Author: scottg

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birth and death

Last week I shared some time with my colleagues here who work for the Uniting Church in the Presbytery of Tasmania.

It was partly a retreat day, partly a planning day, and partly a day of building our sense of team.

It was a day in which all sorts of interesting possibilities came alive for us, as we thought, wondered and planned how to challenge, support and nurture the church here.

As we closed the day, Carol read to us, from Romans 8:18-25, and some commentary from Macrina Wiederkehr (Seasons of Your Heart) that contained a poem.  In the poem, Wiederkehr describes what must have been her own difficult birth – a birth story in which she apparently nearly didn’t make it, being momentarily pronounced dead.

I’m sure the scripture, the commentary and most of the poem were very interesting, but I confess I stopped listening. I was captured then and since by one line in the middle of the poem.

The doctor placed me aside and announced the sad news of my death, right in the middle of my birth.

Let’s just re-read that again.

The doctor placed me aside and announced the sad news of my death, right in the middle of my birth.

That’s got to be about as difficult as it gets. Right in the moment of new birth, new hope, new beginnings, is death.  Just as things where about to get interesting….it was all over.

I kind of wonder if that’s about where those of us who belong to the Christian church find ourselves right now.  And for the Uniting Church in Tassie it rings true.

There are well documented challenges facing the church. Buildings. Money. Age. Numbers. Ministers.  Well documented.

It would be easy to pronounce death. Many have (me included).

But increasingly, I get the feeling that we’re not actually in the middle of our death….but strangely, bizarrely, in the middle of our birth.

Not because we’re about to have some explosion of numbers and reclaim the glory days of the past, but because it seems to me that we’re on the edge of discovering anew what it really means to be communities of faith, what it really means to follow Jesus in this time and place.

Somehow, we find ourselves on the edge of a time of new hope.

All over Tasmania, wherever I go, I am encountering stories in the Uniting Church of people trying new things, re-thinking what it means to live together in faith community, worship together, engage in community, participate in God’s mission.

I hear the hope in a Friday night praise and worship gathering in the rural village of Wilmot. I hear it in a lounge-room gathering in Evandale. I hear it in a wild and powerful vision of residential community in Kingston. I hear it in the quiet contemplation of a new garden at Scots Memorial. I hear it in the burgeoning community meals at Wesley. I hear it in the dreams of a first-ever website for the congregations in Hobart’s north. I hear it in the endless stories of community service that are emerging from Uniting Care Tasmania. I hear it in the stories of a cape york visit by students from Scotch Oakburn.

I hear hope everywhere.

Not fanciful, unrealistic hope.

Not hope that ignores the realities of 2011.

But simple hope.  Hope that right in the middle of what we thought was our death, we might just find the possibility (and yes, pain) of birth.

That’s kind of exciting.

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just around the corner

I parked yesterday in a suburban street in West Launceston.

It could have been anywhere. Houses, footpaths, cars. Kids playing. People walking. A school at the top of the hill, a shop down the road.

It was so very normal. Suburbia.

And then I walked.

After two minutes I was in ‘First Basin’ where the South Esk River comes spilling out of the upper sections of Cataract Gorge, into a large open pool, before continuing down the Gorge to the waiting arms of the Tamar estuary. The water is surrounded by cliffs and hills, parkland and bushland, a 300m chairlift carrying excited school kids overhead. Peacocks fussing and preening.

It’s anything but suburbia.

And I walked again, following a trail upstream toward the delightfully named Duck Reach.

Not 10 minutes from setting out on foot from my car parked in the heartland of the suburbs I was a world away.  The remnant of last week’s floodwaters tumbled down the rocky riverbed. The steep sides of the gorge deep with forest, the atmosphere still and heavy – the river and an occasional bird’s call the only sounds beyond my own footsteps.

It is a beautiful place, and all the more remarkable for being so close to the heart of the city.

At one moment I was in the normalcy of suburbia, and minutes later deep in tbe beauty of the gorge.  It never ceases to amaze me that such a remarkable spot can be so close to ordinary life, literally just around the corner.

As I walked I thought a lot about that fact. I wondered how often we who are caught up in the ordinariness of daily life miss the spectacular, the remarkable, the astonishing that is just around the corner.

And I wondered about the church that I work among, so obsessed with worrying about our daily bread that we miss all the opportunities that lie just out of sight.

It seems an obvious connection. Lift our eyes from suburbia to find the remarkable that is literally on our doorstep.

But as I trod the riverside path on my way back home, something started to stir for me.  I had parked my car in the middle of everything that I know, and gone off to find something better.

And how often, I wondered, is that the case?  How often do we give up on all that is normal and around us to go searching for the something remarkable?  How often do we leave suburbia to go hunting for Cataract Gorge?

The closer I got to my car the more I realised that suburbia is anything but ordinary.  This is where I live. There are friends and family, there are stresses and tension, there is laughter of kids playing in the front yard, heartache as an amublance races to the scene of a domestic tragedy.

This, suburbia, is life. It’s not ordinary, it’s incredible.  When I go looking for the amazing that I’m convinced is just around the corner I think perhaps I miss the remarkable that surrounds me right where I am.

The grass is always greener, or so we say.  The salvation of my church, the restoration of my soul, the reclaiming of my world as a better place….these things are perpetually just around the corner.

Except they are not. They are right before my very eyes. They are my neighbours, my family, the shop at the end of my street.  The best stuff isn’t around the corner, its right here.

Perhaps I’d best start just here.

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let silence do the heavy lifting

There’s a spot, just off the side of the walking track that runs up through Cataract Gorge here in Launceston.

It’s one of my favourite spots. You climb a few steps up off the walking path, into a space that is dark, and sheltered, mysterious and quiet.

There in the silence there is rest, peace, freedom.

And marvellous carved and polished granite artworks. Each stone has one of two words.

Silent

Listen

And if you sit there a while, it becomes possible to do just that, listen to the silence.

I love going there, and rarely miss a chance to step off the path into this place of stillness.

Silence, I think, is one of our most under-rated resources. In a world that is constantly noisy, and in which data streams to us from every imaginable source almost without pause, silence is rare and precious.

Maybe its just the introvert talking, but today I crave silence. Stillness.

But, of course, the reverse is true. There are moments when silence is destructive. When injustice is being done, silence is complicit.  When harsh words are spoken, silence can be agreement.

And so, while it is right for us to let silence do the heavy lifting (to unashamedly use the words of Susan Scott), there are moments when we have to shout loudly, to refuse to go gently into the night (to yet again use someone else’s words).

The trick then, has to be finding the right moment. Finding the time when silence is golden, when silence transforms, renews and, yes, challenges.

But to be wide open to the times when silence is the last thing that’s required. When it is exactly the right moment to call our society, our leaders to account, to speak truth to power.

Let silence do the heavy lifting, but speak clearly when it’s important. That’s what I’m learning this week.

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the power of every place….and no place

I’ve been listening to Stu Larsen’s new EP Ryeford, and I want to tell you about it. Before I do, there are two things you need to know.

Firstly, I’m not a music reviewer, or a music professional, or even a musician. And this is a not a place you would normally read about music. The fact that I can’t help writing about Ryeford might tell you something about it.

The second is that the artist I’m going to write about, Stu Larsen, is my cousin. We’re related. I may be biased. You can judge. The truth is, that I listened to the music because Stu is my cousin. But I listened again (and again, and again) because I was captured by it. Continue reading →

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the many shapes of normal

Today i went to visit Hobart’s new MONA gallery.  MONA is the private gallery of Tasmanian David Walsh.  It’s only opened recently in a new purpose built venue at Walsh’s Moorilla vineyard/winery/entertainment precinct.

I went to visit with Cheryl (who reflects on her visits here and here), to encounter the gallery, and it’s opening exhibition “Monanism” (I think it’s basically a collection of Walsh’s favourite pieces).

Visiting MONA is an expedition into the unexpected.  Almost from the moment you turn off a suburban street and suddenly find yourself in the midst of a riverside vineyard, everything is abnormal, and (in my limited experience) its distinctly un-gallery like.

The building itself is stunning.  Carved from the ground, the gallery covers four main levels and is industrial in nature – steel, bare timbers, brushed concrete, and the sandstone that lies under the ground.  It’s all angles, and rust and grunge. And it’s astonishing. (click through to read on…..) Continue reading →

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the challenge of team

For the last few months I’ve been working with a group on a joint project.  The project is starting to get towards the sharp end of our deadline, with just a few weeks to go before delivery date on a joint report.

Today we met to mull over the current draft version of our report.

It’s a document that I wrote on behalf of the group, trying to listen well to what was being said (and left unsaid) and say what needs to be said, in a way that can be received.

Today was about sharpening the draft, about picking out the parts that needed fine tuning (or removing), about putting some more flesh on the bones in a couple of spots.

The group I’m working with bring to the table a lot of experience, and a wide collection of wisdom.  And they were gentle with me (really), encouraging of the work that had been done, and offering valuable insights into how to make the report even better.

It was a positive and healthy discussion that will result in a better document.  A good example of how a team can produce good work.

So why then,  did I face such an internal struggle with the whole discussion today? Continue reading →

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the imagination challenge

Imagination is a way of seeing.

Of seeing something other than the immediately obvious.

Of seeing something that does not (yet) exist.

Of seeing connections between apparently disconnected entities.

Imagination brings us to new places, new possibilities, new moments of wonder.

It’s a fundamental tool of leadership, fuels creativity and is at the core of problem solving.

I’m stuck on imagination, on how to foster my own, how to encourage yours, and how to put both to good use in re-energising our world (and for those with whom I work, our church).

So get used to hearing the word from me…..I think I might be a broken record.

To get you started, here’s a great video (thanks Cheryl) featuring graphic artist Michael Wolff.  Take the time to watch it, and then take the challenge below….

So, the challenge.

Wolff talks about the muscles of imagination, curiousity and appreciation.

I want to challenge you to go and visit a place you’re very familiar with.  It might be your church building, the local shopping centre, the walking trail you take each day, the local park.  Somewhere public, somewhere you know well.

Go there with the specific intent of exercising the interconnected muscles of appreciation, curiosity and imagination.

Notice things. New things.  Things you haven’t noticed at that place before. New sights. New sounds. New smells.  People. Conversations. Interactions.

Allow yourself plenty of time to simply “be” in your space.

Take inspiration from Wolff’s film, of his meander down the street, or in the supermarket.

Open yourself to all that surrounds you.

Take a camera and bring back one image (or many) of something that you noticed, appreciated.  Of something that inspired your imagination.

And then post a story about your experience (at your own webspace or here), upload your photo somewhere on the web and post a link to it.

Curiousity.  Appreciation.  Imagination

Time to get exercising.

This story first published at tasmission

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confession: i like toy cars

I have another confession to make:

I like toy cars.

Not just any toy cars, but R/C (or radio controlled) toy cars.  And I don’t just like playing with them in the yard, I like racing them, competitively, on a race track.

They’re not really toys either, they are serious racing machines.

Nobody can tell me otherwise. Continue reading →

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when the rain falls

Last week I was in Brisbane, with my family.  I grew up in south-east Queensland, a stones throw from the Brisbane River in the western suburb of Riverhills.

So as the rain fell, and the water smashed its way through Toowoomba, the Lockyer Valley and into Ipswich and Brisbane in such devastating fashion, we were there watching on, trying to make sense of it all.

In a strange way, though Brisbane is home, it’s also not. We moved from Brisbane itself nearly 13 years ago now, so it’s been a while since we lived there.

Nontheless, like millions of others we were awestruck by the water, the damage, destruction and loss of life (notwithstanding the almost hidden story of over 600 deaths in a flood in Brazil in the same week) in last weeks flood event.

I’m not ashamed to say that as we sat and watched “our town” pushed to the brink, that I shed a few quiet tears, feeling for those who were living through the loss of so much that mattered to them.  As we drove through our childhood suburbs later in the week, that feeling was magnified even further. “Our” house was spared, water stopping at the footpath, while those of our childhood friends and neighbours were completely underwater, as were many of the local neighbourhood haunts that had been our home all those years ago.

It was a scene of devastation, and that’s in an area not subject to the powerful currents and flash-flooding seen elsewhere.

And then we had a chance to get out of town, to go and visit friends in Boonah, the small country town we left a few years ago to move to Tasmania.

We moved to Boonah to work with an outdoor education organisation, running camps and programs all around Lake Moogerah.  When we first arrived in Boonah, the lake sat at 30% of its capacity.  Over the next six years it never rose above that mark, dropping as low as 0.5% at one point, and almost always below 10%. In all the time I paddled, walked and explored the lake and its surrounds, I could not imagine it full.

This week I drove to the carpark at the dam wall, and was confronted with the amazing site of a water storage at (or above) it’s capacity.  And as I opened the car door, a most unexpected sound of rushing water filled my ears. More than  metre of water poured over Lake Moogerah’s spillway and down Reynold’s Creek, through the gorge that we spent so many days exploring with groups of young Queenslanders.

It was an amazing sight. Astonishing.  And beautiful.  The lake filled to the brim. Long dry gullies being flushed out, the lake bed that we dragged canoes across to find once distant water now metres below the surface.

As I stood on the dam wall watching the water cascade into the creek all the memories of those years came flooding (sorry) back.  Friends and colleagues I worked with, young people I met, experiences shared.  The water was a powerful symbol.

And again, I shed a quiet tear, standing just above that raging torrent.

We have all been reminded this week by events close to home, that water is powerful. It might fall a drop at a time – either from the sky or the eye, but it is powerful.

Like many, I don’t know that I have made sense personally of all that unfolded across Queensland (and then Tasmania, and now Victoria) in the last few weeks.

I dare not theologise about it all.

I only know that sometimes the rain falls.

(If you’d like to help those caught up in the flood, donate to the Uniting Church flood relief appeal)

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I don't like third umpires

I’ve been keeping an eye on the Ashes test this morning, watching Australia take on England in that most time honoured cricketing contest.

Apparently it’s been a while since I watched cricket, because I discovered that the “third umpire” has been introduced to cricket. Each team has the opportunity to object to an umpires decision and ask for it to be reviewed.  The system allows each team two unsuccesful challenges each innings (and presumably an unlimited number of successful challenges).

At face value, it seems reasonable.  We have the technology, and it only holds the game up for a little while, so why not? “Third umpires” and the capacity to challenge have been succesfully introduced in other sports – tennis and rugby league to name a couple, so why not cricket?

Because life isn’t perfect.

We all make mistakes.

Part of the challenge facing us is how we cope in our humanity, how we give expression to our emotions when life doesn’t go as planned.

The ‘third umpire’ sets an impossible standard of perfection, and sets up expectations of sporting officials that cannot possibly be lived up to.  It effectively says to the sports officials “we don’t trust you”.

Life is imperfect, and messy.

Sport is too.  And as a reflection of life, that’s just the way it should be.