to get to know some of these people, and look forward to possible visits by them to NZ in the future. Sadly, as so often happens, the tourist dollar makes people greedy. Some of the campers who have been coming here for years are wondering whether they’ll be back, as prices rise and they feel they are being exploited.
Thursday morning was a hive of activity in the church garden here, every bit as busy as a Saturday morning working bee at WSCP. With spring on the way, and the rain having come, the grass is greening up, the sweet peas are finally looking to flower, and the blossom on all sorts of native trees and shrubs is coming out. The bees are buzzing, and the birds are doing what they do in spring! There is a wedding here next Saturday, so it’s all go. I had flashbacks to scenes of the cathedral a few years ago when we got some of the cobwebs off the high sanctuary windows. A broom lashed on to a piece of stick from the garden with a plastic bag cut into strips, a small coffee table, a visiting dean and – no more cobwebs on the ceiling.
Friday afternoon we visited the Yamba. A sad place where the local Aboriginal people were moved in the early 1930s, having been thrown off their places as white settlers and farmers encroached. Irene, one of the parishioners here who had grown up there, showed us round. She spoke of the community who lived there, and childhood memories of going from one house to another, lying under the shelters and looking up at the stars. In the late 1960s Mitchell decided it needed to expand the sewerage ponds. Where better than the Yamba (the name means home, marae). For me there was a real sense of deja vu as I read pathetic news reports and saw photos of houses and shacks being bull-dozed to make way for – sewerage ponds.
Today the church was full. A fifth Sunday sees an ecumenical service – Anglican, Catholic and Uniting. With the campers largely gone we had feared there would be few people. But they came. As did five young women who are this year’s debutantes. A first for me: to bless debutantes.
Our last week in Mitchell and we’re both still having fun. Oh yes, we saw our first live snake on a footpath this afternoon. Fortunately it heard us and was already moving before we got close enough for there to be any danger. Still – I’ve never worked out why God made snakes.
August 23, 2010
- Elections, mud and fire.
The rain beats down on the corrugated iron roof, perhaps saying to Queensland voters that all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well. With international wheat prices on the rise, those local farmers who plant wheat will be counting their pennies as every drop falls. It’s been a strange week, and not only because of weather extremes with last Thursday reaching 29 degrees after a frosty start to the day.
Virtually since we arrived in Australia seven weeks ago there has been little on the news but the faces of Julia Gillard and Tony Abbot. Does a country really elect a whole government on the strength of what just two people say – or promise to give in the way of millions of dollars? And what happens now as the courting of a handful of independent mavericks begins? NZers remember only too well the long weeks of waiting while a certain grey headed gentleman enjoyed himself as the king-maker. I can’t help wondering when democracy will grow up and realize how much could be done if the best brains on all sides of the political spectrum could sit and listen (yes, listen) to each other, rather than just try to point score one against the other. But enough of the election.
Last Tuesday night, while we were both hard at work on the laptops, a strange sound caused us to lift our heads. Must be the wind blowing the leaves on the gum trees across the road. But then flashing lights brought us to our feet, to see flames leaping high into the air just across the road from us. No panic though, only the local fire brigade on a night exercise burning off the long grass beside the railway line. Made for a great photo.
The thesis is growing, awaiting some conclusions now. With the bulk of the work done it is hard to keep motivated. Rather like finishing a house – the initial framework and roof goes up relatively quickly; it’s the finishing off inside that takes the time. Talking of houses, I have several I am keeping an eye on on my daily walks, watching the progress as they move through the phases from foundation to roof to interior. The swimming pool too is coming on, but little chance of it being ready for a dip before we leave in two weeks time.
The grey nomads are getting restless and those who have wintered here are getting ready to leave, just as the swallows arrive to build their nests under the road bridge, using red mud kindly provided by the rain. What will happen to the congregation when the campers return south, I asked the other day. We’ll drop back to about 10 or 12 people was the reply. And the economy of the local inland towns where the nomads with their huge vans and credit cards winter? Shop-keepers this week moved stock on to the pavement in a last attempt to draw money from their customers – and it worked (both Christine and I succumbed to temptation – nothing like a little retail therapy, even in Mitchell).
In recent days we have discovered some lovely places along the river bank – quiet places for reflection and sun-soaking. A pleasant change from the quiet reflection and sun-soaking at the rectory!
August 16 Monday
- Well known
We started this morning’s service in Mitchell with a sing-a-long. “Call out your favourites.” That was fine until the pianist played the ‘wrong’ tune... he wasn’t playing the one set in the hymnal, but then that one wasn’t the ‘well known’ one either. Last week Frank practiced a hymn he was sure would be new, but “Oh, we know that one!” The week before, one we were sure was standard Anglican fare was completely unknown. We all have our favourite hymns. Why should they be the same? What makes a hymn ‘well known’?
This Sunday we travelled the Forest Vale Road again, for the fourth time in as many weeks. It feels familiar now. We don’t yet know every bend, to be sure, but we do recognise the major landmarks, farm names, and can even picture some of the farmers who work the land. We enjoy the drive, and revel in the familiarity. The road is definitely known, if not yet well known.
Our first trip out along the road we met a couple who invited us to spend a night on their farm the next week. Meeting up again today was like greeting old friends, with all the joy of catching up on how their pipe-laying has gone and how our writing is progressing. How long does one have to know someone for a real friendship to develop? We met up with old friends (was it only 6 weeks ago?) in London. Our paths crossed with Mike and Ruth’s for only a few months 20 years ago. Yet they are, undoubtedly, good friends, Megan’s godparents and well known, even though we hadn’t seen them in 19 years.
Wherever we go, in the parish vehicle, we get friendly waves. The occupants may be strangers, but the vehicle is definitely well known, with the logo of the Anglican Diocese on its doors. Incumbents may come and go, but the position of rector is well known and goes with certain expectations. But that doesn’t make us well known as individuals. This was borne out when Frank accepted a beer... “Oh the chap before you liked to get into the beer too.” Is the stereotype now established: the Anglican clergy like their beer? (The fact that it was, in fact, the only one in a month wouldn’t influence the image, since we haven’t seen those people again!) What a responsibility: in one short meeting, someone’s image of the clergy can be influenced by something as small as accepting a drink. It is vital to become more than just the incumbent – to be a real person not a title.
We have made other ‘friends’ among the birds that visit our garden. As one watches, individuals begin to standout. Why does one magpie always follow the local flock of apostle birds? They tolerate it – just – but it takes every opportunity to attack any one of them which strays from the flock, and steal whatever they are eating (even if it then drops the unwanted food.) When the honeyeaters see us come out for morning tea in the garden, they demand food loudly. They venture closer and closer – one actually stealing some potato from my plate a few days ago. Clearly in their short experience of life, we are now well known; and what a privilege!
And St Benedict. I have actually never read the rule of St Benedict, but feel I know his writing very well. I’ve listened to Frank talk about it and its implications for 21 years. Benedict is an old friend – very well known now. I wonder if the friendship will survive when the thesis is done? I hope so. It is one of God’s gifts to know and be well known.
CMN
August 11 Wednesday
The sun came out today, along with a cold westerly wind, following 36 hours of overcast and rain (11mm measured outside our back door – definitely back into the farmer mind-set where every drop of rain is instantly translated into dollars gained on the wheat crop or dollars last because the road-train can’t get through the mud to pick up the weaners - young bullocks destined for the slaughter-house). But it is lovely to be in a place where rain is so much appreciated. Mind you, many of the people and roads here are still recovering from the phenomenal floods of March this year. The grass is said to be taller than anyone can remember.
A lively service last Sunday morning. I decided to check whether people actually knew the hymns this week by doing a quick warm-up. Turned out most of them were well known. (Last week I talked about “All my hope on God is founded” as being one of the finest hymns and tunes ever written, and got soundly told of for ‘that dreadful hymn that nobody knows! I discovered later that the person telling me that hasn’t been seen in church for ages.) With the grey nomads making up half the congregation of 37, and those who come being staunch members of their own churches, we had a fine old time. I preached on the Transfiguration – so much in that short Gospel reading.
We made the long trip back to Injune again – a little town claiming to be the “gateway to the Carnavons” (every little place seems to be a gateway to somewhere – Mitchell is the gateway to the Queensland Outback – though no one is prepared to give a definition of “outback”) where there is now just one church left – the old Anglican building, now serving the combined churches of Injune – drawing Anglican, RC and Uniting Church people. I had been warned that many of the farmers were likely to be away in Brisbane for the ECCA show (Field-days equivalent) so was pleasantly surprised to find a congregation of 12. On checking the hymns, see note above, half the congregation informed me they were not Anglicans, and that the two men there would definitely not sing – they didn’t!!! As so often happens, after the service, when the church faces come off, the people are lovely, and we wish we could spend more time with them.
Injune Church keeps a small flat for the clergy who take services to stay the night – few people travel by choice at night; too dangerous with the kangaroos feeding on the verges. So we settled in and I enjoyed the quiche left by one of the parishioners (fortunately we had foreseen the possibility of no food at all, so had our own, including special diet for Christine. Whether it was the quiche, the nerves of another new congregation, or the bumpy ride of 140kms, I don’t know – but I had the most violent stomach upset in years. Talk about being scoured out and drained.
Next morning I enjoyed a walk around the little town, gaping at the flash Harleys and other bikes in the caravan park – clearly a rally or outing for the bikers from somewhere. Later in the morning they came roaring past us on the road. We have noticed that all the motels are full, and there are heaps of hire cars on the road (not cars at all, but 4x4s) – all to do with the mining and prospecting for oil and gas. On looking carefully again at the map, doing the sums, and taking into consideration my somewhat precarious condition, we decided not to go on to Carnavon Gorge (apparently beautiful sandstone cliffs, walks, birds etc) – the deciding factor being the distance involved – Wellington to Hamilton did not sound like a day off. So back via Roma, pick up a few things we can’t get in Mitchell before heading home.
Christine has finished her novel – now, who can come up with a publisher?? I continue to read, write and wonder what I am doing with Benedict in the Outback. And so the week passes – keeping an eye on the news back home (isn’t the internet amazing), and getting thoroughly bored with the news here – all about two people, each hoping to be Prime Minister in ten days time. By the way, the swimming pool is nearly completely tiled – but will it be ready before we leave?
Pleased and proud to see Wellington Cathedral holding a special service for the serviceman killed in Afghanistan.
August 7
- Sabbatical daze; A day in the life of...
At 6am Frank’s alarm sounds and, with a certain amount of reluctant sighing, he leaves the warm bed and braves the frosty morning. I, full of admiration for his dedication, roll over and go back to sleep. He tells me that he goes for a brisk walk – certainly he has photographed some lovely sunrises – and then has breakfast before beginning some work.
By the time I wake, the sun has melted most of the frost and the heater has warmed the house. We don jackets and sometimes hats and cross the garden to the little church, where we say Morning Prayer, enjoying the gradual flow of sunshine through the windows and the various bird calls.
The prayer, in a sense, continues as we set off together to tramp the streets of Mitchell. Most passing drivers wave – pedestrians are not so common and I suspect we have been noticed! We also give the local dogs of all varieties their excitement for the day; they hear the ‘fellas down the road’ barking and wait in anticipation to see us and chase us on. We always have our camera when we walk – it is the few times we don’t that the perfect picture is missed.
Home again, we have a cup of something warm. (There is variety in our routine; we might have tea, herbal brew, coffee or lemon and honey – life is full of excitement!) Sitting outside, gradually shedding a layer or two, we discuss Benedict, balance and deans. There are also occasional passing cars to wave to – and the amount of traffic on the level crossing down the road to note (2 cars at the same time this morning!) We also watch the bird population, some of whom are now well known. There is the crow with the broken leg, the magpie that seems to think he is an apostle bird and follows the local group around hopefully, despite their constant angry complaints. There are also the noisy miners – honeyeaters which have got to know us and demand food loudly and sweetly, only to be chased off by severe beak clicking from the larger blue faced honey eaters.
Loathe to leave the sun, we head to our computers. When Frank emerges for lunch his eyes are generally unfocussed as the morning’s ideas churn around in his head. I’m not much better – usually engrossed in whatever I’m writing, he has to tear me away. Lunch, again in the sun, tends to be quiet, lost in our thoughts. We gradually begin to talk again about what’s going on, and set off for another walk, still talking.
After Lunch Frank has a short sleep in the sun while I either prepare the evening meal or get back to my writing, but he is disciplined and is soon up and at work again. Our next break is before the warmth of the day dies – sometimes another walk around town, but sometimes a short drive to the weir and a walk in a more ‘countrified’ environment. We have also had fun watching the development of a new swimming pool being dug, concreted and now tiled – and keep tabs on the progress of a new house down the road.
More work, and we stop for dinner and the TV news – filled with electioneering now, all too often sadly degenerating into mudslinging and power games. And that’s pretty much it – we have a fascinating set of DVDs on the History of the Christian Church to watch, or we watch something on TV; another walk, and bed. Despite the gentle routine, we are both very tired by the evening, and sleep well despite the kookaburras’ occasional comments; or do they laugh in their sleep?
Christine
August 3 – Tuesday
Not quite a week since I last wrote – but we have been so busy over the past few days with so many new impressions that it is better to try and get some of them down before they get lost.
I got the date right last Saturday and duly led a Quiet Day on Benedictine Sprituality (based on material I am working with and used on a retreat a few years ago) in Roma. St Paul’s Anglican Church is lovely, with quite special stained glass windows – definitely worth a visit if you happen to be out here in the west. And it’s the ‘west’ that defines life in this part of the world – west of the great dividing range of mountains separating the east coast from the hinterland. Our group was 15 strong – some had travelled 3 or more hours to get there. Tacked on at the end was a discussion about “Angligreen” – an Anglican environmental lobby group, Brisbane based. It appears that the farming people consistently oppose what the Angligreens propose, and this was an attempt to encourage the ‘greens’ to come out and listen and talk with the farmers. Sadly they did not come! But nonetheless interesting for us to hear the concerns of farmers as more and more gas wells are drilled. What happens when your bore hole water level drops a metre in a year? And when it blows out gas and muck instead of water? What will happen if the bores go through the artesian water deep underground? Do the miners know what they are doing? There is quite a bit on the news at present about mining – the mines don’t like the new taxes, some farmers welcome the mines on the land (they pay rent), others worry about future land prices.
Sunday morning saw a good congregation of 35, half of them Grey Nomads! Then Christine and I set off on the 240 km drive north and east to Arcadia Valley – stopping briefly from time to time to take pictures of the country-side. The Valley was opened up to farming in the 1960s – and has been served by the Bush Brotherhood as far as priestly ministry goes. The BB is like many organizations out here – specifically set up with the people living in remote areas in mind. The parish of Mitchell is sponsored, in part, by the BB and so the priest here travels long distances. Three hours of driving got us to the station (farm) in time for lunch before a 2pm service. A beautiful setting carved out of the bush by Walter and Helen – now a cattle stud. Interesting for us to realise the South African connections – cattle breeding, pasture types, and dung beetles. Apparently the Australian wave (the hand flapping away the flies) has all but disappeared after the introduction of dung beetles from South Africa (and other parts of the world). All part of a carefully balanced (at least we hope it is) care of the earth. The beetles now bury the dung – and no flies!
Back 140km to another station where we had arranged to spend the night. En route again stopping to take pictures – the beautiful sunset, kangaroos a plenty (though they are hard to photograph with the little camera we have – too quick to move away), a family of echidna
There is too much detail to go into it all here, but suffice to say it is fascinating to discover just how people are working closely with nature. Dogs no longer used to move cattle from field to field (instead cattle are trained to come to a recording of the Rhadetzky March – that’s genuine). An angry and impassioned letter to the paper about a plague of kangaroos led to discussion on the government policy of only culling roos above a certain size – thus the big-daddies get shot, leaving the young bucks to ‘rape and pillage’ and increase the population without the natural controls.
The yesterday we drove to the Mount Moffat Nature reserve – on a shocking road, still suffering from the floods of March this year. In the end we decided to turn back before getting to the escarpment and promised views, and just got back to Mitchell at sunset – not a good idea to drive at night here, too dangerous with kangaroos on the verges, and prone to jump every which way. But long, but good day out in the bush – and something we could not have done without the appropriate 4x4 vehicle.
So, with much food for thought on the fragile balance between humans and God’s creation and creatures, it’s time for me to get back to St Benedict, Balance and Deans!
28 July – Wednesday
I finished last week by saying we were heading off to Roma to conduct a Quiet Day. We headed off on Friday, spent the night in a fairly crummy motel, and got to the church in good time by 8.30am. When there was still no sign of life at 8.50 Christine suggested we take another look at the leaflet. Aaahhhh! It’s neeeext Saturday. Feeling foolish and embarrassed we set off to see the sights of the town – not too many really.
Roma is the sight of the first oil and gas fields in Oz, and the “Big Rig” is the tourist piece to see (we only saw the outside). We did however enjoy shopping at a supermarket, and came home loaded with enough stuff to last, we hope, for most of our time here. I also finally managed to draw money at an ATM that would accept my card – eftpos a no-go-er here despite an Australian owned bank issuing my card.
Our first foray on to one of the stations last Sunday for a Eucharist – about 30 people all up gathered on the verandah of the farm-house. A map had been faxed through the day before giving directions – but it proved no problem to find the place, just glad of the high 4x4 vehicle I have to use. Took an electronic piano out – and someone there played it (see picture).
We’re both really enjoying the outside living possible here – even in the cold weather – sitting outside for lunch each day. This afternoon got stuck into some gardening in the church grounds – after being very surprised to have a visitor this morning – Jim Tait, former vicar of St Peter’s P/N – now living north of Brisbane.
A gentle glass of wine watching the last of the sunset, and chuckling at the noise of the two kookaburras that roost, where else, in the old gum tree across the road. Writing going reasonably well – certainly enjoying having the space to delve into Benedict et al. Christine tells me she has finished, for the moment, her novel – but I’ve not seen it yet.
This Saturday we will again go to Roma – where, I hope there will be some people willing to listen to what I have to say.
July 22nd – Thursday
It’s just after six in the evening and I have been out walking, enjoying the beautiful sunset after a very cold frosty start to the day. Trying to get a photo of two kookaburras proved too difficult as they seemed to sense my hand moving towards the camera and took off; frustratingly only to the next telephone pole!
A week since I last wrote – then Sunday still to come, so that’s a good place to go back to. The ‘house for duty’ arrangement here is that I lead services on Sunday. After discovering that there is no one else to do things like the service sheet, Christine and I set to, finding our way around the parish computer, choosing hymns, and producing a serviceable leaflet. By the time I got to the church just before eight on Sunday morning, several people had arrived – and all was a hive of activity as dusters came out, fabric flowers straightened, the urn turned on and tables set out for morning tea. A man arrived with an electric piano and asked what we were singing – and off we went.
All Saints Mitchell is the centre of a vast parish; two people had travelled 140kms to be there. The priest’s warden lives 45 minutes away. Expected congregation was 25 – 30 (they’ll probably turn out to see the new ‘man’). Well, I counted 39 for Communion – must be some attraction. We had a jolly good time, singing lustily and occasionally tunefully. Christine and I taught a lovely little piece – Santo Santo – a South American Sanctus which went down well. The man with the piano turns out to be a ‘grey nomad’. We had met this ‘tribe’ a few years ago in Cairns. Thousands of retired people from the southern cities – Adelaide, Melbourne etc – take to the road in winter and head north. They tow massive and well-equipped caravans and set up camp, often with friends they have met while travelling wherever the mood takes them. Mitchell has hot springs – so a definite draw card. Ian, the pianist, and his wife spend two months in Mitchell every year (have done for the past ten), and they provide a welcome boost to congregation and community.
Second service of the day at 10.30 was at Amby – a hamlet of perhaps 20 houses with church. Expected congregation was two, but in the end there were six of us all told. Next week I go to one of the homesteads 60km or more away.
So we pass our days in a gentle routine. The weather has turned much colder this week and I have been unable to work on my tan for the past few days!! I go for an early morning walk most mornings (and took a fascinating photo of a ute full of kangaroos – en route to the dog-tucker factory)
Tomorrow we will head off to Roma, 90 kms away, where I conduct a quiet day on Saturday.
Till next time – keep warm and dry.
July 14 – Mitchell, SW Queensland
Well, we’re here! Mitchell is a small town (pop. just 1002) at the western edge of the Darling Downs. This will be home for the next two months – an old wooden vicarage (used to be a hostel for girls run by the “Bush Brothers”), a modern (1980s) church built in the round, and a number of outstations where services are held. In return for Sunday services Christine and I get the use of the vicarage (called rectory here) and a magnificent four-wheel drive ute.
My last entry was written from Sydney airport so let’s take a step back and see what has happened since then. A large pectoral cross shining out purposefully from the baggage carousel left us in no doubt that we were indeed being met at Brisbane. Bishop Rob and his wife Jan were there to meet us and drive the 160km or so to Toowoomba. Three days with them included wonderful meals and much talking; a morning spent going round the various health shops looking for high protein foods and the vitamin supplements Christine needs (and that we could not bring across from NZ); and several walks around the suburb we were staying in.
On Sunday afternoon I joined +Rob at St Luke’s Church for the regular service held by the Sudanese community. Blue-black in colour and all incredibly tall, long-limbed and thin, many of these people had spent years in refugee camps in Ethiopia and Kenya before being granted refugee status and invited to settle in Australia. As is often the case, the blood of martyrs is the seed of the church, and the church in southern Sudan has seen phenomenal growth in recent decades. Appropriately St Luke’s includes a memorial to a young English priest who served there before going to work in PNG where he was killed by the Japanese in 1943 – becoming one of the Melanesian martyrs. I was momentarily taken aback to be met at the church door by a young boy, probably four years old, wielding a toy machine gun! How is it that violence is so attractive to boys?
As I sat listening and watching the people come and go, singing in their own incomprehensible language accompanied by drums, rattles and an incongruous and out of tune electric piano, with children doing what children do during long services, I found myself thinking back over the past few Sundays and congregations I have been part of on our travels. “We believe in one holy catholic and apostolic church” – catholic (universal) takes on a rich meaning when you can tick off the Sunday Eucharists – Pentecost in Wellington Cathedral; Trinity in a restaurant in a Singapore hotel; then an open-air Eucharist in the ruins of Corinth; a magnificently sung, if over-amplified, Liturgy in the Greek Orthodox Church in Thessaloniki; a 1000 year old village church in Derbyshire; a Dinka language service in the 150 year old red-brick church in Toowoomba; next Sunday?? It’s all different, and all familiar. Here are the people of God gathered for worship.
Two days ago Christine and I said goodbye to +Rob and Jan after a wonderful weekend of their gracious hospitality, and climbed aboard a Greyhound bus – destination Mitchell, 500+ kms and six and a half hours away. The Darling Downs are among Australia’s most fertile farming areas, and mile after mile of unbroken grain fields have a hypnotic affect. Ample artesian water ensures irrigation is possible. Every twenty minutes or so, the bus would swing off the main road to deposit or pick up a passenger or two. We were able to say hello (little more) to the archdeacon for our area – a good three hours before we reached our destination. Lunch was a thirty minute stop long enough to queue for the loo and then for some greasy chicken and chips – but who’s complaining? The ubiquitous on-board television gave us the option of a trashy soap followed by radio talk-back – a not very enticing distraction from the unbroken grain fields. When Christine fell asleep I dug out “To kill a Mocking Bird” and lost myself in the prejudices of 1930s Alabama, USA.
So here we are in Mitchell – a small regional centre with an annual winter influx of “Grey Nomads” seeking out the hot-springs of the town. “Grey Nomads” are the retired people from the south who make annual, and lengthy, migrations to the warmer north during winter – towing amazingly well-equipped caravans and trailers and spending weeks, and dollars, in small places along the way.
We are slowing getting into a routine now – early morning walk followed by an hours work; Morning Prayer in the Church at 8.30am (yes, the same pattern as in WCSP); more study (except yesterday when the ‘locals’ decided to check out these newcomers); walking and bird-watching (crows, kookaburras in abundance) and generally slowing down. Challenges so far have been to find an ATM machine and get used to the sulpherous smell of the water. Joys have been having lunch outside in the sunshine, and having to move into the shade (though today there is rain and an expected maximum of 18). My main task while here is to finish a thesis for a Master of Ministry through Otago University – something I have been working on since 2003. Incongruous as it seems in this far-away place, I am looking at Benedictine Spirituality as it might relate, and be useful, to Deans of Cathedrals in NZ.
Don’t expect daily updates – I will try to do at least one a week. Once the weather clears again we’ll take a few pictures too.
