Dear Inner Circle,

On my way in this morning I noticed the children's playground was busier than usual and memories of the days when my children were little and such parks had a gravitational pull for them came back to me. I was running late this morning and content to walk past quickly but a little boy recognised me and came over to me at the fence. He had news that I needed to hear. His jeans had nine pockets! He knew this news was probably beyond my capacity to believe so I had to carefully count each pocket and confirm the total of nine. My day is off to such a great start because I’ve counted nine pockets. How often is the awesome wrapped in the ordinary?

Our most valuable assets are not in bank vaults and showroom windows but within us and all around us. Kings Cross is an awesome place with an awesome history and Wayside is inviting everyone from all walks of life to pause and ponder how awesome are the people in our community. We’re putting on a photographic exhibition that highlights how awesome is the ordinary. Join us if you can on Tuesday 12th May at 6pm.

He is a little sample of the astonishing ordinary.

“I have created a life of dust, grit, thirst and itch. Every trace of beauty and freshness had to be excluded. It has had the effect of smothering me, before I am done. I’ve got a grudge against my life for not having been a different life.”

Keep reading here.

Dear Inner Circle,

Walking in our front door and heading in for choir practice, a young woman struck up a conversation with a homeless person. It was an interesting, easy flowing exchange that ended when the man said, “I’m not really homeless, I’m just outdoorsy”.

At the door this morning a young fellow stopped me to announce that he had a new girlfriend. “I’m happy for you” I said. He told me that his secret was that he’d told the young woman that he was me! He said she was chuffed to be keeping company with Rev Graham Long, Pastor and CEO of The Wayside Chapel. “Gosh” I said, “So you’re not planning for this to be a long term relationship then?” This poor young bloke is very unwell and didn’t understand how I could foresee a problem. “Well” I said, “She might find out you’re lying to her and I doubt that she’ll take it well, or, she might meet me and see that you’re impersonating a poor old burnt-out has been.” I went on to ask the fellow why he wasn’t happy or content to be himself and claim to be only himself when meeting a young woman. Unfortunately the man is unwell and he slipped into gobbledygook.

Keep reading here.

When I was sixteen and just beginning my school certificate, Australia hung Ronald Ryan. Australia’s longest serving Premier, Henry Bolte of Victoria was facing re-election. The case against Ryan was weak by any measure and yet Bolte refused clemency.

I was old enough to take an interest in this case. A prison guard had been shot and killed. Although Ryan carried a rifle at the time of his escape, there was never any evidence that he’d fired a shot. There was no spent cartridge found. There was strong evidence to suggest that another prison guard fired a shot, but his rifle was never examined. In due course the guard, who was alleged to have taken a shot, took his own life.

Churches, journalists and academics were all outraged that the State should take a life especially when the case against the man was so weak. The Premier was a shrewd politician who judged the mood of the public to be insecure in the context of all the changes that the 1960’s created. He knew an irrational fear created a thirst for strong leadership that would assert its authority against all who wanted to abolish the death penalty. Bolte was re-elected with an increased majority.

A sheltered childhood was eroded somewhat as I reluctantly realised that an elected official would find a man’s death useful for his personal and political ambitions.

Two young Australians are about to lose their lives at the hand of the Indonesian government! An elected official is shrewdly reading the mood of his people and resisting calls for clemency. Just like Bolte, I believe the Indonesian President is reading the mood of his people accurately.

The Indonesians have demonstrated a culture that has careful regard for the rule of law. They did prove the guilt, beyond doubt of Andrew and Myuran. Now they are enforcing the law.

The public mood for “strong leadership” in any culture should cause us concern. In an atmosphere of fear or in a history where resentment has been allowed to...[read more]

Dear Inner Circle,

Dreadful weather didn’t stop about 40 people from attending our Slam Poetry session last night. Such rare and priceless gifts were generously offered by a range of poets. Some people with whom I’d only exchanged brief greetings suddenly revealed themselves as masters of technique in the delivery of their poems. Some stood before us, spiritually naked, sharing their deepest struggles in poetry form. I was often on the edge of my seat as someone opened their heart, not in the safety of counselling, but in the safety of an audience who listened and affirmed every offering. At Wayside I sometimes think the greatest riches in life are freely given, never more so than last night.

Do you think we might have overdone the ANZAC thing this year? I’m sure it's true that WWI did wake up a sense among us of being Australian. Before that war, we thought of ourselves as British. My Dad was an army nurse in Darwin when it
was being bombed. Dad didn’t talk about his war, not because he was traumatised but I suspect because he regarded his role as insignificant. Yet, he and I loved to discuss the battles of WWI and the strengths and weaknesses of various Generals. Dad sometimes went to ANZAC services but always in emotional turmoil. Dad hated anything that glorified war. His favourite ANZAC Day story was when in Sydney, after speeches by high ranking people in uniforms, a moment of wreath-laying took place. It was solemn. The silence was broken by an old drunk who sang at top note, “Hallelujah I’m a bum”. Police ran to shut the man up. Dad loved the outburst. He liked to think that the drunk was an old soldier who had the courage to protest against all the fine speeches that tried to convince the crowd that all the death, particularly that of Gallipoli and the Western front, was anything other than an unspeakable waste of life.

Keep reading here.

Dear Inner Circle,

First thing in the morning a man was playing a fiddle out the front of our building. I wish there were words that could deliver the shock contained in that sentence. This man didn’t just play; he played in a way that caused everyone – staff, volunteers and visitors – to dance with delight. The power of music is not often witnessed in such raw form. There were no backing tracks and no other instruments involved, just the fiddle and the sound of the man’s foot thumping on the ground. For a while I sat next to him, mesmerised by his skill and enthralled by the transformation he brought to people who had every intention of getting on with their day until they were arrested by joy. After playing one piece I told him that I wished I could pay him to sit and work his magic all day, every day. He said, “I’d be happy if you could give me a free meal”.

Keep reading here.

Dear Inner Circle,

With my coffee in hand this morning I was confronted by a large man wearing a football jumper and shorts with a kindly, beautiful face, blocking my way. He took off his bracelet and said, “Can you bless this Father?”

When I was younger, requests like this caused me the greatest discomfort because it came close to the superstitious hocus-pocus that I thought it was my duty to blow away rather than create. I remember the moment when I learned that objects can take on a sense of the sacred. Years ago late one night, I sat with a couple who agonised their way through a story of unfaithfulness. The man had slept with the woman’s best friend. It was betrayal on a grand scale. The most painful moment of the night was when the husband confessed to sleeping with the wife’s friend in their own bed. I was puzzled that the betrayal seemed worse because it took place on the marital bed. The bed was an object of special, even sacred, significance. I began to understand that things and places can be made sacred by human acts.

Keep reading here.

Dear Inner Circle,

When I was a social worker in South Australia, many of the people I worked with lived on isolated fruit blocks or dry farms. One night at about 9pm I drove to a property that was miles away from main roads or street lights. A local school teacher was concerned for a 8-year-old boy whose art work had recurring and disturbing themes. I had made contact with the parents and established that althoug
h they loved their boy, they were both alcoholics and not always attentive to the little boy’s needs. I decided to call late at night partly to see what conditions were like at that time and partly because in those days that it was uncommon to be working at that hour. As I wound my way up a long dirt driveway, I passed the main house of the property owner and kept driving to the “pickers’ quarters” (a small hut where fruit pickers would live sometimes for a season).

My headlights flashed past a sight that I knew to be unusual but I couldn’t compute the image at all. I drove on about 50 meters but had to stop in the total darkness. Something felt wrong. I reversed slowly back to the spot. I turned the car slightly and my lights on high beam revealed a little boy tied to a stake. He had a number of toys spread in a semi circle around him but he was bound hand and foot.

Keep reading here.

Dear Inner Circle,

It doesn’t matter how hard you squeeze a sweet fruit, it will never yield bitter juice. My dear old Mum didn’t know who we were when we visited last week but she lovingly accepted the attention that appeared to be in her honour. We sang her “happy birthday” and talked a little about the achievement of her 90 years and then we asked her to say a few words. She really struggles to find any words but she said, “The good life comes from being ‘terrible’ in little things and ‘terrible’ in big things”. She clearly wanted the word, “thankful”. The message was clear enough. In some ways, the greatness of this lady is still seen even in a frail 90-year-old with advanced dementia.

All my life Mum filled our home with stray people. She collected the people that no one else wanted to know and she loved them. As kids we knew that Mum’s love for us was never diminished but that we were not the centre of the universe and that it was not going to kill us to make room for her stray people. Ken was one of Mum’s strays. Ken was a gentle man who loved cricket and was a walking encyclopaedia of cricket history but almost impossible to communicate with on any other topic. I met Ken thirty years after he’d been part of our home. All those years later all Ken could talk about was the kindness he’d known in my home. Even his gestures and words were from my home. It became obvious to me that while my brothers and I found it a bit of a chore, when Ken visited our house, Ken came home. Merri was another stray who visited our house often. I loved Merri and she loved me. Dear, intelligent, creative, Merri. Years later when I heard that Merri had taken her own life, I was heartbroken. I knew that in the years when Merri was in the company of my Mum, that she had a Mum. I knew that when she was in our home, she had a home. Some of the people who visited our home were lovable and some were really difficult to love; people who were...[read more]

Dear Inner Circle,

By the time you read this note, I’ll be in Adelaide to celebrate my Mum’s 90th birthday. She won’t believe for a moment that she’s 90. She knows she has a son with my name but she’s pretty sure that her son wouldn’t be anywhere near my advanced age. She is still a dear, sweet lady but it’s a difficult path she’s on. Ageing is not for wimps!

It’s 10am on Wednesday as I write this and I’m seated in a cafe in the main drag of Kings Cross. Actually I’m seated in the very seat that Animal usually held court and often referred to as his office. It’s hard to sit here without keenly feeling the loss of our dear Animal.

An old lady with stooped shoulders just walked past wearing a long white dress with white flowers in her hair. I wouldn’t be surprised if she was in her eighties but she projected both weariness and a flare for fashion and for life. She’s carrying what looks like a violin case. Sitting in front of me is a man who I recognise as a visitor to Wayside. He has just a tiny circle of hair on the top of his cranium. The hair is a bright purple colour and gelled so that it stands straight up in the air. A dear old bloke that I don’t recognise is walking toward me who looks like he’s in great pain. He’s limping and his facial expression suggests that either his foot or knee or hip is giving him a lot of pain. He’s making his way to me and so I suspect he recognises me…Well, the old fellow just wanted to say, “hello”. It doesn’t cost anything to brighten up someone’s day.

Keep reading here.

Dear Inner Cirlce,

A lot of people have worked out that the fastest way to get some face-to-face time with me is to come to our Sunday service at Wayside. I have no gatekeepers on that day and so I’ll generally stay until I’ve seen everyone who has asked for a bit of time. Sunday just gone was particularly busy and I found myself saying, “If you’re prepared to wait, I’ll see you as soon as I’m free”. So many wanted a bit of time that day that I finally said to someone, “I’ve already agreed to see a string of people and it will be an hour or two before I’m free. Would you like to make an appointment for through the week?” The person replied, “It was either come here this morning or go to the gap!” She was serious! When we finally got some time together, the person’s exhaling breath was like a convulsion. It was difficult for the person to speak because of the physical demands of her violent sighs. It became clear that this was a good, able and clever person who had for some time been carrying an unbearable burden. Naturally I didn’t fix anything but what this dear person needed at that moment was someone to be with her. It was an honour to be so gloriously useless. I heard yesterday that our meeting gave the person enough strength to ask for help from appropriate places.

I have a strong hunch that addictions of all kinds are not caused by something but rather they are caused by a lack of something. For this reason it is frustrating to fight the addiction without first identifying the deficits that created the conditions in which the addiction could flourish. Addictions flourish when there is a lack; they flourish when someone latches on to a good thing and calls that one thing, the whole thing. (Both people whose stories I am about to share have given me permission to write about them). I met a young woman recently who is addicted to body building. The addiction has taken a toll on this...[read more]