Dear Inner Circle,

Increasingly, I find myself talking in board rooms or before work-teams or to middle and senior managers about Wayside’s mission and how it lives in our work and organisation. I have a growing sense of disquiet, knowing that our mission doesn’t live in a formula nor a set of values. The danger for Wayside and especially for our senior leaders, is in believing that our mission lives in a set of words. Generally, we Waysiders like our words and our values. “To create community with no ‘us and them’” are words that point to the awesome. Paradoxically, I suspect the more we cherish the words, the faster we fossilize the mission itself. The more we believe we master our mission, the faster the mission itself evaporates through our fingers. Our mission cannot be preserved in formulas of any kind. It can only be proved true. It can only be “done”. We can only begin each day as beginners and begin each day as if it is our last opportunity to live our mission.

To “create community with no ‘us and them’” is not an act of reflection. Our mission is not made real when it is pondered nor preached about. It can only be done. Our choice is to be beginners, or idolators. Our mission only lives when it is in front and while we are on our way. Oddly, to be on our way requires of us endless unromantic acts. Front line workers take people for showers and do battle with the systems that exclude poor people. Front line workers confront people who constantly seek to break our rules or gain some advantage. Front line workers constantly hope for meeting. Maybe today someone will realise that there are people here with them and for them. Managers manage staff who can’t always see that order and rather uninteresting arrangements in an organisation are important if the organisation is to avoid digging its own grave. Sometimes people so believe that they are alone, that they come through our front doors insisting that they be treated as a...[read more]

Dear Inner Circle,

From about fifty feet away, a booming voice yelled, “Is the complaints department open yet?” “No” I responded, unable to match the volume coming at me. “I never take complaints before the first cup of coffee”. The voice could register on the Richter scale and I wasn’t sure it was friendly until I was right beside a bloke that looked like he’d lived rough for a long time. Although the face was uncared for, a smile communicated wonderful warmth. I sat beside him and it became clear that he was just happy to talk to me for a while. When I got up to walk away, he said, “I’ll save my complaints for another day”.

How disappointing love can be. I remember when my son was little, after a rough day I’d rushed home without a chance of buying him one of the little surprises that I’d normally have with me. He searched my pockets and could hardly believe that he found nothing. I tried to calm him by saying, “Dad doesn’t have any lollies or surprises today, I only have love.” He threw the biggest tantrum imaginable. Countless times since then I’ve brought discontent when all I had to offer was love not lollies; presence not presents. It’s especially hard when someone asks me to fix something that I’d desperately love to fix. Then I’m a disappointment to myself. When my son died, I was helping his widow get the kids through the bath one evening and our four-year old looked at me with a hopeful face that I will never forget. “Can you bring my Daddy back?” she asked. I was shot in the heart and stayed that way for days because there is nothing in this world I wanted to do more than bring her Daddy back. It took me ages to realise that I could do no more for this precious girl than I could do for anyone else. I could only be with her. I was living in the shock. I was living in the disconnect of the unthinkable. I was living in the powerlessness and the broken heartedness of love. How I wish I was superman, faster...[read more]

Dear Inner Circle,

Walking into our building the other day I heard sobbing. It was the kind of sobbing that comes from the boots, through the heart and out through the throat. It couldn’t be ignored. I looked around to find a young fellow, I’m guessing perhaps 30 years of age, doubled over and between sobs, saying that he can’t find a way off the street and that he is at the end. I saw that he was talking with Kate, an angel visiting from heaven and a staff member who makes all of us look good. The young bloke couldn’t have been in better hands. I got on with my day but happened to be downstairs again in the mid-afternoon. I could hardly believe it when I heard the same voice, sobbing once again. This time the young bloke was talking to John who was also in tears. They both turned to me and quickly explained that this time I was hearing sobs of joy. The young bloke had just been offered a one-bedroom flat by the public housing authority. In just a few minutes the young man displayed the key to his new place as if I was having trouble believing the story. In just a few minutes it became clear that the difference between this being a story of success or being yet another story of suicide on the streets, is the achievement of our Community Services team and particularly, John.

Guard against the constant drip of the media that would cheat you out of your humanity. Sometimes I’ve been involved with something that has included a politician and I’ve been astonished by the venom that is poured out upon them by social media. Once Tanya Plibersek made a wonderful gift to me by speaking at an event for which she had to sacrifice her time with next to nothing to gain for herself. After the event, social media was deluged with comments assuming the worst and lowest of motives. It was wrong and a judgement not against Tanya but against our culture that is losing the possibility of seeing anything positive. This week the Prime Minister spoke with a homeless guy...[read more]

Dear Inner Circle,

Minutes ago on the footpath, a young bloke, perhaps in his thirties, put his arms around me and just didn’t let go. I knew the bloke by sight but didn’t know his name. He’s normally friendly but not affectionate. “What’s up?” I asked. “They’ve revoked my bail and I’m waiting at Wayside for the cops to find me and put me back in jail.” He wasn’t blaming anyone and he wasn’t cranky. He was sad. He got caught carrying a small amount of an illegal drug. He was rather fatalistic about spending another year behind bars, but the sadness was for yet more time wasted and his best plans amounting to nothing. The embrace continued and I was beginning to become uncomfortable until it occurred to me that this was my son. Suddenly I embraced him more tightly and lost all interest in the background story. I just quietly repeated, “You’re ok, and you’re a good man”. When the embrace broke, he said, “I’ll have a roof over my head and regular food for a while though, eh?”

Last night a generous bloke took me out to dinner. It was one of those places where any consideration of the prices on the menu seemed inappropriate. My eyes popped when I saw the wine that was ordered. Generally, I can’t tell the difference between a Grange and something that has been filtered through kitty litter, but this was a magnificent drop. By the end of the dinner we were cracking jokes that wouldn’t be funny to anyone else. My friend spent a lot of money on this evening; bucket loads compared to the guy who was going to jail. There is something odd about our policy on drugs that will encourage two old blokes to enjoy one substance but send another bloke to prison for choosing a moderate amount of the wrong substance.

Keep reading here.

Dear Inner Circle,

At our Sunday service in Bondi this week, for an hour I nursed a little boy who was just seven days old. I’m in love! What an honour! At one point he squirmed a bit and I naturally assumed his Mum would take him back. Instead she produced a little bottle of expressed breast milk and I fed this little man. Mum was pretty laid back for a first-time mum and I was blown away to be absorbed in the mystery and wonder of life. That which is most precious is also most fragile.

A woman sat in front of me this week and asked if I knew a counsellor that would help her sort through some of the issues she’s carried since childhood. This woman is tough enough to make the Bandidos behave at a strip club and yet there has always been something fragile about her. She’s raised a crop of kids who are bright and independent, and she should be proud that she fought hard to educate herself and stay in work. Yet mostly when we talk, she tells me what is wrong with the world and 95% of the time she tells me that people should, “toughen up” and make the most of what they have. But I know that her desperate tears have been heard by no-one. I know that she left home in her early teens, not because she was in love but to escape a pathetic human being that didn’t deserve the title of ‘Dad’. I know that all of her failed relationships happened not because she failed to try with all of her might, but because she seemed destined to be drawn to men who would abuse her. I never thought this day would come, but she realised that all her messages of “toughen up” were really her message to the little girl within. This week, it looks like she’s found a bit of compassion for that little girl and wants to seek help in knowing how to befriend her. Those things that are most precious are also most fragile.

Keep reading here.

Dear Inner Circle,

Sometimes the impossible confronts my eyes, defying me to explain it or daring me to be arrogant enough to explain it away. It’s not easy to stand before the impossible, baffled and in awe. A man came into my office just now to offer me a slice of apple cake. Perhaps this doesn’t sound like a moment that could arrest the progress of time, but it was. The man was wearing a long apron and a white beret. This fellow is our baker. He’s learning his craft with the help of some of our fabulous staff and he’s thriving as he discovers himself doing well. I said, “I can’t begin to tell you how inspired I am to receive this cake.” “Well,” he said, “You say often on Sunday that, ‘God says you’re ok’ and no one has ever told me that I’m ok.” This fellow spent many years living on the street and perhaps in the order of twenty years fighting an addiction to heroin. We’ve shared the ups and downs of what is a daily struggle and broken our hearts as his story is revealed. It’s a story of an intelligent man who never had much but lost everyone and everything in life. Too humble to fight for a place in the world and too sensitive to blame his losses on others, he lived the life of a hermit, his only shelter and only comfort to be found in drugs. What I just saw was a man engaged; engaged with this community, engaged with life and moving on a path to health. Awesome, bewildering, impossible but real.

Here is an offer you’ll get from nowhere but Wayside! A lovely bloke involved in our program for people living with long-term mental health issues, is putting on his own exhibition. Pee Wee is a treasured part of this community and he’s always had a thing about pillows. He makes them and carries a collection wherever he may be. We are holding a “Pillow Exhibition” at Wayside Monday 8 August from 5pm to 7pm. There will be no pillows for sale and we won’t be asking anyone to part with any money for any reason. We want to...[read more]

Dear Inner Circle,

A huddle of three men in our café invited me to join their table while they solved all the world’s problems in thirty minutes. Each of these fellows were either sleeping rough or in a less than ideal boarding house. Each had more than their fair share of issues coming from difficult histories. I stepped into a discussion about the American presidential race. We were four old wise men who really knew that our opinion counted for nothing but who never-the-less were genuinely concerned. Two of the three were surprisingly well informed. All three thought that Donald Trump was a buffoon and yet all three were convinced that he will be elected to the high office. One fellow could articulate a sense of “ordinary people don’t trust government any more”. I think it is the heart of the issue.

In 1247 an English noble established a priory (a place of prayer) and called it Saint Mary’s of Bethlehem. The idea was that someone would be praying for the nobleman while he was off fighting battles. Over a couple of hundred years, the priory became a place that cared for the mentally ill. In all of London there were never more than about 20 people who were mentally ill to the extent of needing residential care. When Henry VIII declared himself to be the head of the church and abolished all the monasteries around England, a deep cultural shake took place. It was said in those days that a peasant could walk a day in any direction and find a monastery that would give them shelter and minister to them some soup (hence ‘minestrone soup’). Within just a few years, all the monasteries were gone, sold to the English rich and making Henry the wealthiest monarch in Europe. Saint Mary’s of Bethlehem started to burst at the seams as hundreds of people could no longer cope in a world where the foundations had eroded. Saint Mary’s of Bethlehem became, “Bethlehem”, which became “Bethlem”, which finally became “Bedlam”, which is where this word...[read more]

Dear Inner Circle,

Time for some straight talking. Some religions have demonstrated a propensity for violence. All religions long for peace but some have a history, so consistently violent, that it’s hard to deny an inboard inclination to torture and slaughter. In most cases, the fiercest violence was inflicted not upon other religions but upon sects and groups of people from within their own religion. I speak of course, of Christianity.

For three hundred years, Christianity had no power to persecute anyone. They were an irritant around the Roman Empire and were themselves the object of persecution. Everything changed when the Emperor Constantine converted to Christianity, believing this God had delivered for him victory in a battle at Milvian Bridge. Suddenly it was cool to be Christian if you wanted to do business in the Roman Empire. In due course it was not just cool, but compulsory. From this moment on, the Church showed great interest in correcting those with flawed understanding. Enthusiasm for the correcting process may have been fuelled by the constant confiscation of the land and goods of the “corrected”.

Keep reading here.

Dear Inner Circle,

Someone tapped me on the shoulder and pointed out a bloke in the café who was keen to talk to me. My hearing is not good and when there is a lot of background noise, my hearing is dreadful. Just to make things most complex, the man who wanted to talk to me had a speech impediment. We had a whole conversation where my contribution was almost entirely based on non-verbal indicators. He wouldn’t have been 40 years old but I looked into a face that had lived about 80 hard years. It was a rather beautiful face and he smiled a lot, revealing yellow teeth, stained from years of smoking and less than ideal oral hygiene. Using all my capacity to read grunts and husky noises that looked like language, it seems the man is Brisbane based. He had spent most of his life on the streets of Sydney and had returned this week because two of his old mates from the street had died in the one week. His move to Brisbane had enabled him to stop drinking altogether. An amazing feat. The man was clearly sober although I think he formed his words like he was drunk. Perhaps years without any sober moments had actually given him his speech defect. The whole time we were talking, he formed a pile of tobacco out of a pouch and carefully pulled it apart, I think to eliminate lumps. The process happened over and over again and not one single strand of tobacco was lost while we were talking. Many years ago when I was a chaplain at Parramatta Prison, I smoked a pipe with plumb flavoured tobacco. I thought at the time that it smelled rather nice. I can’t remember anything smelling as vile as this tobacco yesterday. At the end of our conversation, I was ready for a shower. After about 20 minutes, I hugged the man and said, “Well, your two mates are dead and you’re alive and sober. Whatever you’re doing, I think you should keep doing it.” As I walked away, the smile on the man’s face was worth a million dollars. I’m so glad to have met him even though most of my...[read more]

Dear Inner Circle,

On the footpath yesterday as I approached our building, a young man and woman welcomed me into their conversation. Although the man is homeless, you’d be hard pressed to find a more positive person among the entrepreneurs and “go getting” young business people anywhere in this city. The young woman is an arrestingly beautiful yet shy person. We were then joined by a fourth person, a woman not known to me or to either of the young people. The young fellow shared his name and then the young woman said, “Hi, my name is Gretel – as in Hansel and Gretel.” The lovable bloke said, “Yeah, I’ve been leaving a trail of breadcrumbs for Gretel but she won’t follow me.” “Yeah,” she said quietly and with wisdom beyond her years, “That’s because I’m not living in a fairy tale”.

Robyn and I had the joy of two of our grandchildren for the weekend. Grandma and Aunty took Miss 11 to a crochet class while Miss 9 spent some time with me. We ended up at Luna Park where I went on a pile of rides that a bloke my age should not have to endure. My beautiful girl had a lot of fun and I finished the day with a sore neck and back. Naturally, I’d do it again in a heartbeat because a grandparent’s job is nothing other than to create a happy memory. Next time I’m with Miss 9 however, I’m going to take her somewhere where we can get mugged and robbed. It would achieve a similar outcome without the need to wait in queues.

Keep reading here.