The Village...

Straight after completing his year 12 studies, this white man studied for one semester in a Bachelor of Arts degree at Monash University in 1990. It only lasted a semester before I quickly realised that I was in no fit state to study, especially studying at a tertiary level a course that I felt no resonance with at that time. But one of the subjects I did briefly attend was anthropology. This is the study, literally of humankind...especially in regard to living together in community. So this offering today is somewhat anthropological in kind. But if you have seeing eyes and a perceiving mind then you will know exactly what I'm about to describe.

I share with you some thoughts about a village I knew of. It's a small village that tended in nature to be very cautious and highly conservative. It demanded of it's villagers that they conform to a particular standard of conduct and allegiance in accordance with the demands of the village deity. And the wishes and desires of that deity were transmitted through the village chieftain - most of the villagers accepted this reality and slavishly drank his words without question, like children nursing at a mother's breast. And he knew this...and unfortunately, due to an innate shade of grey within his soul the chieftain took advantage of this. And so this meant that he could effectively control the villagers like children, for children usually are the easiest to control. Controlling what they could say, do and know about life in the village. Even trying to control what they could know and learn about the deity. That knowledge should only ever be imparted by him he reasoned, for different knowledge or, heaven forbid, greater knowledge could be dangerously subversive to the village itself and to his position. Controlling the villagers understanding and their knowledge was key, for the chieftain understood well that knowledge is power and that was a commodity he claimed mostly for himself and perhaps apportioned a little to those closest to him, only to serve his purposes. It wasn't that the chieftain just controlled for control's sake, for he did believe that this aligned himself with the village deity's expectations of him. For he WAS the chieftain - his villagers needed to be controlled for their sakes and for the deity's sake. It was in their best interests that they all commit their allegiances to the deity and the manner by which this manifested itself was through their devotion to him as the chieftain - the deity's especially anointed representative in that village.

And so, for the most part, village life meandered along a predictably comfortable and relatively uneventful way. There were occasional bumps and bruises on the road of life in the village and this would see the chieftain quickly act to impose his will, usually acting through his closest village sychophants. Ideally though, the chieftain would pride himself in 'troubleshooting' issues in the village even before they became potential issues. All for the sake of control. But every community, society or even a village has an underbelly. That village was no exception. But differences and disagreement in the village would always be branded as disunity and would be dealt with cruelly and ruthlessly. For example, any villagers straying from the collective village mentality were dealt with in either of two ways. Either they were silenced immediately by threats of village exclusion and by the scorn of their fellow village counterparts, to which they would normally bend and comply. Or otherwise, if they were resolute in their grievances against village life and/or the chieftan, they were slowly isolated from the village. They would be stared at by 'concerned' villagers but never spoken to...acknowledged as existing within the village from a distance but regarded as nothing better than lepers, only fit to be treated as village pariahs. And so, cold and frozen out of the greater village community they would eventually lose heart and hope and do either of two things; unable to bear the isolation of the village they would accept their fault at ever having the 'audacity' to question the village or the chieftains ways and come crawling back to the fold with contrite heart hoping to be accepted back. Or alternately they would just eventually leave the village quietly...inoffensively vaporising into the collective amnesia of the village that they ever existed. The most earnest hope of the chieftain was that 'dissenting anarchical' villagers would just 'disappear' and do it in silence so that the village would hear or know as little as possible of their reasons for departing.

The village lived, breathed and functioned on fear. Fear of what the deity might see...fear of what the deity's divine enemy was up to...fear of what the chieftan might do...fear of what other villagers might think or even worse, say to the chieftan or those close to him. Fear of being seen with other 'suspect villagers' that could be interpreted as dissention and advocating village disunity. Fear of being branded 'guilty' by association. Fear of ever being isolated from popular village cliques and/or the community at large. Fear of contemplating what life would be like without or outside of the village. And all of this fear was ultimately perpetrated by the village chieftain for fear was his greatest weapon. A means of control...a means of pleasing himself and, in his mind, pleasing or worshipping his deity. But most certainly a means of establishing his own position as head of the village. Because even for the chieftain, outside of that small village he was a nobody. Inside he was king...outside he was 'king nothing'. Nothing more than an anonymous small man whose importance ceased at the borderline of his own shadow. So his own ego demanded that he be elevated to the position of grandeur he enjoyed within the village. And he would employ fear and control in any measure to ensure that his status quo could not be threatened or taken away.

And so village life continues on...but the village is shrinking in numbers. Not that this concerns the chieftain too much as he would be far happier having a small village community that completely aligns their devotion to his position and the village deity as opposed to a larger village of divergant views that could, in his eyes, potentially destabilise his position and the village itself. The older senior village members, perhaps feeling too tired to think or care too much about the future direction of the village simply prepare themselves to pass away and leave their legacy to their village families. Some younger villagers resign themselves to the fact that they are pretty much confined to the village until they might, one day, if brave enough choose to leave. The chieftain had spoken of abdicating his village throne in times past, because of his growing years, but in reality this has been nothing more than a peacemeal offering to a village nervous at times for the village's future. He still remains chief and no evidence is immediately obvious as to why he wouldn't stay in that position for as long as he humanly could. For ultimately he is a selfish chieftain whose personal needs outweigh the greater needs of the village. Of course that is a fact he would never confess to and would vehemently disagree with (most definitely he would brand you a dissenter with poisonous views intending to harm the village) but all practical evidence points to the contrary.

And so there the village remains...Perhaps in perpetuity, perhaps at least until something calamitous happens that causes the villagers to disband or perhaps until a larger village one day swallows that village up. But for now the village remains and it's remains remain in me...

"Fear has a large shadow, but he himself is small."

Memories...

As this white man sits here in the house he grew up in for a decade or so, a house that now contains his office (which was once his brother's bedroom!), one thing that he cannot escape is an irrepressible infiltration of memories. Someone said to me recently, on the topic of being re-united with my old house, something to the effect of "if only the walls could talk..." My response was pretty candid - yes they would say some interesting things, most of them complimentary but other things perhaps not. In fact I think it would probably be just as well if these walls maintained their silent composure for the benefit of all!

One day last week I took a walk around the block - re-treading a well-worn path I used to tread on a daily basis to school and back. I stopped and looked at some of the houses and immediately had flashbacks from 25-30 years ago. One house, on the corner of Edward and Bowen St, quickly came to mind as I remembered it vividly. It was an old house and the owner had a bay window in the front with a bust of Beethoven or some other notable composer on a piano. As a child this used to scare the life out of me as I thought it was a ghost of some sort. In my childlike understanding I could not work out what a bust was - why would someone carve or shape a statue of someone with just their head and shoulders and not their whole body? Anyway as I neared that house on my walk I noticed that it was gone...replaced by a very modern looking townhouse. The ghosts of the past it seems have moved on...

I continued over to the Camberwell Sports Ground, an oval that I was intimately familiar with. I was a regular visitor there as a boy, whether taking my old dog "Honey" there for a run around during the week or going there on the weekends to watch the old VFA (Victoria Football Association)competition where my team, the Camberwell Cobras would routinely be getting thrashed by most other teams. There used to be large hedges that guarded the ground with broken decrepit wire fencing behind them. I knew exactly which areas could be accessed by anyone my size back then - therefore enabling me to never have to pay an entrance fee to watch the football! But the hedges and fences are all gone...and so are the Camberwell Cobras....

And then last week I revisited my old primary school, Camberwell South PS. A morning tea was put on by the CRE (Christian Religious Education) volunteers which now includes me as part of the team. I had a look around my old school and could not help but notice how different it looked now. New buildings, different layouts all reminded me that it is 28 years this year since I finished grade 6 back in 1983. I did see one thing there that sent a slight chill through my spine as I suddenly flashed back those 28 years. It is a long seat - a bit like a traditional wooden church pew. It was once located directly outside the teacher's staff room and it's job was punitive in nature - any pupil who misbehaved badly enough were sent to sit on this seat for an appointed period of time. We used to call it the"hot seat" and believe me, every teacher who would pass you in the corridor on their way into the staff room would always stop and ask you why you were sitting there. You would be worn down explaining your misdemeanors over and over, feeling more and more guilty and shameful before every teacher that stopped for their inquisition. Well that "hot seat" was still there, slightly away from it's old position. I asked the current principal of the school if she knew the history of that seat - she gave me a wry smile and asked me how intimately I knew the grainy contours of that seat. I could only smile wryly too....

Isn't the flow of memories an amazing thing when you are suddenly located in places you spent much time in. Memories that one would have thought would have faded (and some surely have disappeared forever into the ether of forgetfulness), yet can still come flooding back most unexpectedly. Memories that grab me and hold me spellbound, almost frozen in time between realities some three decades apart. Memories that are truly captivating, whether bitter or sweet.

And as I run my fingers over my old bedroom wall, feeling the familiarity of it's texture I'm inwardly content knowing that the best and worst memories I have are still kept preciously within. They are mine and mine to keep for as long as my mind and soul need them.

And as I hold the same old doorknob on my old bedroom door I'm happy that I can freely and willingly open the door to a world I grew up in and feel blessed to re-visit. For I have been blessed by God with good family and fine memories of those formative years of my life.

And yet I am very happy that these walls cannot talk because some memories are best kept secret and should remain right where they belong...

The Fishbowl and the Ocean...

Before this white man touches on thoughts of fishbowls and oceans I do want to just briefly make a clarification to those of you who might wonder why my particular thoughts and reflections find their place under the title of "white man's world". I probably explained this when I started this blog but I didn't bother to go back and check, for it is just as timely to remind you again of the meaning behind "the white man".

When I first became a part of the Vietnamese Evangelical Church some 12 years ago many of the youth and young adults there, who I would eventually be most privileged to pastor, fondly commented on the fact that I stood out in their midst as a "white man in a yellow man's world!" They even would tease me about the fact that I was turning into a duck egg - white on the outside but yellow within! And this sentiment caught on and remained with me for the duration of my ministry in the Vietnamese Church across Melbourne. For Vietnamese youth and young adults across many Vietnamese churches I had involvement in, I was THE white man! So if you are new to reading my blog then please understand that I am not a white supremacist or some kind of evangelical xenophobe! Far from it! I guess what is interesting now, having left the Vietnamese church and returned to my spiritual roots at The Salvation Army Camberwell is that the "white man" tag doesn't have much meaning left to it anymore because I blend in fairly seamlessly within the fellowship I now serve. The yellow man's world is, in some respects, all but a memory...fortunately my home is still blended with yellow!

The fishbowl and the ocean? These two realities have been nibbling away at my mind over the past two weeks since commencing my new role within The Salvation Army Camberwell. Why you ask...Because in my "past-life" as a pastor within the Vietnamese Church here in Australia often times I felt pretty much like a fish in a fishbowl. In a small place, confined, looking out into the big wide world but never really having much opportunity to leave the fishbowl. I guess I felt a bit like Nemo, that clown fish in the Disney-Pixar classic animation Finding Nemo. He was caught from the ocean and placed into an aquarium where he could see out of his tank, through the window to the ocean. And it grieved him to the point of plotting his escape, desperate to be reunited with his father. The point is this...he came from the ocean and his perspective was defined by the freedom of living in the ocean. Other fish in the fishbowl may have lived there for most or all of their lives so they have never known any other reality other that the glass walls of that place. Well I came from out of the ocean because God needed me, for His appointed time and purposes to live in a fishbowl. And while I lived in that fishbowl I became quite accustomed to life within it. It became a refuge, a place of security...A place tucked away from the larger workings of the greater community with it's own peculiarities and practices. And I was surrounded by other mostly contented fish more than happy to live out their Christian lives and experience within that bowl. And so, in many ways life in the fishbowl wasn't completely negative and bad - it had it's affirming moments and served a rightful and holy purpose. But it was a fishbowl nevertheless and whilst I grew familiar and used to it's perimeters and depth I still always recognised it for what it was.

And now, by His divine fish-scooping net God has lifted me out of the bowl and it feels like He's lowered me back into open waters again! One of the real transitions I have encountered through this process is realising just how vast an organisation The Salvation Army is. I grew up in the Army as an officer's kid and thought I knew the basic machinations of the Army but I never fully appreciated the scale of who the Salvation Army is and the measure of what is does on such a massive scale. I never appreciated the level of respect the Army has in the community and just how powerful a presence the "Red Shield" is when it turns up to events such as natural disasters, grand openings of casinos and even Sexpo conventions. I had grown up in an ocean of a movement, a movement called an Army but never fully realised the limitless potential and resources that the Army has. Didn't realise it until I was stripped of it. It doesn't mean that this white man has changed to this rose man with some newly acquired rose-coloured glasses to wear. I'm far too weathered in my life experience to be so idealistic about all the plots and sub-plots at also provide for treacherous and dangerous waters in Salvationism. But I tell you, when you've been swimming around in a fishbowl for 12 years it is very liberating right now to be feeling the movements and currents of an Army that is moving in a promising direction. Sure it won't last forever but I'll ride those currents freely while I can!

So this white man is being expanded...stretched if you will. Stretched to serve and fulfil God's purposes right here where He needs me. Stretched to re-discover the deep spirituality of "others", "the last, the least and the lost" and the three S's "soup, soap and salvation". Stretched to swim in open waters...I'm learning how to swim again!

Foundations...

Last night this white man had the opportunity to sit in on his first senior church leadership board meeting since beginning my re-invention as a member of The Salvation Army Camberwell. And it was a constructive meeting from my point as I was given a time slot to present some thoughts and observations of the current health status of children's ministries at C'well and then present some new ideas for where things should head in the near-future. And following that further church business was discussed and the meeting concluded shortly thereafter. I looked at my watch and discovered that the meeting had only gone for 90 minutes. That would definitely make that church leadership committee meeting the shortest I have been to in a long, long time! Again, God is good!

But there was one other moment that struck me last night in this meeting. I guess it was what many would term a "God moment" - it certainly took me to a place of meaningful contemplation. Sitting across from where I was seated last night during that meeting was my Sunday School leader from 28-30 years ago. David currently assumes responsibility in C'well Corps for the discipleship programs. I remembered vividly my own Sunday School days as a boy learning the ins-and-outs of God, the Bible, the Army and so on. And I even recalled David writing a reference letter for me in order to assist my scholarship application to attend Scotch College. And it just made me think...when David took on the role as Sunday School leader all those years ago would this fine Christian gentleman have had any idea that one of his young boys would one day, some 30 years later, be discussing his plans for the present and future Sunday School in 2011 and beyond? Did he have any inkling of the significance of the foundation of faith that he played a part in building in someone like me? Not that I'm anyone special at all for I only want to chip in and 'do my bit'. But it just made me wonder...do we really ever stop to think of the impact we have on the young people we lead in the church? Do we dream where they may end up one day down the track? Do we actually realise that the foundations of faith we lay in children is so precious a task that it stands the test of time and real living?

I thank God for people just like David who in their humility serve God and His church faithfully. Because I know that without such leadership and guidance young boys like me could easily end up base-less and without direction or substance. And as such I am inspired to simply do the same...to serve God by leading the most precious jewels of His Kingdom, the children. And if I can be a foundation-builder for God in the lives of children then I know that my life here on earth has been well spent. Because in 30 years from now I want to sit where David sat last night...keenly listening to the dreams and plans of a children's ministry leader whose faith foundation has my initials carved in it's small corner somewhere. Oh, that I could have that privilege someday...

Christ('s)church shaken...

I'm sure we have all watched on completely stunned and aghast at the terrible tragedy that has befallen New Zealand's second-city Christchurch in light of the recent earthquake. Given the media saturation such natural disasters receive (especially in countries we regard as developed and, even more so, 'western') we have had to deal with frequent common assaults to our senses with awful regularity over the past week. And there could be no more of a visually shocking image than that which has been seared into this white man's consciousness - the sight of the now crumbling edifice that once stood proudly as Christchurch Cathedral. The century-old church is one of the most iconic spiritual centres of Aotearoa, the land of the long white cloud. Yet as it now stands shaken, bowed and de-crowned of it's famous spire, the only cloud that surrounds it is the sadness of its people and the dust of a violent earth. As a single frame, the image of the fallen cathedral appears to represent, frozen in time, the despair of a lovely small city dealing with such a tumultuous and tragic event that literally shook it's foundations to the core.

Upon the occurence of other recent natural disasters around the world such as the S-E Asian tsunami, Hurricane Katrina in the US, the earthquake disaster in Haiti and even the Black Saturday bushfires here in Victoria, Australia, there has been a monotonous chorus of malicious opinion stating that such disasters are the consequence of rampant sin and general Godlessness. This is the viewpoint that believes that countries or regions on the earth vex God so much to the point where He commissions a little 'ground shaking' or oceanwave inundation just to remind those pesky sin-riddled humans who's boss! And it is usually around the 5-6 day mark after such an event that these spiritual doomsayers usually crawl out of their caves and spew forth their highly-convenient invective. Yet it is interesting though, and a good thing I say, that this white man has yet to hear any such forecast explaining the earthquake in Christchurch as being the result of the awful wrath of divine consternation. Well not yet I should add...

Because I guess it's hard, even for the rabid hell fire and brimstone fundamental right of the Christian spectrum to justify how God could have ripped His earth apart and brought a beautiful small city to it's knees in the South Island of New Zealand. Because it's all in the name really. How could God grind out His divine anger against a city called Christchurch? How could the image of a fractured Christ's Church in Christchurch resonate with the very God of love and grace to whom that church belongs?

So at least in the midst of this terrible tragedy and all the destruction the NZ earthquake has wrought, the silence of all the 'righteous haters' out there on the matter of Christ('s)church has been music to this white man's soul. Thank God for at least that one small mercy... And may God continue to defend New Zealand!

God's Revolving Door

This white man first apologises for the lack of activity in recent months regarding this blog. In some respects I have to admit that my absence from this forum has likely been judicious. For I had been treading a difficult path recently work/ministry-wise and I'm sure my contributions as a result would have strayed uninspiringly into the negative. Put simply, this past six months have been a test of endurance - a very real period of being contained tightly within the 'crucible of suffering and pain'. Emotional pain and spiritual anxiety. But again God has demonstrated to this white man that hope-filled rainbows always follow the deluges of life's storms. And that is my story...or His-story with little old me in it!

The basic premise for why I named this blog "this white man's world" was because of the fact that I really was a 'white man living in a yellow man's world!' Having attended Vietnamese church for 12 years and been a pastor for 6-7 years of those dozen years, that was my reality. Was...

Early in January one night in the early hours I did something I haven't done in many years. Being unable to sleep (unusual for me) and feeling pretty stressed out by church, its senior leadership and the direction it all seemed to be taking I resumed writing a diary. It was nothing less than a vivid outpouring of emotions onto paper; an involuntary vomiting out of emotional hurt and deep anxiety as to my place in church, life, the universe and anything else. The one thing I found myself repeating over and over was for God to show me a way through the messy tangle of church and life that I felt ensnared within. And after two pages of pain settled onto those pages I closed the diary and slept well.

Not long thereafter Phuong, myself and the boys ventured over the city to the east-side as we had made plans to visit the historic train attraction Puffing Billy in Belgrave. Being a Sunday and having two weeks 'break' from Vietnamese church, I randomly decided that we could pop in and pay a visit to my old spiritual home, Camberwell Salvation Army. It was on the way and it is always nice to return and say hello to familiar faces and old friends. So there we went and enjoyed a quiet holiday-style low-key service. After friendly conversation with many people I'd known and grown up with as a kid I then caught up with a young guy, Rick who is now the church's Corps Sargeant-Major, the church equivalent of a typical church secretary/elder. After the obligatory hello...how's it going etc... he asks me this "how would you like a new job!" I was quite taken back for no-one usually asks an employed full-time church pastor if they are interested in another job! So this question was met with a little stunned silence at first but then genuine curiosity. Anyway Rick agreed to send me a position description for a Children & Families pastor role and we went on our way...just wondering at that initial stage..."what if..?"

Then in the coming week I became aware of a newly proposed structure that was going to be ratified at the next Vietnamese church committee meeting. This change in programmatic structure, completely formulated by the senior pastor without my knowledge or collaboration would effectively remove my authority and ability as a pastor in the church to act or decide on any area of children, youth and young adult ministry autonomously. For the past 6-7 years I had served God and His church and led the young people in this way in accordance with the trust that the church congregation had firmly placed in me. But it was clear to me that my authority was being removed and replaced with a system that clearly would have rendered my position ineffective and, as such, untenable. So I had a decision to make - a decision Phuong and I prayed about but ultimately didn't have to sweat over too much. My resignation was given at that Sunday committee meeting and the exit sign over the Vietnamese church front door began to glow brightly. The white man was actually going to leave the yellow man's world!

That night I sent off a letter expressing my interest in the Camberwell Salvation Army pastoral position and just waited on God to see what might happen. To cut a long story short, immediately after being interviewed on the Thursday after resigning, I was offered the full-time position as Children & Families Ministry Pastor. A fortnight earlier I spewed out pain onto a page; now all I could do was to shout out praise and thanksgiving to my God!

And so now I find myself in this new role in a place so familiar. I work out of the house I grew up in for close to ten years. My office, what was once my brother's bedroom, is adjacent to my old bedroom! Very soon I will take up a role teaching RE (Religious Education) during the week at Camberwell South Primary School. I was a pupil at that school from grades 2-6! The word surreal certainly comes to mind! I truly have come full circle it seems and I am back home under the banner of the blood and fire Army!

They say God closes doors only to open new doors. This I completely understand and testify to, but with one significant difference...my door is revolving! My mother recently commented on Facebook that her son has travelled through some interesting and varied chapters in his life. My reply to her then is the same as what I know and am so thankful for deep inside - the chapters of my life have been diverse but I thank God for every one of them because He is the best and most creative Script-Writer one could ever have! Amen!

Free to Be...

Inadequate...fear...

Insecure soul

Fragmented...scattered

Yearn to be whole

Anxious...questioning...

Doubts rack my mind

Unworthy...guilty...

Sinner defined

Jesus...Messiah...

Mirroring grace

Freedom...forgiveness...

Shadows erase

Teacher...Redeemer...

Showing the way

To freedom...release...

Worries allay

Condemnation...gone...

Gracious and free

Joy overflowing...

Free to be me!

Just free to be...

Grace & Camp Hope...

Like the rest of the world with access to a television, this white man has been moved in spirit by the amazing rescue effort in the Atacama Desert, Chile that saw 33 trapped miners freed from deep inside the earth after spending some 69 days underground. One-by-one the miners emerged from the bowels of captivity to joyous raptures of nationalistic fervour and emotional outpourings from families, friends, rescuers, media and the Chilean Prime Minister and First Lady. Truly, the execution of the brilliantly devised and implemented plan to free these trapped men will go down in history as one of the most incredible feats of human endeavour.

Physically, the miners all resurfaced in relatively good condition considering the scale of their plight over the past 10 weeks. Emotionally and psychologically-speaking, the toll exacted on these men's souls is sure to be revealed as they wrestle with the demons of their ordeal. Psychologists have already noted that there will be issues for these men in re-settling into normality. Issues with these men re-establishing their roles in their families and re-integrating into local communities. Issues with just basically finding the beat again of the rhythm of life. But one statement by a post-traumatic stress expert commenting on the Chilean rescue drama really got this white man thinking.

The quote went something like this - "some of these men may even miss the mine they were trapped in..." My immediate reaction to this was predictable - how could they miss being stuck 2000 feet underground for ten weeks?! But then I thought again about the statement and began to think through how this really could be true. For ten weeks those men had to re-frame their whole existence deep under the earth. They had to create a mini-society down there with order and structure. They had to submit to a communal code in order to survive - in body, mind and spirit. I could imagine they had to grow to respect, maybe even love the rocky walls hemming them in just to endure their sentence underground with some modicum of sanity. And so, in accordance with some perverse kind of subterranean-Stockholm Syndrome there may well be a man or two who at some point in the vast openness of their re-found freedom crave the walls of simplicity and the relative serenity of their 2000ft tomb. To the normal healthy mind this proposition is madness but we weren't down there...for 69 days...2000ft under.

Is it any different from the many Christians in churches today who have been afforded the greatest most liberating gift one could receive, GRACE, yet still crave to exist within stony tombs of law? Isn't it sadly ironic for the church today that we, as a redeemed and wholly free people of God find ourselves 'suffocating' in our freedom in Christ so we return to the 'oxygen' of law where misplaced comfort is found? Paul letter to the church in Galatia clearly warned that fellowship that law and grace were two realities that could not and should not be mixed. And yet I still see and know free people desperately clinging onto the four-walls of their stone-law entrapment believing that they can somehow traverse and co-exist between both worlds.

Let me provide an example. I recently encountered a worship leader in a church who, in what appears to be a moment of complete ecstacy and freedom in spirit, tells the congregation they must raise their hands and lift their eyes upwards to worship our God in the purest form of adoring perfect worship. New covenant bells and whistles with all the trappings of an old covenant stone foundation. The last time I checked my theological basics, God is believed to be omnipresent. Everywhere...up, down, sideways, diagonal and importantly, within. So who am I raising my hands and eyes to? The Sunday School God who looks like grandfather time and resides perched on a cloud in the sky up there? Life is so much simpler and uncomplicated within the solid walls of the spirit of law - you do it this way, you do it well and God will be pleased with you child...Otherwise....!

So the fact remains - it really is easy to imagine that a relatively small space of confinement that would appear obviously to be a hell-hole could transform into a place of comfort, a haven of safety and security. It works that way in the spiritual - I know that to be true because there's many trapped Christians deep underground in law who need to emerge to the surface of grace. Maybe one day they'll see the sunlight of the real Camp Hope...

A Little House of an Ideal Dream...

Way back yonder when this white man recalls asking his then-fiancee in Vietnam what her ideal expectation was and/or who her perfect role-model for a husband was I recall she replied in one word..."chac-ly"! Completely confused and not wanting this important point to get lost in translation, I pressed on the matter of who or what "chac-ly" meant.. and eventually I understood. For one of the favourite TV shows in Phuong's little house in a post-1986 Vietnam following the institution of the "Doi Moi" 'opening up' of the regime's economic and social reforms was the classic 70's US frontier drama Little House on the Prairie. And the main star of that wholesome serial, so full of good old Christian values was Michael Landon, who played Charles Ingalls, the father of the Ingalls family. I knew the show for my house back in Australia had grown up with the Ingalls family as well. What I remembered the most was the familiar opening melody of the show and the sight of the three Ingalls daughters running down the hill and the littlest one falling over! As a young boy that must have struck me funny for some reason. So there it was - Charles Ingalls, or as any Vietnamese would refer to him through the best efforts of their local tongue, "Chac-ly" - the model of manhood!

So the benchmark for being the finest husband possible was set. And what a high bar of exemplary moral fibre it appeared to be. For if you know the series, you would understand that Charles Ingalls was a man who was indefatiguable, upright, proud and with manly integrity oozing from his hard-working sweaty pores. He rarely appeared to be dishevelled (has there ever been a more perfect equilibrium of wild manhood in those longish curly locks yet with the femininity of a clean shaven chiseled jaw?), always seemed to have the wisdom of Solomon and yet also possessed the romantic touch, forever greeting his wife Caroline with a kiss and making her feel like a queen. In short, Charles Ingalls elevated the ideal qualities of fatherhood and spousehood to almost divine levels. This white man felt the scrutiny of comparison immediately and deep inside was found scurrying off to the shadows of my relatively mediocre state of manhood. Could I ever rise to the pantheons of "Chac-ly"? Not likely my realistic mind reasoned...

So why this quaint little history lesson some 13 years later you ask? Just the other day I stumbled across 6-7 DVD's spanning the entire seasons length of Little House on the Prairie. So I bought the first season DVD and surprised Phuong with it a few nights ago (just like Chac-ly would have!). We are slowly making our way through the episodes of the first season and are thoroughly enjoying them. Really good, decent, inoffensive stories with sound morality - exactly the kind of watching that is as scarce as hen's teeth these days on TV. The tissue box has been busy and memories have been stimulated as Chac-ly has returned to Phuong's life! But for the white man, as much as I have appreciated the show for what it delivers, some old insecurities started to arise...Am I still living in the shadow of Chac-ly?! Have I lived out a worthy standard as a husband and a father?! I admit to jesting a little in these hypothetical questions but deep inside I still had had this innate need to find some 'dirt' on this Chac-ly, just to balance the ledger! So this white man went digging!

Of course you can't beesmirch a TV character as saintly as Charles Ingalls was because the written character itself would never allow for it. But what about Michael Landon?! I didn't have to dig far to find some measure of manly redemption. Landon died at the age of 54 due to liver and other related cancers, most commonly attributed to the fact that he was a four packet-a-day smoker and a heavy drinker of alcohol. Then I remembered, Charles Ingalls in the show would regularly smoke a pipe! Deliverance at last...a chink in what seemed to be Chac-ly's impenetrable masculine armour and this white man's spine has been that little bit firmer and vertical since!

On a more serious note, how often do we find ourselves craving the ideal utopias we get presented with in life? For in many ways, a Little House on the Prairie is just that - a utopian deeply-held dream and Christian ideal for how living in family and community should be. The near-perfect husband/wife and father/mother raising their well-grounded children in a safe and wholesome community based on flawless Christian values. I asked Phuong if she would have enjoyed to live life back then in a place like Walnut Grove? She replied affirmatively, stating her main reason why - because life was simpler back then. Or in other words, life today just seems to be more complicated and messy. And she's right, it is! But that's real life isn't it - it's grey and blurred where truths get muddied in agendas and politics. A place where the dollar rules and honest integrity is challenged when personal gain is apparent. A place far removed from the majestic oaks and sweetest sentiments of Walnut Grove.

Don't get me wrong though, for this thought won't conclude on such a cynically heartless disrobing of a worthwhile ideal. No episode of Little House... ends that way! Because I have to be honest - I'd like to live in a Little House too and I'd love to be half the man Chac-ly is! I think in some way this is the hope I have - to live in a world a little more saturated with the virtues of God's Kingdom and to be more of a semblance of our world's Creator. There's a place of haven and hope in a Little House on the Prairie and it's been a real pleasure to re-visit that place deep inside this white man's soul...

A Theology of Footy Jumpers

Well it's the last week of September and the rapidly approaching last Saturday in September means only one thing in the city of Melbourne - the Australian Football Grand Final. This year the two combatants who will contest for Australian footballs greatest prize are Collingwood and St Kilda. And again, this white man has mused at how this major event that Australians observe every year transcends from the sporting green grass of physical endeavour into the spiritual hearts of football devotees in a manner truly of religious proportions.

The AFL premiership cup, often referred to as the "holy grail" of ultimate attainment will be wheeled out again today or tomorrow and symbolically blessed in a church service. Tomorrow a Grand Final parade will bring the heart of Melbourne city's CDB to a standstill as thousands of club supporters line the streets to cheer on a motorcade of their footballing stars in a manner similar of the kind of worship Jesus Christ encountered on His entry into Jerusalem on a donkey. They will repeat over and over the clubsongs of their cherished club - hymn-like anthems that fill a space of deep longing somewhere in the soul of the football fan. When people in Australia flippantly say that Australian football is kind of like a religion I'm not sure they realise how close to the truth they really are. The eerie parallels between the celebration of a game to the worship of God are uncanny indeed.

Which brings this white man to the two teams who will etch their mark this Staurday into AFL immortality in this year's Grand Final. Collingwood, the team universally hated by all except their own fanatical followers and St Kilda, a perennial underdog team bereft of success over their history. Collingwood, symbolised by the Magpie and wearing the 'non-colours' of black and white and St Kilda, the Saints also in black and white but with a red strip as well.

The guernseys are symbolic in a deeper spiritual sense than many would realise. Black and white represents absolutes...polarity...extreme this and that. In a Biblical sense this clearly equates with the Law, for it clearly divided right from wrong...worthiness from unworthiness...holiness from the depravity of sin. And it was only through Jesus Christ that in the realm of spirit, the Law could be forever rendered obsolete and done away with. For He ushered in a new spiritual reality, a dimension of forgiveness and freedom, a new covenant of Grace. It came from the Law but was made perfect in and through the blood of Christ, much like a black and white reality now stained with that saving staining crimson flow. Much like the jumpers of Collingwood and St Kilda - similar in every way but differentiated by a strip of red.

Interesting that the St Kilda club are called the Saints...Interesting that their guernsey takes the colours it does...Maybe there really is a deeper spirituality behind all the rough and tumble of Aussie Rules Football...May the best team win!