Fighting For Faith

Today is the 1st of November. A new month, a new beginning. I began this post yesterday, to try to make some sense of the month just past, an incredibly difficult month for the Brown family. I knew I would have to write something, just so I could begin the new month with renewed hope. But what to say and how to say it? Then I discovered yesterday was Reformation Day. For an on again/off again Dutch Protestant (who has dark and dangerous liaisons with Catholicism), this was a pleasant discovery. I've tried to weave together, in a thoroughly Dutch Protestant Secular Australian blend of post-modern misinterpretation and heretical misappropriation, two Fighters for Faith.

The first Fighter for Faith is Martin Luther. Reformation Day celebrates the day, 31st of October 1517, when a Catholic monk nailed his 95 theses to the doors of the Wittenberg Castle, in a protest against the sale of indulgences and other evils of the Roman Catholic Church, thereby beginning the Reformation. Read the 'facts' here. But who wants facts when you can have fun? For the education and edification of my ignorant Australian secular readers, I have put together a hip and modern introduction!

Luther: The Man of the Hour

A historically accurate re-actment.

The Theses Rap - yo, all my Protestant hoes and bros! let me hear you sing it!

I got 95 theses, but the pope ain't one!

Reformation Day Party Ideas. Yes, friends. These are real! The costume: Calvin and family. Because Luther is soooo yesterday. And everyone knows the REAL REFORMATION began with John Calvin. Here's some more great party ideas from Lutheranism 101.

Make a “Diet of Worms Cake” (using Gummy Worms)
A beef barbecue, also known as a Papal Bull Roast.
Play “Pin the 95 Theses on the Wittenberg Door”
Run a “Throw Indulgences in the Trash” relay
Have a special showing of the movie “Luther” at church or in your home.

I think the Papal Bull Roast might catch on in my backyard! And finally, I have some posters, sponsored by The Online Discernmentalist Mafia. These Truth War Motivators encourage all Protestants to fight the good faith!

So...I'll see you all at my Reformation Day Party! to celebrate this Protestant Fighter for Faith. And if you decline my invitation, you are an Unaustralian Pelagian and you shall never darken the door of my house again! Here I stand (sort of, leaning casually against my doorpost).

Now to my second Fighter for Faith and why it has been a difficult month for myself and my family. On Sunday morning, October 10th, my father-in-law, Colin Brown, died in a motorbike accident. He was only 53. In a single moment, JB lost his dad, our children lost their grandad, family, friends and work colleagues lost a partner and a mate.Everyone was numb with shock, and torn with grief. JB buried his father on Monday, October 18th...

Less than a week later, he wrestled 100 3 minute rounds to raise money for the parents room at the Geelong Hospital children’s ward.

On Sunday, October 24th, he wrestled for five hours and raised $2,500 in memory of his daughter Faith, and in honour of his father, Colin. To read about JB’s journey and the fundraiser, go here, here, and here. To read about our daughter, Faith, go here.

I am incredibly proud of my husband, and his Fight for Faith. If I had the talent, I would write him a rap song. If I had the power, I would proclaim a national holiday. If I had money, I would throw him a party with (bad) costumes, (lame) party games and a (tacky) giant cake. But fortunately for JB, family and friends, I lack talent, power and money. Instead, I shall humbly offer my dubious writing skills, my twisted wit and my hesistant faith for this one post, in honour of my husband who is a man of incredible determination and endurance.

The Man of the Hour with his Coach

Father and Son

The Peanut Gallery

The Peanut Gallery: Half-time Entertainment

Food

Friends

Half-Time Break: Father and Daughter

Grapplers

In Action

In Action

Round 80 - Still in Action

Five hours is a long time!

Round 100

Done.

Dedicated to John Brown, his father's son and Faith's father.

Colin Walter Brown - 23/4/1957 - 10/10/2010

Faith Abigail Brown - 04/04/1998 - 17/01/2000

Ode to the Great Game

My youngest daughter loves the game. I'm not sure how this happened in a 'nominal' football family. We are amateur game watchers at best. But this is the second year we have celebrated the most sacred day on the AFL calender in style because our youngest is a true believer. And since our beloved Cats were out of the game, we showed our support for the underdogs. Go Sainters!

Here she is, in all her streamered, facepainted and inked out glory, meditating on the object of her worship...

...then giving it the boot. And yes, she is wearing her moccasins. I think I have actually given birth to a true Aussie. Quite by accident!

I blame Lucy, apostle to the great game, for inflaming my youngest with her passion. Lucy can recite names, positions and tactics of players on the field. She knows the game better then the umpires on the field. They ought to have a phoneline directly to Lucy. When I am confused by the many rituals of this ancient game, I turn to Lucy for advice and guidance. She's my football mentor.

See? She's coached me well. Here I am, the most unlikely of supporters. Decked out in my full colours...

...carrying the sacred leather with all the confidence of a third generation believer.

On the most sacred day of the AFL calender, part of the ritual is to play the game. Our footy field is right outside our front door, on the median strip between two roads. The council had kindly slashed this hallowed ground two days before the big game, no doubt in antipication for this big match.

Even the family football atheist, wearing her 'football sucks' t-shirt under her black coat, came out to play, hoping to remain incognito...

Ha! Here for the world to see!

Team-members trained for monts for this match. Nothing was left to chance!

Moments of brilliance...

... even by those on the wrong team.

The troops coming in from a spring shower.

And no holy day is complete without a feast. JB in charge of the sacraments.

People gathering, sharing.

On this sacred day, when the world stands still to watch two teams battle it out on the field, old friends become unspoken enemies, and long-standing enemies are tied to unlikely friendships in support of their team.

And this last photo and cryptic caption leads me to my own grand finale in this "Ode to the Great Game." Below is a journal entry, written about a month ago, when I was the reader in church one Sunday morning. These were my reflections from that morning. And my allusions to the religious rituals of football will become clear. I'm not sure whether this blog entry has returned the sacred to the secular, or made the secular sacred. I'm not sure if I am guilty of impiety before the court of either football fans or the religiously devout. I'll leave the verdict to you...

"reading the sacred text, aloud in god's temple with god's people...in that moment i have become part of something else. i have become grace-filled. in the moment when i attend to the task, to the reading, when i speak the words and hear my voice carried into the corners of the sanctuary, in that moment i know my voice is no longer simply 'mine' but has become part of something more, something beyond the everyday cursing, complaining, explaining, berating, cajoling, screaming, placating...i have entered the divine and for a moment i am home. there is simply no better place to be - nowhere pressing. nothing demanding. no multiplicity. no disunity. i have become my self, my voice is not just 'mine' and yet it belongs wholly to me, or i to my voice, to the words uttered - to the sacred text spoken. i belong there and i am whole. a transformative moment."

Solstice 2010

My devoted disciples,

Today is officially Melbourne's shortest day of the year. We celebrated the passing of the longest night of the year last evening at the Geelong West Community Garden. Today's blogpost is a dedication to all things pagan.

Or at least, I couldn't go past this clip from a Dutch pagan metalband. Heidevolk formed in Gelderland, a Dutch province, and sing heavy-metal songs in Dutch with manly titles that include 'het bier zal weer vloeien' (the beer shall flow again) and 'wodan heerst'. They are all about returning to their roots as 'people of the heathland'. Apparently, people of the heathland run around bare chested, with flowing hair and bushy beards - barking guttural sounds into the microphone.

Incidentally, I was born in Ermelo, a town in the famous 'Veluwe', the heatland of the Heidevolk. I have come from and walked the 'oude grond' (from old soil- translated title of their third album) - as a child - and somehow missed the Heidevolk that roam these hills!

The song below is called 'Het Gelders Volkslied', and its quite dreamy - for a metal band that celebrates all things teutonic and technotronic. Also a couple of photos of the Veluwe in winter. It is very beautiful. Of course, while we celebrate the winter soltice, de Veluwe is in the full bloom of summer. But that is no more incongruous than a Dutch band celebrating the mythology of a nation that is renowned for its cosmopolitan, multi-cultural, liberal and progressive ethos.

And now returning home from the dreamy realm of the mythical to the cold reality of the present. Soltice at the garden, where we created our own mythology, with woodfired pizza, mulled wine, hot soup and congenial company which thankfully did not involve flowing hair, bare chests, bushy beards, tankards of ale and heavy metal.

firing up the pizza oven

preparing, gathering, sharing

we were treated to the divine

the ghoulish

the even more ghoulish -

A reading of Hans Christian Anderson's Snow Queen

in which we found out

'What Took Place in the Palace of the Snow Queen, and what Happened Afterward'.

Where Gerda found Kay in the palace,'flew to embrace him, and cried out, her arms firmly holding him the while, "Kay, sweet little Kay! Have I then found you at last?"...Kay burst into tears... and shouted, "Gerda, sweet little Gerda! Where have you been so long? And where have I been?" He looked round him. "How cold it is here!" said he. "How empty and cold!" And he was held fast by Gerda, who laughed and wept for joy. It was so beautiful, that even the blocks of ice danced about for joy... Gerda kissed his cheeks, and they grew quite blooming; she kissed his eyes, and they shone like her own; she kissed his hands and feet, and he was again well and merry...they took each other by the hand and wherever they went, the winds ceased raging, and the sun burst forth... it was lovely spring weather, with abundance of flowers and of verdure. The church-bells rang, and the children recognised the high towers, and the large town; it was that in which they dwelt. They entered and hastened up to their grandmother's room, where everything was standing as formerly. The clock said "tick! tack!" and the finger moved round; but as they entered, they remarked that they were now grown up...grown-up, and yet children; children at least in heart; it was summer-time; summer, glorious summer!'

And if this moved brought a tear to your eye, imagine it being read to the gentle strumming of the harp, interspersed by birds whistling, horses galloping, winds blowing, and clocks ticking.

And people choking on their mulled wine in fits of laughter

And the reader of the story in all her dark glory, barely able to go on.

Creating solstice mythology in 2010. A big thank you to Katie, carver of the pumpkin, Barry the Bearded, keeper of the fire, Stella, priestess of the prayer and Peter, bringer of the divine spirit and the fabulous sound effects.

Peter, his harp and his family - or should that be, Peter, his family and his harp? - were recently featured on Australian Story. Despite his new found celebrity status, Peter brought along his harp and treated the faithful to some beautiful music of non teutonic/technotronic variety.

And so Petra, spinner of stories, teller of tall tales and mistress of mythology, would like to wish all her people a happy solstice. And will now pronounce the final blessing... (we shared this the garden last night, for the second year - it's called Fire Blessing -an ancient Prayer... 40,000 years old... handed down through the Aboriginal culture and translated into the English language.)

May the fire be in our thoughts
Making them true, good and just,
May it protect us from the evil one.

May the fire be in our eyes;
May it open our eyes to share what is good in life.
We ask that the fire may protect us from what
Is not rightfully ours.

May the fire be on our lips, so that we may
Speak the truth in kindness; that we may serve
And encourage others.
May it protect us from speaking evil.

May the fire be in our ears.
We pray that we may hear with a deep, deep listening
So that we may hear the flow of water, and of all
Creation.
And the dreaming.
May we be protected from gossip and from things
That harm and break down our family.

May the fire be in our arms and hands
So that we may be of service and build up love.
May the fire protect us from all violence.

May the fire be in our whole being -
In our legs and in our feet,
Enable us to walk the earth
With reverence and care;
So that we may walk in the ways of goodness and truth
And be protected from walking away from what is truth.

A gift from Burnum Burnum

life/lost

i once stood at the foot of a bed and watched my child be resucitated. four months later, her father sat at the side of her bed, and watched her die. this poem is an attempt to capture the two polar experiences, where one anticipated or completed the other. i can't speak for his experience.having tried to listen and understand, this is how i heard it. stylistically, the two columns are one poem as life and death belonged to the one child, the polarities uniting in the fullness of life. i just want to add i had to fidget endlessly with a table html code to present the poem in two columns. it was difficult. and took longer than the writing of the poem. even so, i was not able to manually determine the width of the columns, it adjusted automatically to fit the writing. so the longest sentence is the first column is right next to the longest sentence in the second column,completely destroying the feng shui of the poem. grrrr.

she stands by her feet	he sits by her head
life drains from her fingers	life drains from his fingers
gripping the cold steel of the bars	gripping the cold steel of the bars
below	above
her eyes fixed	his eyes fixed
on the fragile life	on the fragile life
there	here
flickering light	flickering light
her child. her life. her soul.	his child. his life. his soul.
tenaciously holding on	quietly letting go
suspended on a white island	cradled in a white island
life violently returns	life gently slips away
filling lungs	lungs empty
driving blood to the heart	blood pools in the heart
by white gods	while white gods
who pump	who fold
with pale mortal hands	their pale mortal hands
decree life	decree death
nod vigorously	shake their heads
speak boldly	whisper softly
of what almost was	of what has come to pass
life flows	life ebbs
to her fingertips	from his fingertips
and her beating heart	and his beating heart
reminds her of who she is	reminds him of who he is
what she must endure	what he must endure
watching her child	watching his child
cling to life	leave life
cradled in a white island	suspended on a white island
shaken she sits	quietly he stands
her hands hold	his hand knocks
a warm cup received	a cold cup discarded

lenten rose

she walks into the small cafe. crowded tables, filled chairs, humanity pressed against the wall. small tables. intimate tables. she is nervous. too much humanity. too close. she does not always mind the human horde. earlier she had sat peacefully at the railway station, thankful to be anonymous speck in the churning of civilisation. here there is no anonymity. she must make herself known. offer up a fragment of her soul to another. it is always this way. when she must talk about what she thinks. or writes. or about what matters to her. already she feels exposed. vulnerable.

there he is. reading. at home in the crowded cafe. small table. with small chairs. in the centre of the room. she stumbles. he looks up. she mumbles something and hopes its a greeting. she drops her awkward bag, perches on the edge of the chair. a bird ready to take flight. his hands close the book. she sees them. white hands with long, tapered fingers. hands that caress a violin, lightly and tenderly stroke piano keys, write eloquent thoughts with a fountain pen. nervously she wrings her hand under the table. hands that caressed children, lightly and tenderly planted out seedlings only yesterday, scribbled fleeting thoughts this morning, with a leaking biro, found under the dusty fridge. an idea came wandering through her mind and was quickly captured on the back of a shopping list. before it had a chance to disappear, disgusted at its inhospitable welcome.

he inclines his head. for a moment she is captured by his clear and steady gaze, an honest face. without veneer and deception. or so she thinks. but she can't be sure. can she read curiosity? regard? uncertainty? intelligent people are hard to read. to judge. to trust. she shifts. the bird on her perch longs to fly through the distant door to freedom.

for a moment she thinks of small talk. social graces. water-cooler gossip. fill in the silence. live with the silence. fill in the silence... her eloquent ideals - honesty. integrity. vulnerability. truth. slip under the seat and pool beneath the small table, along with her fragile self-confidence. she desperately gathers up her remaining fleeting thoughts in the moments it takes to order. he fills her glass. orders soup. she thinks she should have lunch. she knows it but she can't eat. in small spaces. crowded. she can't breathe. and orders a hot chocolate.

he is a moment of unreality. something between a scholar and a saint. an apparition that formed from the small seat, at the small table in a crowded cafe, pouring water into her glass. an apparition that grew flesh, embodied all she ever imagined for herself (with all the social graces) but never could be. breathe. break the silence.

words cross the distance. she speaks. something about her thesis, but cannot remember. he replies but she doesn't hear. minutes tick by. she drinks her hot chocolate. feels the liquid run down her throat. remembers the aztec warriors ran all day on a mug of hot chocolate.

she asks him a question. and another. and another. the words close the distance. he smiles. she stretches a little, testing the small space. the words return to order. she holds them for a moment and releases them. she laughs self-depreciatingly. gestures with her hands. interrupts him. presses him. searching for the words that bring understanding.

and gathers her pooled ideals from the ground. honesty. integrity. vulnerability. truth. and her fragile self-confidence returns. the apparition turned flesh rises. they walk to the counter. she pays. he pays. do you write poetry or fiction? he asks. i'm not sure, i think philosophy is killing my creative spirit, she smiles wryly. then wonders why it should be so.

the light beckons. outside, away from the crowded cafe, with the intimate tables and small chairs, and the water pouring into her glass, the apparition becomes human. and they walk along the footpath. ordinary people. making small talk. she tells him she has seen a helleborus, lenten rose, in the old gardens of the university. nobody plants the lenten rose anymore. it is the forgotten heritage of the old university. she notices because she is an incurable romantic. he asks her to describe it. and she does.

leaving behind a fragment of her soul, she says goodbye. steps on the bus. steps back towards another life. and remembers there is poetry in philosophy, too. she just has to write it.

A day in the life of....

Because my life is uninteresting, my thoughts are vapid and my words lie in dust at my feet...I thought I would put in a post with three things that happened today.

Sweating it out at a body pump class. Sadly, this is not me in the photo. Surprising, I know. But I must confess, I am much less glamorous when I pump it. Today's session was particularly dire as my thin and fraying towel deposited white bits of fluff over fellow pumpers. And I was not succesful in masking my distinct lack of strength by positioning myself strategically near a testosterone-laden pumper lifting twice his own body weight - guaranteed to grunt and sweat profusely, thus hiding my own little flaws and imperfections. Still, I achieved the desired result - the illusion of immortality for another day.

Sweating it out with a logic textbook. Sadly, this is not my work. Surprising, I know. But I am not inclined to moments of brilliance that involves visiting ants from other galaxies. Today's session was particularly dire as my gnashing of teeth and grinding of bones distracted all other students in the library. I was not succesful in masking my distinct lack of intelligence by positioning myself strategically near a genius whose brilliant mind might inspire me to greater analytical heights. Still, I achieved the desired result - the illusion of immortality for another day.

And so to the lesson...training the body and mind serve no purpose other than to feed illusion and to deny the reality that death...is waiting...just around the corner.....

Which brings me to my final interesting encounter. Quite randomly. With somebody who asked me if I liked animals. And I replied - I have a cat. And she quoted (drumroll.....)

"I am the cat who walks alone, and all people and places are the same to me."

That, ladies and gentlemen, is Rudyard Kipling. I had to google it. The lady in question is in fact a cat who walks alone, wild and mysterious, whereas I am nothing more than a mangy tabby who survives on the scraps of society. And utterly incapable of erudite quotes.

Thus ended my day.

Gravity and Grace

Two years ago I read Simone Weil's Gravity and Grace. I copied entire sections into my journal and wrote my own responses during a difficult time. Finding myself once again suspended in a white canvas of silence, I thought I might draw strength from my own journal entry.

"From the innermost depth of my being I need a sound that means something. I cry out, but there is nothing. I no longer have the courage to play. I need real words! I cry out for them. But all I get is silence! I talk, I ramble, I chatter, I mutter and mumble - hollow words, empty words. Words that mean nothing. Words that cannot touch my soul. I am desperate. I need only one word, only a few words; anything I can lay my hands on, any REAL words I can grasp and hold tight. Only a few REAL words to guide me. To direct me. To hold me secure.

Can I give my heart to silence?
To the silence of God?
Can I live suspended in this silence?
Can I live without my yes and amen?"

Below is the Simone Weil passage. Interspersed is the photography of Adi Nes, a brilliant Israeli photographer. This is from his series on biblical figures.

From the bloodthirsty Cain, to the vulnerable outcast Hagar, the portraits are deeply moving. My montage finishes with Samuel cradling Saul, who does indeed descend into madness.

See link below for more details on the artist and his work.

http://www.adines.com/content/wexner_center_for_the_arts_brochure.htm

Adi Nes - Cain and Abel

"The noises here below imitate this silence. They mean nothing.

Adi Nes - Abraham and Isaac

It is when from the innermost depths of our being we need a sound which does mean something - when we cry out for an answer - it is then that we touch the silence of God.

Adi Nes - Ruth and Naomi

As a rule our imagination puts words into the sounds in the same way as we idly play at making wreaths of smoke; but when we are too exhausted , when we no longer have the courage to play, then we must have real words. We cry out for them. The cry tears our very entrails.

Adi Nes - Hagar

All we get is silence.

Adi Nes - Samuel and Saul

After having gone through this, some begin to talk to themselves like madmen. Whatever they may do afterwards, we must have nothing but pity for them. The others, and they are not numerous, give their whole heart to silence."

Simone Weil