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- Written by Garry
The Uniting Church is a strange place sometimes. Much like me, it’s one of those funny institutions that consistently confounds any attempt to put a label on it. You could call it ‘liberal,’ but there are plenty of fundamentalists doing just fine within the organisation. Like me for example. You could call it ‘modern,’ but you might not be able to do that with a straight face after spending a morning in my congregation. And our core scriptures are almost two thousand years old at least. You could probably call it “Australian,”, but these days there’s enough going on in other countries to call that into question as well.
Just like me, the only label you could really give the Uniting Church with any confidence would be “Christian”.
Although there is another one that probably applies more to the church than to me (hopefully): Freaking huge.
I was at the UC’s National Young Adult Leaders’ Conference last week in Sydney. It was great fun meeting with other young Christians from Uniting Churches all over the place. I enjoyed hearing about what people in other parts of the country are up to, and sharing some of the stuff we‘re doing here in Darwin.
But the biggest eye opener for me was our away mission to Uniting Care headquarters on Pitt Street. Uniting Care is the community service and welfare arm of the Uniting Church. I always knew it was involved in nursing homes and clinics and things, but I hadn’t fully grasped the extent of service that it provides for the country.
Uniting Care, it turns out, is the second biggest employer in Australia. Only the Government employs more people. There are service centres of various types across the whole country, and there’s an annual throughput budget of nearly two and a half billion dollars. It’s several times the size of the Salvos, Anglicare, St. Vinnies or any other community service organisation you might care to name.
All this isn’t meant to be boasted about, but the next time you hear someone whining about how they wish religious people would just mind their own business and leave them alone, spare a thought for the giant serviceless hole the community would fall into if we did leave it alone.
Anyway, that’s not the point. The point of the story was how cool it was to be among young Christians from a whole range of backgrounds, all getting along and talking about the big ideas we had for ways to serve our communities. It made a nice change from other conferences I’ve been to that have been all about whipping everyone up into a frenzied maniacal hype, or providing instructions on the only possible interpretation of whatever psalm happens to be the flavour of the month.
I’m still not prepared to accept any label other than “Christian,” “Australian” and (under certain circumstances) “Worship Musician,” but for the first time since I left Sydney I feel like I’m part of a church I can really get behind, rather than one I’ve got to walk alongside rolling my eyes. It’s a strange feeling. I don’t really know what to make of it.
I guess I’ll make of it what I will. You should too.
Garry with 2 Rs
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A couple of weeks ago I published the internet’s most explosive revelation since Isaac Newton tweeted his discovery of gravity: I’m dating Kirribilli Kim and while the entire blogosphere may have been set a buzz by the information, that’s nothing compared with the furore of comments that erupted when we updated our relationship status on Facebook.
I had a laugh when I changed mine, as realised that since the first day I logged on all those years ago, my status had been set to “It’s Complicated”. And just as you might expect, switching off the sign that says "it’s complicated" was just the signal the karma fairies had been waiting for.
After Tassie, I spent a few days in Sydney with Kim. We hired a car to drive up to the North coast of New South Wales for Kim’s best friend’s wedding. Having not driven in Australia much, Kim has a tendency to drive on the wrong side of the road, so it fell to me to take the helm for an epic journey of discovery.
It should have been simple enough: Get on the Pacific Highway and stay on it for an hour and a half or so. But Sydney has a nasty tendency to spring surprise lane changes, merges and inescapable exits on unwary drivers. If you don’t know what you’re doing it’s easy to end up on the fast lane to Parramatta when you’re supposed to be aiming for the Harbour Bridge. It’s complicated.
By sheer force of will (and blatant disregard of a few road markers) we managed to stay on the highway until we got out of Sydney, but at some point we teleported off the freeway and found ourselves on a windy mountain scenic route, without either of us having any memory of having exited the freeway. It was a lovely drive actually, but I still have no idea how we managed that one. Fortunately the scenic route met up with the freeway again further up. I don’t know how much time it cost us, how we got on it in the first place, or even exactly where we went. It’s complicated.
But it all worked out in the end. We made it to our accommodation in a little village called Long Jetty. As you might expect, the main feature of the area was a really long jetty, which we walked out along around sunset. It was one of the most amazing sunsets I’ve ever seen; Kim must have taken upwards of thirty photos. Even I took a few.
On the way back we were accosted by a little girl who asked us if we had any fish for her, in a voice that suggested she might have been possessed by elves. We didn’t have any fish, so we ran away.
The next day was the day of the wedding. Kim and I got dolled up and made our way out to find the wedding site to make sure we’d have plenty of time and wouldn’t be running late. Sure enough, we found it with plenty of time, so we went for lunch in a café up the road. Something went wrong with time, but I don’t know what. It’s complicated. The next thing we knew, we were running late for the ceremony anyway. Fortunately we got there before the bride, so it was all good.
After the ceremony we milled about for a bit and then made our way up to the reception. It was simple enough; Kim informed me that the reception was at a lighthouse just around the corner from the ceremony.
The lighthouse was a beautiful location, overlooking the beach and with lovely conference rooms. It had everything that could possibly be wanted, but it was missing one thing.
It wasn’t actually the reception venue. We had got the photo shoot location and the reception venue mixed up. So now we got to drive around I circles in a sleepy North Coast town, looking for a bunch of people celebrating a wedding. We tried the bowls club and the beach and the lighthouse again, and eventually we had to call someone to find out what the hell was going on. It was in the surf lifesaving club as it turned out, which was both lovely and very difficult to find by accident.
The following day we made our way back to the city and I attempted the most complicated operation I’ve ever undertaken: I took Kim to a cricket game at the SCG and then proceeded to try to explain to an American how cricket works.
By the end of the first innings, she had got the basic idea sorted out, and we were all ready to settle in and put her education to the test in the second innings when the skies opened and the entire match was rained out. No matter, you can check her progress here. I was disappointed not to get to watch the full match, but in the meantime we also got ourselves up on the big screen doing karaoke (don’t ask) and bore witness to the largest beer snake ever constructed. It made it all the way from one end of the Victor Trumper Stand to the other; a truly epic achievement, but perhaps an inevitable outcome at a cricket match with no cricket.
And then before I knew it, it was time to pack up and fly back to Darwin. But first I had to drive our hire car through Sydney peak hour to return it. I had to do three laps of King’s Cross just to get into the lane I needed. It’s complicated.
But that’s Sydney for you, I guess. It’s a nice place and all, but everything you put your hand to turns out to be far more complicated than you realised.
Make of that what you will.
Garry with 2 Rs
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Okay… so more of the usual nonsense it is then.
Welcome to 2013; a post-apocalyptic world where the rules have changed, where we stand together as a united humanity in our finest hour, facing an uncertain future with a re-born spirit of determination and togetherness.
Business as usual then.
Apologies for the over-abundance of sentimental and self-indulgent nonsense I’ve been posting over the past few months. It’s all been part of a campaign to give expression to the fact that (possibly due to some fundamental shift in the way the universe works) I’ve become romantically entangled, without mentioning it overtly on my blog. But since my girlfriend has now gone and posted pictures of me all over her blog, perhaps the first post for the year is the right time to confirm that rumours (most of which were probably started by us anyway) are true; I’m dating Kirribilli Kim and I have been for nearly six months now. So there.
So now that game changing revelations, Christmas, New Year and the Mayan Apocalypse are dealt with, life continues apace, so it’s time to put the boots back on, knuckle down and get some serious work done.
So I’m going on holidays.
I’ll be off for a few days in Tassie for a family wedding followed by a week in Sydney spending some time with Kim. I’m sure there’ll be a post or so to come out of that, but if not there’ll certainly be something to be said about the church leadership conference I’m heading to later in the month.
So in the meantime, have a great new year, won’t you?
Garry with 2 Rs
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Australia has been in the grip of a truly nasty heat wave this week. “Aaaargh,” go the southerners, “Hooray!” go the climate change fanatics and “on holidays” goes Garry.
I was heading to Tassie, which would normally be a location for jumpers, sachets of pre-mix hot chocolate and a good book or two. But this time, in the wake of the hottest day Hobart had ever had, I was pumped and ready for a super southern summer holiday.
It was thirteen degrees when I got off the plane in Launceston. Tasmania can’t even get a bloody heat wave right.
Before my grandmother died, my family used to spend a lot of time on the North coast of Tassie. I remember it fondly as a great place to walk around aimlessly in the cool weather, eat lunch and read books. But this time we weren’t here for Christmas in my grandmother’s unit on the North West coast. We were here for my uncle’s wedding in Scamander on the east side.
Those East side Tasmanians are a different bunch. They come across as the quiet, rural type, but beneath the half asleep exterior lurks the beating heart of an angry Thylacine. That feisty little Tasmanian Tiger is also half asleep, and extinct to go with it, but that’s not the point. The point is…
…
The wedding was at two o’clock in the function room at the Scamander Social Club. At 1:30 in the afternoon they opened the bar, which promised to make for an interesting afternoon. Just after two o’clock my auntie-to-be arrived on a golf cart and walked into the hall to the rousing cheers of the rest of the assembled guests, which was basically everyone in town.
My ordained Anglican priest of a great aunt performed a suitably short ceremony, and then it was back to the drinking and photo taking and drinking and barbequing and drinking and I think there was a band at some point and drinking. In traditional Tassie style we all ate and drank enough to get us through two weeks and took three plates of left overs home each to go with it.
I only had a couple of days in Tassie. The day after the wedding the fine weather gave up and it came over all cloudy and rainy, so we stayed inside and watched the cricket. But overall I was impressed with Scamander. It was everything a sleepy little fishing village should be.
If only I liked fishing.
Garry with 2 Rs
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Previously on Cum Tacent Clament…
“Stop changing the subject and tell me what’s wrong,” I yelled.
“We can’t,” explained OG in a voice that implied I was missing something flagrantly obvious, “We’re not all here yet.”
“Oh good grief,” I groaned. “Who else could we possibly be waiting for?”
“For me, of course,” said a voice behind me. And since I was standing with my back to the cliff edge, that was a little disconcerting. I turned around slowly and realised that it couldn’t possibly have been anyone else.
“Nice of you to join us,” I said to … Samantha Triton.
And now… Write-Me-Back Falls continues.
Ba daah, de dat daah da de dah de dat dat daah – Dat daah de daah de dada daah Daaaaaah.
“Theme music? Really?’ asked Samantha “On a text only blog?”
“Shut up,” I said. “What are you doing here?”
“And as if Write-Me-Back Falls would have the theme from A Country Practice as its opening titles anyway.”
“…I was going for the theme from Jurassic Park, actually.”
“You really need to learn to sing better.”
“I really do. How come you can fly?”
“Rocket Boots,” explained Samantha as if it was obvious. She touched down with a hint of overdrive and toggled the rotary speaker effect off.
“Of course,” I sighed. “I suppose there’s no point asking why you’re teaming up with OG and BL over there? I thought you were on my side.”
“Of course I am,” she said, with reverb.
“Then this doesn’t make sense,” I said, by way of plot exposition. “Oxfam Girl is almost completely imaginary, and Biscuit Lady is one hundred per cent metaphorical. You’re real. Or at least, you are when you’re being a piano. Not so much when you’re a flying woman. Also: Why are you dressed like that?”
“I’m a time-travelling space pirate.”
“YOU’RE A MUSICAL INSTRUMENT!”
“I hate to interrupt,” interrupted Oxfam girl. I suspect she quite enjoyed it actually. “But could we get on to what’s really going on here?”
“I’d love nothing more,” I said
“Hmph,” hmphed Biscuit Lady.
“We’re all here because we’re about to be blasted out of existence,” said Samantha, a little too matter-of-factly.
“Don’t be stupid,” I replied, “It’s clear that none of you exist except in my mixed up mind anyway. What have you got to be worried about?”
“That,” said all three of them in unison, pointing out to the electrical storm gathering over the ocean. I laughed at them.
“Don’t tell me you’re afraid of a little rain cloud?” I chided. “What kind of tropical girls are you?”
“I’m from a musical outlet in Brisbane,” said Samantha.
“I’m from an Oxfam Shop in Sydney. Sort of,” said Oxfam Girl.
“I’m a sociological metaphor, and I don’t like thunder,” said Biscuit Lady.
“Besides,” said Samantha, rolling her eyes, “That’s no ordinary thunder storm. If you look closely you’ll see the lightning is flashing steel blue, with a band of green around the middle.”
“That is unusual,” I admitted. “What do you suppose is causing it?”
“We don’t know,” admitted Biscuit Lady. “I’ve never seen anything like it. I asked the Bureau of Meteorology about it and they said they don’t really have a classification for it yet either.”
“I have a bureau of meteorology in my subconscious?” I asked.
“Stay focussed,” said Oxfam Girl. “No-one knows what that thing is, but we all know it’s dangerous. We can feel it.”
“We’re calling it Resolution Seven,” said Samantha.
“That’s… an awesome name for a thunder storm,” I said as a brilliant flash of blue lightning, the colour of the ocean at sunset, was followed by a particularly resonant thunderclap. And it was certainly getting closer. I watched, fascinated, as the clouds blew in and hovered over the cliff top. The imaginatrixes shivered beside me, and Biscuit Lady was looking decidedly pixelated.
“Get behind me girls,” I said as I smiled insolently at the storm, “This will only take a second.”
It sure did. Almost without warning, a steel blue thunderbolt flashed straight through my chest. The ground shook around me, but I stood my ground, just barely. As a good Christian Boy, I’d never felt more Weird. And as the fireball dissipated and the rain began to fall in warm, huge splotches (none of this rubbish southern rain, thank you very much. It’s my brain after all), I looked around to make sure the girls were okay.
They were gone.
In their place stood a piano, a 'make poverty history' wrist band and a plate of damp biscuits with a 'highly commended' certificate. I smiled, nodded once to say goodbye, and left them behind. As the storm of Resolution Seven closed in, without looking back I stepped to the edge of the cliff and jumped.
This is the part of the dream where I’m supposed to wake up and get on with writing. Apparently I still haven’t. It’s possible this blog is about to get really strange. Either that or I’ll be back in 2013 with more of the usual nonsense. Who knows?
Make of that what you will.
Garry with 2 Rs