Sermon for Pentecost 2018
at St George’s Church, Dunsborough
John 15:26-27; 16:4b-15
In the Name of the living God, + Creator, Redeemer and Holy Spirit. Amen.
The older I get, the simpler I feel Christianity is. It could all be condensed into Jesus saying in the sermon on the Mount: ‘Let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father in heaven.’ (Matthew 5:16)
Do good works. Allow them to speak about God. That’s Christianity in a nut-shell.
There’s a mystery about some people who are credited with being wonderful Christians, but they aren’t. I’m thinking of great souls like Mohandas Gandhi and Florence Nightingale. Gandhi’s reputation was made by his non-violent resistance to the British in India. But Gandhi was not a Christian. He lived in a Jain community, and his personal spirituality combined bits of Christianity with Jainism and Buddhism,
Florence Nightingale pioneered a scientific approach to nursing, first in practical ways in her Field Hospital in the Crimea, and later in policy-making in health. She said she was inspired by St John’s Gospel, but it’s clear she didn’t read the part about Jesus dying and rising or Jesus being the Son of God. She didn’t even like the church, so if she was a Christian, she was a strange one.
Yet the behaviour of Gandhi and Nightingale speaks loudly. I guess the light shining through them, if it’s not the light of Christ, is divine light. The goodness of God shines through their good works. God speaks through them.
It’s clear to me that if I am to do good works, I need help. And Jesus promised to send me help, in the person of Holy Spirit. The Spirit shows me the way, motivates me, and helps me put into action the good work; and the Spirit may testify to the world about my good works, as she testifies to those of Gandhi and the Lady with the Lamp.
Holy Spirit is given to all Christians, and the story is told in our readings this morning. But there seem to be two time-lines for the giving of the Spirit. You can roughly say there’s a Luke time-line and a John time-line.
Most scholars believe that Luke wrote both the Gospel and the Acts of the Apostles. Luke’s time-line takes us from the Jewish Passover to the Jewish Feast of Shavuot. Passover is celebrated after the first full moon after the spring equinox, or late March to mid-April. Shavuot is 50 days later: so, Shavuot was often called ‘the Fiftieth Day’ or ‘he hemera pentecoste’ in Greek, making Luke’s timeline the Resurrection, then 50 days, then the giving of the Spirit.
John’s Holy Spirit is in much more of a hurry. In St John’s Gospel, Jesus gives the Holy Spirit to the Eleven on the very day of the Resurrection.
Luke portrays a day of high drama: there are devout Jews visiting Jerusalem from all over the known world. Holy Spirit sweeps in, a cyclone and bush-fire, and all 120 disciples burst into life: they all become powerful preachers, they speak a multitude of languages, and Peter alone converts three thousand people.
Luke makes us think of the cyclonic wind that stirred over chaos at creation. The giving of Holy Spirit is a new creation, and the new creation is people, the community of Christians, the church.
Luke also takes us back to the legend of the Tower of Babel, when God confused the tower-builders by dividing one language into mutually incomprehensible tongues. At Pentecost, God reverses this confusion so that ‘we hear them speaking in our own language about God’s deeds of power’ (Acts 2:11) and unity is restored. Luke portrays the church’s potential, acting in unity, to reach every language group in the world.
Luke has Peter renew Old Testament predictions about the drama of the last days, the portents, the signs, the blood and fire and smoky mist.
Luke also tells a joke. People are complaining that the disciples’ behaviour is so bizarre that they must be drunk. ‘We can’t be drunk,’ says Peter, ‘It’s only 9 o’clock in the morning and the pubs aren’t open.’
Luke paints a memorable picture of that Day of Pentecost, the historical day in the life of the Christian community when Holy Spirit was first given to God’s people, and we became a people in mission, telling the story of Jesus and his Resurrection to the whole world.
Luke invites us to celebrate that first Pentecost.
I exaggerate; but Luke is Pentecost PAST, and John is Pentecost PRESENT. Luke is INSPIRATION, John gives PRACTICAL ADVICE.
John has everything happening on the one Day – all on the first Easter Day, the appearance to Mary Magdalene in the morning, and in the evening, the appearance to the Eleven then the giving of Holy Spirit.
John’s description is simple: ‘He breathed on them and said to them, ‘Receive Holy Spirit.’.’ (John 20:22)
I’m wearing my red priestly stole today, and I am reminded that Archbishop Sambell spoke these words over me at the solemn moment he ordained me priest, ‘Receive the Holy Ghost for the office of a Priest in the Church of God, now committed unto thee by the imposition of our hands. Whose sins thou dost forgive, they are forgiven; and whose sins thou dost retain, they are retained.’
It’s an awesome responsibility. In addition to the formal words I say in Absolution, the words I say, the way I behave, the attitudes I communicate can facilitate a person’s connection with God. On the other hand, the solemn warning is that my words and attitudes can also obstruct a person from getting close to God.
Melusi, you will also remember that moment in your ordination, and the responsibility God has given us as priests.
I was ordained just after coming out of hospital. I was worried about the moment in the service after the Bishop would lay hands upon my head followed by the hands of all the priests. Archbishop Sambell said he had a solution. He would lay his hands on my head, and he had to do that firmly for the ritual, but then when the weight of all the priests’ hands came on top of his he would lift, and my neck and spine wouldn’t have to bear the weight.
On the day, the Archbishop laid his hands on my head, firmly, as he had said, and then I felt the weight of the priests’ hands start to bear down. The archbishop lifted. He held their weight for a second, then they came bearing down again, twice as heavy.
I needed help to stand. But I sure knew I was ordained!
But the giving of Holy Spirit broader than my ordination. We, as the Christian community, are a priestly people. As a community we have priests like Melusi and me and Lucy, and as a community we are a priest. Our mission as a people who have received Holy Spirit is to talk, act and believe in such a way that others are drawn closer to God. And we can stuff it up. ‘Whose sins ye do retain, they are retained.’
Luke emphasises the gracious and amazing action of God: John emphasises the effect this action has on people now. For John, Jesus is risen now, so our lives are changed now.
Holy Spirit, John says in the Gospel reading we’ve just heard, is a Paraclete (as opposed to parakeet!) In the Ancient Greek law-courts, you didn’t have an Advocate. You pleaded your own case. But you could bring to court a Paraclete, a person of moral authority who had two main roles. One was to be a kind of character witness. Having a Paraclete indicated to the judge that you are a worthy person. The more weight the Paraclete had in the community, the more effective his presence. His second task was to be an encourager.
Now that Jesus is risen, we have a task. This is Pentecost present. Our task now is to take the Gospel to people. God provides the Paraclete we need, the Paraclete of Jesus. When we speak, the Paraclete assures the listeners that we are worth listening to.
We speak the Gospel when we believe that Jesus is the Risen One and trust in Jesus to help us live victoriously. The Spirit may bear witness to the world of our good works.
‘You’ll know they are Christians by their love.’ ‘See how those Christians love one another.’ These familiar quotes were originally spoken by non-Christians in North Africa, but they are divinely inspired, the Paraclete at work.
I think of Agnes in a parish I served as a deacon who had painful arthritis in her wrist. She allowed surgeons to perform multiple experimental procedures, all of which were agonising. Yet every Sunday at Church, she was full of joyful smiles. Every time I visited her at home, despite the pain, she was overflowing with thanksgiving. Her task was to trust; the Paraclete’s task was to allow people to see the result of her trust in the way she lived.
I had the privilege of being Executive Director of YouthCARE WA for four years. YouthCARE employs the chaplains and oversees the Scripture teaching in Government schools. The chaplains are a good example of the Paraclete speaking to the world when Christians act faithfully. Chaplains’ mission is to be a ‘sensitive Christian presence in Government schools’. They are forbidden to ‘proselytise’, though the Education Department doesn’t know how to define ‘proselytise’. Their day-to-day task is to build up the students and the school community. Their continuing employment is precisely because the world sees their impact and likes it. The Paraclete speaks for them.
Of course, we see the work of the Paraclete in great preachers like St Augustine who filled the Roman stadium in Pula in North Africa. It held 26,000 people. They obviously liked what they heard, especially his sermon about Psalm 42. ‘Think of the deer,’ said Bishop Augustine, ‘when they cross a stream, they cross single-file. Each deer lays its head on the back of the deer in front. The leading deer changes places frequently. In these ways, they bear each other’s burdens. They fulfil the command of our Lord Jesus Christ.’ If we behave like deer, bearing each other’s burdens, the Paraclete both cheers us on and commends us to the world. People loved hearing Augustine preach. The Paraclete invited them back again and again.
Or John Bunyan, the tinker from Bedfordshire who wrote Pilgrim’s Progress, and yesterday would have protested the royal wedding just as he protested the return of King Charles II. When Bunyan preached in London even on just one day’s notice, thousands came. Holy Spirit invited them also.
But our task, the mission of most of us, is not to be stadium preachers. Our mission is inviting the world to share the joy we know in Christ. Our tasks are to let our lives speak by our trust in Christ, letting our light shine both in the church and in the community. Not so dramatic as Augustine, or as Luke, perhaps, but this is Pentecost present, the Paraclete of Jesus encouraging us and speaking up for us, authenticity being our watchword.
INSCAPE OF AN INTENSE LIFE IN CHRIST
Mariani, Paul. Gerard Manley Hopkins: a Life.
New York City: Viking Adult, 2008
Reviewed by Ted Witham
The 13th century Franciscan philosopher Duns Scotus was one of Gerard Manley Hopkins’ heroes. Duns Scotus invented the idea of haecceitas. This ugly Latin word is usually translated by the equally ugly ”isness “, but would be better rendered as “uniqueness.” Haecceitas refers to the quality that makes a thing itself and not anything else. In other words, Scotus was encouraging his readers to gaze at things until they disclosed their unique quality. Gazing, according to Sister Ilia Delio among others, is a characteristic aspect of Franciscan praying. Duns Scotus’ philosophy places him firmly in this Franciscan tradition.
Hopkins pays homage to Duns Scotus in his poem ”Duns Scotus’s Oxford.” This sonnet deplores the way Oxford has developed and grown since the 1200s.
”… graceless growth, thou hast confounded
Rural rural keeping – folk, flocks, and flowers.”
Hopkins has evidently informed this judgement by gazing at the buildings and trees he so loves until he sees what makes Oxford unique.
”Towery city and branchy between towers;
Cuckoo-echoing, bell-swarmed, lark-charmed, rook-racked, river rounded.”
Hopkins was expert at gazing. Ilia Delio tells the story of Hopkins gazing at a tree in Ireland for three days until it disclosed its haecceitas. Hopkins felt at home in the natural world of Ireland and Wales. It is this world, gazed at and wondered about, that is “charged with the glory of God.”
Paul Mariani’s biography reveals that Hopkins’ expertise was profound but narrow. His powerful intellect was trained at Oxford in the classics, and he remained absorbed in Latin and Greek even after the Jesuits had thoroughly trained him in theology.
The Jesuits seemed not to know what to do with this strange, intense young man, so they eventually sent him to Ireland on the pretext that he would help other Jesuits establish a Catholic University in Dublin. Even though he was on the Catholic side, Ireland was not a congenial place for an English patriot, especially one who found it difficult to make friends. In practice, his lonely years in Ireland were an almost endless task marking the Latin and Greek exams of all the children matriculating in Ireland.
Depressed and physically ill, he battled on until his death in 1888 aged only 44. He cried out, presumably in the mid-1880s:
“My own heart let me more have pity on; let
Me live to my sad self hereafter, kind,
Charitable; not live in this tormented mind.
With this tormented mind, tormenting yet.”
Only hours before his death, Father Wheeler heard Hopkins whispering over and over again, “I am so happy. I am so happy.” Mariani’s simple telling of this story leaves us with the impression that Hopkins is finally happy because he knows he will soon be passing from this unhappy life to his glorious reward.
Mariani’s Life is richly textured. The biographer gathers a mass of detail and tells the story of Hopkins’ life chronologically. His sources are so detailed that he often reports verbatim conversations that Hopkins had on a given day, and records what he was thinking and confiding to his journal.
Hopkins’ story is simple. From the English upper-middle class, Hopkins would have been expected to remain lifelong Anglican were it not for his awkward conversion to Rome. This choice, made at Oxford, determined his direction.
It was a time when young Oxford men agonised over ‘going over’: John Henry Newman, another of his heroes, had done it a generation earlier, and several of Hopkins’ circle either converted or seriously contemplated it. It was a decision to be made, as Hopkins did, with lengthy deliberation and careful disclosure to family and friends. Some never forgave or understood his decision.
His lifelong friendship with the poet Robert Bridges only just lasted this decision time.
Hopkins did well enough at his theological studies and loved the setting of the Jesuit Novitiate at Roehampton, Wales. His daily walks inspired his poetry; he learned Welsh to better minister to Welsh-speakers; and he regaled his fellows with erudite jokes at end of term dinners. He was happy – or at least as happy as he would ever be.
His engagement with the craft of poetry started to flower at Roehampton. Paul Mariani shows how original Hopkins was both in developing the idea of ‘sprung rhythm’ and in paying attention to ‘inscape’. These are both complex ideas, and Mariani helped me understand them better.
Hopkins’ concept of ‘inscape’ is the poetical descendent of Duns Scotus’ haecceitas. Where landscape is exterior, ‘inscape’ is interior. It describes the qualities revealed when you gaze on something in nature or on the action of a person. Poetry is partly about capturing inscape, as a painter, in depicting trees and sky, communicates the qualities of the landscape.
Hopkins deeply understood the contribution Shakespeare had made to poetry and to the English language by adapting iambic pentameter to English poetry in both drama and poems. Hopkins believed that English is not a syllabic language and questioned whether iambs and dactyls and other syllabic patterns were best for English. So he experimented with a line of five beats – still a pentameter – that was independent of the number of syllables: this was sprung rhythm.
Mariani explores at some depth the influence of Duns Scotus on Hopkins. In a book of over 400 pages, I was a little disappointed not to find more about another influence: Ignatius of Loyola. I felt Paul Mariani played down the Jesuits’ influence of Hopkins. However, there is no way that a sensitive man like Hopkins could have completed the 40-day Exercises without being deeply permeated by Ignatian spirituality. Mariani may have thought that David Downes in his study on the Ignatian spirit and Hopkins had sufficiently covered the notion of Hopkins the priest-poet.
While still in simple vows, the Jesuits put Hopkins into a classroom. He taught zealously, and students remembered him as gentle and trustworthy.
They would surely remember his illustration of how Achilles hooked Hector’s bloodied corpse behind his chariot and dragged it beneath the walls of Troy. ”Hopkins lay on his back and had a student drag him around the floor.” (p. 333) His zany pedagogy sometimes connected with his students, but often, his students simply found him over-scrupulous and strange. Teaching was not his vocation.
Meanwhile, Hopkins struggled on with his craft: sprung rhythm and internal rhymes pressed into service to express his insight into the true nature of the world around him. Not that Hopkins was always convinced that being a poet was the heart of his vocation. He stopped writing for some years, disappointed that he was not being published, and unsure of what his superiors really thought of his poetry.
And so to Ireland, and to the lonely room with the desk piled high with papers to mark, and the daily walk and his poetry his only escape.
We might be tempted to conclude that he had lived the life of the archetypical Romantic poet: the genius whose suffering was transmuted into Art. This was the ideal that Byron, Keats, Coleridge and others proposed. Yet I doubt Hopkins would want to be placed with the Romantics. Every day, he might say, he had the privilege of seeing the ‘dearest freshness deep down things’, and though to the observer, his life may seem to carry the shape of the Crucified Lord, Hopkins knew every day the presence of the Risen Lord:
‘EnoughI the Resurrection,//A heart’s clarion!
Away grief’s gasping, joyless days, dejection.’
This disciple was not waiting for the after-life to taste the joys of life in the Risen One. He was enchanted by it now.
For this lover of Hopkins’ poetry, this life was not only fascinating to read, but it was also good to hold such a beautiful book. The narrative is sustained with clarity over 435 pages, and a handful of illustrations add much it. I found myself often looking back to the photos of Bridges and Hopkins taken in 1863, and used as a pictorial epigraph for Part 1, and then flicking forward to the photos taken in 1888 months before Hopkins’ death in Dublin. These show Bridges as a mature man with a vital eye looking forward to the future. Hopkins, by contrast, looks exhausted and grim, with his hair receding and his head tilted slightly backwards as though he already looking up in anticipation.
Mariani has captured for me the haecceitas of Father Gerard Manley Hopkins, priest and poet. Mariani’s inscape is an insight into his intense, short life.
Christopher Lascelles, Pontifex Maximus: A short history of the popes, Crux Publishing 2017.
E-book $AU 8.99
Years ago, while teaching French, I showed my Year 9 students some slides of the Popes’ Palace at Avignon. ‘This,’ I declared, ‘was where the Popes lived when there was more than one Pope.’
Two girls, my best students, were aghast. ‘But the Pope must live in Rome,’ they said. I
knew that these students were Roman Catholics, so I suggested they should check the story out with the nuns that visited the school. Next lesson, they returned with an ‘official’ list of Popes, and were intrigued that this list did show that Clement V, Innocent VI, John XXII and Urban V, all ‘proper’ Popes established their Curia in Avignon.
Rome has good reason to police papal history. The papacy has been a fallible institution, and Rome would prefer an official list that presents the story that God was working through sinful men.
Christopher Lascelles’ new book, Pontifex Maximus, is not the story that Rome prefers. Lascelles is the author of A Short History of the World, and in both books, he gives evidence-based history. The style is journalistic and accessible, but it is not flattering to the papacy.
Popes are shown to be quarrelsome, ambitious and self-serving. Some rode at the head of papal armies. Some sponsored their children and nephews into rich positions as Cardinals or Archbishops. Some, like Pius XI (1922-1939), supported Mussolini. Lascelles shows how Pius was even implicated in the rounding up of Jews, naively believing Mussolini was a good Catholic because he had promised favourable treatment for the Church. Once trapped into the deal, he continued to believe that the advantages to the Church outweighed the evils of Italian Fascism.
Lascelles rightly makes the Gospel of Jesus the standard by which he judges Popes. He identifies three only that lived the Gospel and had the opportunity to reform the Church – Gregory I the Great being the prime example. Gregory refused to accept the title of Universal Bishop, and exemplified Christian values as he saved Rome from a series of disasters.
He believes that the new Pope Francis may also serve the Gospel well.
There were times when I felt that Lascelles was unduly critical. For example, he criticises the political power that Innocent III (1198-1216) amassed for himself, without showing the good for the Gospel that he also achieved.
Overall, this is an entertaining and informative run-through of the history of the papacy. I considered myself reasonably well-informed and learned many new things in the reading. Above all, Lascelles makes the story of the papacy interesting.
It is clearly written for a general audience, for readers who would rather not be fobbed off by pious propaganda. I doubt there would be teachers brave enough to set it as a text in Catholic schools or tertiary institutions, but it would be a rich resource for senior students.
In all, to cram so much history into such an accessible book is a praiseworthy achievement.
First published in the Busselton-Dunsborough Mail, June 21, 2017
We ‘wedulah’ (whitefellas) can do better than complain about the choice of Gaywal for the representative statue of a Noongar in Busselton. We might instead take a solemn moment to remember that after Gaywal speared George Layman, a posse of settlers, including humanitarian John Bussell, hunted down Noongars indiscriminately and according to the Perth Gazette of the time killed ‘at least seven Wardandi’.
The settlers were unwilling to share land. Under John Bussell’s leadership, they were generous to the local Aboriginal people in every other respect, except the land needed for their mission of settlement. John Bussell seems to have been genuinely baffled that the first people did not immediately see the benefits of colonialization and jump at them. The Wardandi, on the other hand, were equally baffled at newcomers who would take all the land and refuse to share the necessities it provided.
The tensions were inevitable. Vernon and Alfred Bussell grew vexed because the Noongars continued to trespass to hunt kangaroos. The hungry Noongars took cattle and speared horses. The Bussells started taking hostages, including women and ‘a little girl’. The dispute escalated until a Bussell servant was killed by the Noongars. According to E.O.G. Shann’s 1926 Cattle Chosen, nine Wardandi men and women were shot dead in retaliation.
Isn’t it time we ‘wedulah’ accepted both that the Bussells and the Laymans deserve honour for their noble achievements in settling the Vasse and also that lethal misunderstandings arose between our forebears and the Noongar people? It’s a sobering history, but to ignore it is an ongoing disrespecting of the first people. Acknowledging this past seems to me essential if we are to arrive at reconciliation and healing.
The Bussells, Molloys
and the difficult relationship with local Noongars
I salute John Bussell and Georgiana Molloy as the founders of our church. When they landed at Cape Leeuwin in 1830 and camped on the beach, Georgiana Molloy and John Bussell made a commitment to meet every Sunday afternoon for Evening Prayer. John Bussell and John and Georgiana Molloy, as far as we know, met every Sunday for worship while they were in Augusta, when they moved to the Vasse in 1834, and when Bussell married the widow Charlotte Cookworthy in 1838 and brought his bride back to Australia. Charlotte was excommunicated from the Plymouth Brethren when she married John, and her three children were kidnapped to join them on the Montreal back to Western Australia.
The worship continued when St Mary’s was built in 1845, and so until today. We celebrate 186 years of continuous Sunday worship. That’s quite an achievement in Australia, and a credit to the Bussells and the Molloys.
On October 4, we celebrate St Francis of Assisi. We remember St Francis, firstly for his love of Jesus, and then for his love of creation. For him, every creature carried its own story from God. Jesus was the Word of God, with a capital ‘W’. Every animal, every plant, was a little Word of God.
Georgiana Molloy committed to worship because of her strong personal faith. She had been influenced by the revival in Scotland and had arrived in Western Australia as an enthusiastic Christian.
Life turned out to be hard and it tested her faith.
She sent plant seeds and specimens from Busselton back to England to the botanist Captain James Mangles. Plants were her passion that comforted her in her difficult life. She had to put up with the arduous conditions of being a settler, her eldest daughter dying at birth, and her son drowned in a well at 19 months. Her husband John was resident magistrate and he often spent time away from home. Plants became a solace for her. She thanked God for them as part of creation. In her diaries she deepens and develops her theology of plants and creation.
John Bussell had a slightly different take on faith. He had trained for ordination in England but his father died before he could be ordained, and migration to the Swan River seemed an excellent idea for the family. Bussell saw establishing a farm in the colony as a missionary activity. In his mind, the aborigines were uncivilised and living in poverty because of that. His farm would grow food and provide employment for the aborigines. They could be labourers on his farm and he would turn them into English Christian men.
In 2016, we can be critical of this idea of mission, but in 1830 Bussell’s ideas were praiseworthy and mainstream.
It’s hard for us now to imagine how difficult it was to settle this colony. It may have been an adventure, but the Bussells and Molloys were often hungry, often on the edge of exhaustion, just on the edge of surviving, or not surviving.
So the local Wardandi people, the Noongars, became a complication for the incomers. The Noongars probably had a better idea of what the Bussells and the Molloys were experiencing than the Bussells and Molloys had of the aborigines.
The Noongars had a very different idea of animals. They lived in nature alongside yongar, the kangaroo, goomal, the possum and all the other native animals. The yongar, the goomal and yorrn, the bobtail, were there to feed them, so they hunted and killed and ate, but they respected the animals, and limited how many they could take. Where I grew up in Tambellup, the yorrn had a special value; it was a kind of tribal totem.
The animals and the people lived in the land, and the land was the natural system that held it all together and sustained the people. The land didn’t belong to people. We know now that Noongars believe people belong to the land.
In John Bussell’s mindset, the Governor of the colony had granted him Cattle Chosen, so he, John Bussell was the rightful owner of the land, responsible to develop it along with all the other colonisers, so that the whole Colony could grow and prosper.
But the Noongars’ different beliefs meant there were clashes. The fact that the Noongars roamed the land at will meant they didn’t respect the property of the Bussells. They would turn up at the house – not meaning any harm – but frightening anyone who came upon them suddenly. Because this happened, the Bussells and the Molloys were even more on edge. We could compare their emotional state to suddenly coming upon a dugite at our back step.
The white men needed the yongar to supplement their diet, and hunted them. The Noongars would take cattle, usually taking one cow for one kangaroo killed by the white fellas. The Bussells reacted, on two occasions at least, by shooting several Noongars. Something similar happened at Wonnerup as well after George Layman was speared. His grave, as well as the Bussells’ graves are outside St Mary’s. There are no Noongar graves.
The Noongars were dumbfounded at these reactions. It’s easy with hindsight to see what an over-reaction murdering seven people was, and then another seven, ‘with more women and children than the first time,’ as Mrs Bussell wrote home.
For me, it is important to remember these things about the people who founded our church. They were people of their time. They were frightened and on the edge, but their intentions were to build the community of Christ. They didn’t set out to be evil.
What we haven’t done, I don’t think, is to acknowledge the actions of our ancestors. Noongars today regard this history as unhealed, unreconciled. One aspect of mission I would like to see at St Mary’s is reaching out to local Noongars in a spirit of confession and conciliation.
SURVIVORS IN COMMON
first published in TableAUS, July-August 2016
I was scared when three Aboriginal kids asked me to come with them to the bush just outside the Tambellup school yard. It wasn’t the bush near the Tambellup (W.A.) school in 1957 that was scary. The sandy soil did not produce many tall trees. Instead there were thickets of parrot bush among degraded mallee. The spiny-leafed parrot bush was quite good at attracting small birds like endemic honeyeaters and exotic flycatchers. The sand teemed with ants and beetles and the greatest fright might arise from coming suddenly upon a bobtail or a snake.
The Aboriginal kids made their approach to me with a mixture of aggression and conspiracy. I was eight years old. I didn’t like doing what the teacher had told us not to but I was intrigued by the Aboriginal kids. They lived in tents on the town reserve or in humpies on our farm and they had darker skin than mine. They had a great sense of fun but they also smelled of danger. From my parents I sensed strong ambivalence as to whether or not I should have them as playmates.
On this cool sunny day, I just wanted to know why they had approached me. As Playtime always seemed to go on for ever we slipped over the fence with no concern about time, and the four of us trekked about 50 yards into the bush out of sight of school buildings.
Though as a farm kid I was accustomed to the outdoors, I sensed that the Aboriginal kids were more at home here than I was. They stood around me in a little circle and began to tell me a strange story. It was about their grandparents, they said. I thought of my adored Nan and Grandad snug in their little cottage in town. Their grandparents, they assured me, had run away from some nasty people. They had hidden behind trees, and still some of them fell down. Some of them swum across the river. They were very brave. They lost the fight but we remember them. I wondered if it was a bit like Anzac Day, but I didn’t have time to ask, because the piece of railway line which served as the school bell was being struck and it rang out calling us back to class. We scrambled to be back in line before the teacher noticed we had left school grounds.
This story stayed deep in my memory. I dreamed of tall white gums and my Nan and Grandad running with the local Noongars and swimming in our local river and holding their breath where there were branches under the water. I woke up holding my breath with the images strong in my mind’s eye.
The story was revived about three years later. Again I was beguiled into leaving the school grounds. This time I understood a little more because the Headmaster often asked me to help the Aboriginal kids with their sums and stories. I could remember times table and grammar and they forgot from one day to the next. I always took them out of class to help them with their school work, and I noticed how they relaxed once they were no longer imprisoned by the cream walls and the ceiling of the classroom. Outside was their place.
So when they asked me to come with them to a place out of school, I was intrigued and went more willingly with them into the bush than I had the first time. I noticed again that they were more comfortable among the parrot bush and lizards and insects than I was. This was their country. They told me the same story. The guns of the nasty people shooting at their grandparents. The bravery of their old people running away, hiding where they could. Some of the women and children in the river hiding in the reeds under the water breathing through reeds and watching the water turn red with blood. The courage of the warriors throwing their spears and killing sticks. The screaming of the white men’s terrified horses, and panic erupting when one of the wedulahs was killed. It seemed that the old people had won this battle if only because the story was passed on.
There were strong images in my dreams after this. A brown river running red with blood, the red flow surrounding me. The screams. Then the silence underwater, and the breathing through reeds, and the difficulties of breathing as fear and nature conspired to reduce the efficiency of the straw snorkels. The cracks of fire from modified muskets and pistols. The acrid smells of cordite, gunpowder and burning. The horses rearing and screaming, their riders clinging to their halters and necks.
Thus planted in my dreams I lived this story frequently in my teenage years.
I heard it told again when I was teaching at Brookton Junior High School 120 kilometres north of my home-town. On a friend’s farm, three or four of my Aboriginal students, Year 6 boys, took me aside – outside – and told me the same story with the same pride. The narrative was a little clearer to my adult ears, and so was the urgency for me to understand and share the story.
This was an Aboriginal story, a Noongar story, that I had been given three times with pride and energy. I was told that I had permission to pass it on to others, encouraged, in fact, to share it.
Years later I read the academics’ account of the Pinjarra massacre. In 1834 – I had thought the events must have taken place in 1934 because of the immediacy of the story I heard outside the school yard in 1957 and 1959 – Governor James Stirling led a detachment of 25 heavily armed soldiers, policemen and settlers against 80 Noongars, Pinjarup people. There was ill-feeling between the settlers and the Pinjarup people, who had stolen some of their cattle and damaged their crops. The settlers were constantly moving the indigenous people on, and out of the most fertile areas.
Governor Stirling, in an effort of good-will had started to issue a ration of flour to the indigenous people. Stirling had then returned to England. Calyute and other Aborigines believed that this food supply was their right. They went straight to the source and took half a ton (about 450 kg) of flour from the South Perth flour mill and carried it all the way to Mandurah 42 miles (68 km) away. Calyute, Gummol, Yeydong and others were captured and brought back to Fremantle for punishment in a cart loaned by Thomas Peel. Calyute, Gummol and Yeydong were flogged.
Blaming Peel for this humiliation, Calyute decided to attack Peel, and stole a horse to draw Peel away from his Mandurah house. But Peel sent two men, Hugh Nesbitt and Edward Barron, instead. These men were attacked. Nesbitt was killed and Barron wounded and escaped to report the incident.
On Governor Stirling’s return from England, he decided to help Peel and his efforts to open up settlement around modern-day Pinjarra 12 miles (20 km) further on by offering military protection and if possible finding Nesbitt’s killer.
Stirling set out with his force of 25 men, each armed with a modified Brown Bess musket or a pistol or maybe a new Baker rifle and with a good supply of ammunition. Early on the morning of October 28 in 1834 they made contact with a group of Aborigines, but were unable to establish whether these were Calyute and his associates. No-one is sure who started the fighting. Some say the Aboriginal warriors let loose a volley of spears. Others say Captain Ellis fired. In any case, the Governor’s men, with their superior weapons killed 30 or more – or fewer – of the Pinjarup people.
One of the witnesses of the carnage was the colonial chaplain, the Reverend John Wittenoom, who watched from horseback a little apart from the mêlée. He apparently approved the killing.
I recognised this story as the story I had been told so often that I had lived and breathed it. I had turned and stood my ground with the Noongar warriors. I had run till my heart could not beat so fast, then held my breath under the water of the Murray River with the women and children, and I had held my head high as a survivor of the massacre.
I am a wadjelah. Just another whitefella. It was my great-grandparents who were protecting their cattle and possessions from Noongars. I should have no part in this story except shame. But this story had been bequeathed to me by the Noongars as a gift.
This event is correctly described as a massacre. Archbishop Peter Carnley addressing a packed St George’s Cathedral in Perth about this event called it the ‘Battle of Pinjarra’. He kept calling it the ‘Battle of Pinjarra’. Every time he used the word ‘Battle’ there was a hiss in the congregation. I was perplexed. Who would dare hiss the Archbishop on this sensitive subject? ‘Battle of Pinjarra’. ‘Hiss’. ‘Battle of Pinjarra.’ ‘Hiss’. The hissing took me back to my dreams, and the frightening images of blood spreading through water, spears and bullets targeting the soft vulnerability of human flesh, the gasping for the breath of life hidden among the reeds.
Then I realised that it wasn’t a hiss. People were saying a word. They were all saying ‘Massacre’.
Archbishop, ‘Battle of Pinjarra’. Around the Cathedral, ‘Massacre’. Archbishop, ‘Battle of Pinjarra’. Around the Cathedral, ‘Massacre.’ They were not dissing His Grace; they were correcting the Archbishop’s designation of the slaughter of the Pinjarup Aborigines.
I looked more closely. It happened that the people who were saying ‘massacre’ were all people I knew quite well. They were all West Australian born and bred. They had all grown up in the bush. This could not be coincidence, so I made a point of asking as many as I could find afterwards firstly, if they had been saying the word ‘massacre’, and secondly, if they had heard the story as children. ‘Oh yes,’ they said, ‘Aboriginal kids made a point of taking us into the bush and telling us.’
Rob from Narrogin in Balardong country; Peter from the Perth Hills in Whadjup; John down in Bibulmen country at Bridgetown; as well as Bill from Pinjarra, and me from Koreng country – from all over Noongar Boodjar, wadjelas, we whitefellas had been seeded with this story.
As I’ve reflected on this extraordinary story-sharing, I’ve come to realise what a generous act of reconciliation this has been. Noongar people had invited us into the story, into its horror and into its pride, so that we become not only the descendants of murderers, but fellow-survivors as well. The Massacre of Pinjarra is also a story of the old people of all of us and our common history in this land.
A short piece of fiction to mark ANZAC Day:
The Grey Girl from Kojonup
They called her “La Fantôme grise”. One of the first acts of the new French government in 1946 was to award her France’s highest honour, la Croix d’or, the golden cross.
Emily Louise Brown was born at Katanning in 1918 and grew up near Kojonup in Western Australia. She attended the one-teacher school at Brokerup. If you visit there today, you will see only a few acres fenced off and a plaque. The little school was Emily Brown’s window onto the wide world beyond her father’s farm.
Her reading developed early, and by age 10, she was enjoying Gulliver’s Travels, and A Tale of Two Cities. The worlds depicted in Oliver Twist drew her imagination. Not only did she want to see the vast, teeming cities of old Europe and the mother country, but she wanted to change the world. She knew that living on their tranquil farm, with plenty to eat, safety from violence and freedom to dream and choose was a privilege, and she wanted every child to enjoy the same abundance that she experienced.
In 1928, Mr Trevelyan, a Cornish veteran, arrived at Brokerup to teach in the one-teacher school. He boarded with the Browns and guided young Emily’s reading, telling her a heady mix of stories of Cornwall and King Arthur and Celtic mystics. At her parents’ church, Father O’Reilly woke in her a sense of mystery, and introduced her to the concept of God’s care for the poor.
The only high schools were in Perth. Perth Modern awarded her a scholarship, and Emily excelled in her studies. Perth Modern was probably the only school in Perth in the 1930s that took seriously the teaching of languages, and Emily loved Monsieur Roland, the old eccentric Frenchman who taught her French and Latin. On the netball and tennis courts she showed a fierce determination.
Three years at The University of Western Australia followed. The University’s motto is ‘Seek Wisdom’ and its message seemed to be as engraved on Emily’s heart as it was on the stone near the Reflection Pond. Emily graduated with a degree in French and Modern History. Young women in 1936 could then become a monitor in a school for a year before returning to the Teachers’ College in Claremont to complete their training.
Emily, strong-minded as ever, had another plan. Her parents did their best to dissuade her from setting off for Europe on her own, but she got her way, as she usually did, and her parents supported her financially. After the war she learned how much they grieved when the steamer left Fremantle. On the wharf that day they had a premonition that Emily was going into a war-ready continent to her death.
Paris delighted her, but she wanted to see where the real poor people of France were, so she set off south to Marseille. She stayed with a welcoming Catholic family, the Germains, from where she devoted part of her time, like a missionary, to helping the poor.
Emily was only eighteen. The vibrant night-life in Marseille drew her to clubs and parties. Older men introduced her to the private dance clubs which only the very rich could afford. Her life became a contradiction: by day, devout Catholic volunteering in soup-kitchens; at night, the wild, out of control socialite. It couldn’t go on.
One night, in the Club de Danse de Marseille, Jean-Laurent Renoir asked the young Australian girl to dance. Renoir was 28 at the time, absolutely wealthy, but a steady and thoughtful man. He liked what he saw.
Emily fell in love with Jean-Laurent, just as she had fallen in love with the Marseille‘s poor. Emily and Jean-Laurent married in August 1938, just before the Germans turned their greedy tanks towards Paris.
Emily’s French by this time was excellent. She spoke with the twang of Marseille, called herself Emilie-Louise, but could easily switch to the deep tones of Paris and then to the rolled r’s of the Riviera. She was, in short, a linguistic chameleon.
Jean-Laurent’s house had always been a centre for parties. Emilie-Louise had a talent as a hostess, and all Marseille rhapsodised about the glittering soirées at the Villa Renoir and the sparking Mme Renoir at its heart.
Jean-Laurent and Emily both watched with horror the events in Europe in 1939 and 1940. The Renoir family had deep roots in the Midi, and Emily had come to love the French people, especially the poor she had met in her role as a Catholic volunteer. When Paris fell to the Germans in June 1940, this young couple were ready to resist however they could.
The Germans occupied only the northern part of France, and so in Marseille, they were in Free France. They seized opportunities for resistance knowing that they would be different from those trapped in Maréchal Pétain’s Nazi-controlled France.
The Renoirs’ war began with channelled large sums of money to the displaced and hungry in occupied France through Catholic Aid agencies. Then, as intelligence about incipient Resistance groups in Paris arrived at the Villa Renoir, they began financing them.
A Tract Society in Marseille called La Société Catholique de la Vérité distributed devotional tracts through the south of France. Emilie contributed to these, especially those with cleverly disguised addresses of safe houses. What would Pope Leo XIII have thought of a footnote in a small devotional tract referring the reader to “Section 10, paragraphe 12, vers 42” of his encyclical on Unity, if he knew that the numbers combined to give 10-12-42, the phone number of Villa Renoir!
Inevitably, Emily’s role became more personal and more dangerous.
Escape routes like that through the Château de Chenconceaux across the Loire River began to deliver downed airmen to Marseille. Shortages meant that these aircrew would arrive in the south exhausted and famished.
Most of them were determined to return to England. The port at Marseille was blockaded, and the Germans controlled all the Atlantic coast of France. Their only escape route was over the Pyrenees into Spain and onto neutral Portugal. Their lack of condition meant that they would never make the journey. Emilie-Louise took them in and fed them.
This became more and more dangerous as German officers searched houses regularly. Emilie-Louise decided that the best way to hide them was in plain sight. She invited the Germans to lavish parties, encouraging them to drink the best wines and liqueurs. They obliged by dampening any suspicions they may have had of the taciturn waiters.
On one occasion, an RAF pilot dressed in the Renoir livery was serving drinks. A bellicose German was demanding more whisky. It was clear that the “waiter” didn’t understand the officer’s accented French, and the demands became more insistent. The attentive hostess noticed that the pilot’s hands were shaking with fear, so she pushed past, sending the tray flying, and apologising profusely in the ensuing embarrassment all round. She saved the pilot.
The Germans ferreted out the large sums of money coming to the Resistance. They began to suspect Jean-Laurent and began watching his movements. A series of betrayals brought tragedy to Emily’s door. In the local parish church, one of the priests had been helping channel some funds to Paris; another had begun collaborating with the Germans. To his shame, he was identifying to the SS Jewish families from the area. Jean-Laurent realised that there was a blockage in getting the money out of Marseille, so he chose to test the possibility of carrying the cash himself.
He and Emily said their emotional farewells at home. He caught the Paris train. When the train arrived at the Gare de Lyon Jean-Laurent was found alone in his first-class compartment with his throat slit. The French police found a huge number of francs secreted in his overcoat and suit.
News got back quickly to Marseille to Emily. Her life in danger, she searched for a way out.
One of the RAF pilots was due to make the crossing to neutral Portugal across the Pyrenees. Emilie persuaded her resistance colleagues to let her take on the tough role of guide. Three months later, London was briefing her for a mission with the Special Operations Executive. Emilie’s perilous journeys into occupied Paris as a clandestine wireless operator are now well-documented, as is her escape from Paris after she seduced a suspicious German officer, and then shot him.
La Fantôme grise was not able to return to Paris until after the war, but for the remainder of 1944 and 1945, her voice on the wireless from London steadied many S.O.E. operatives and saved many lives.
Emily Louise Brown stands alongside Nancy Wake, “the little white mouse” as a great Australian war hero. She claimed that she only did what she had to, and followed the values she had learned on a farm near Kojonup in Western Australia. We call her bravery stupendous.
- Ted Witham
Claude Beausoleil’s Winter
Translation by Ted Witham
First published in Azuria #5 (Autumn 2016) by Geelong Writers Inc.
on the white river a whistling complaint in words
is torn from the fallout of a winter’s night
the city is shaking
the city is creaking
and the city is shivering
on this white river pale cries of smoke rise
blotting out the buildings
from a sky in the grip of the north
to this sky you ask who speaks in this silence
for how many centuries
from what mythical place
with what energy
you who watch the wind
do you know her quests her headings and her deviations
her fantasies and her festivals do you recognise yourself there
beyond the snow driven like explosions in tornadoes
the soul of your cold
without melancholy when rubbed does it tremble
into the white lines of a new beginning
clamouring for a story
in which is pronounced naked the word winter
and the season carries it away in its mad spinning where lures
give birth to a book that pulverises the memories of the freeze
***** ***** *****
Claude Beausoleil (born in Quebec in 1948) is a French-Canadian poet and novelist writing mainly in French. He holds Masters and Doctoral degrees in literature and teaches literature. His poetry is influenced by the Beat poets, gothic themes and a strong sense of Quebec, its landscape and culture. The author of Black Billie has won many prizes and honours; in 2013 he was a finalist in the Académie Française’s poetry prize.
***** ***** *****
L’HIVER de Claude Beausoleil
sur le fleuve blanc de mots siffle une complainte
arrachée aux séquelles d’une nuit hivernale
c’est la ville qui chancelle
et qui frémit
sur ce fleuve blanc se hissent
des fumées en cris pâles détachant les immeubles
d’un ciel en proie au nord
à ce ciel tu demandes qui parle en ce silence
depuis combien de siècles
depuis quel lieu mythique
avec quelle énergie
toi qui regardes le vent
connais-tu ses quêtes ses lignes et ses errances
ses délires et ses fêtes t’y reconnais-tu
par-delà la poudrerie de tensions en tornades
l’âme de ta ville
sans mélancolie tremble-t-elle frottée
aux courbes blanches d’un recommencement
réclamant un récit
dans lequel se prononce nu le mot hiver
que la saison emporte dans ces vertiges où des leurres
naît un livre pulvérisant les mémoires du gel
Louis Dantin’s Optimism
Translation – Ted Witham.
First Published in Azuria #5 (Autumn 2016), by the Geelong Writers Inc.
Everything suffering and vile the Ideal can lift
And shine refracted through Beauty’s prism:
The windflower’s aroma becomes the tomb’s petalled chrism
And all mud is gold in the sun’s dawning shift.
Things that are shredded shine in their splintering;
Corruption is a catalyst for nectar’s distillation.
In the murdered brain is the masterpiece’s creation
And in the night the heart’s flame is a torch glittering.
Bloody battles turn to smiles on the lips of History
And the blood as it’s spilt floods into rivers of glory;
Mudflats are transformed by Art’s chaste fingers;
Tears are rubies in the poems of their singers;
Death is beautiful in Mozart’s heavenly harmonies,
And even hell is divine in Dante’s crowning ecstasies.
***** ***** *****
Louis Dantin (alias Eugène Seers, 1865-1945) was a Québecois priest, poet, novelist and literary critic. He straddled Romantic and Symbolist styles.
Optimisme de Louis Dantin
Rien n’est souffrant ou vil qu’un idéal n’élève
Et qui n’ait son reflet dans le prisme du Beau :
L’anémone parfume et fleurit le tombeau
Et toute fange est d’or quand le soleil se lève.
Tout être déchiré rayonne en son lambeau ;
Toute corruption élabore une sève ;
Dans le cerveau meurtri le chef-d’œuvre s’achève
Et dans les nuits du cœur l’incendie est flambeau.
La bataille est riante aux lèvres de l’Histoire
Et le sang répandu coule en fleuve de gloire ;
Laïs se transfigure aux doigts chastes de l’Art ;
Les pleurs sont des rubis dans le vers qui les chante ;
La mort est belle aux sons des harpes de Mozart,
Et l’enfer est divin dans l’extase du Dante.
High Point of English
I went to school with a character called A.P. O’Strophe who used to punctuate a lot of my work. With a name like O’Strophe, we kids thought he might be Irish or Russian, but our English teacher assured us his family originated from Greece but had been in England at least 500 years.
A.P. was the high point of our compositions. Disconcertingly, he did go all through one’s belongings. He tagged one’s books, one’s hair, one’s friends, one’s parent’s cars – and he was interested not only in people’s possessions, but also in things’ things, like one’s bike’s brakes, and birds’ nests, Mr Kenilworth’s Rover’s motor, and ARIA’s Hall of Fame!
A.P. appealed to the rebel in me. We used to escape formal English, and A.P. knew every short cut: there wasn’t a contraction he didn’t know how to compress. Only he couldn’t hide from the teacher who could see that he’d changed to informal register because he left the O’Strophe tag wherever he’d shortened a word.
The Guidance Officer couldn’t easily advise A.P. on a suitable career. A.P.’s father had been really busy in the old sailors’ navy, making short work of the bos’n, and hacking into the fo’c’s’le’s timbers. The Royal Australian Navy however had discharged A.P.’s family in the middle of the 20th Century. They now write all ranks either in full, or with capital letters with no punctuation: CAPT, LEUT, PO, etc.
A.P. would be lost in the greengrocers! He would never understand why apple’s could not sell at $4 a kilogram. The best option the Guidance Officer came up with was for A.P. to go into midwifery or gynaecology where his proficiency with contractions might prove useful.
This skill with shortcuts made him good at sports like orienteering and geo-caching, where knowing where the GPS’s apostrophe should go saves hours of confusion. But for the same reason, A.P. was thrown out of the cross-country race, his ability at shortcuts seen as the cheat’s way.
These days, A.P. gets into arguments about whether he’s wanted to make plurals of non-standard words. Should he mind his Ps and Qs? Or should be he mind his P’s and Q’s? We were at school in the 1950s. No: we were at school in the 1950’s. I think he’ll lose that argument!
All the signs point to the fact that we’re coming to the end of A.P.’s life. Poor A.P. He’s beginning to be ignored and not just at the greengrocers. A.P. is nowhere to be seen in directional signs like DOCTORS SURGERY, and welcome signs telling the driver YOUR NEARLY THERE.
A.P., like a cancer, is also every place he shouldn’t be (SPEED CAMERA’S, SPA’S AND POOLS, PERFECTION HAS IT’S PRICE), indicating that sign-writers will soon give up in despair and just leave A.P. out everywhere.
I’m in a state of preparatory grief for A.P., who used to be such a high point of one’s writing, and is now dotty, old and showing early signs of dementia.