Saying Goodbye Sucks!

Why can’t we get all the people together in the world that we really like and then just stay together? I guess that wouldn’t work. Someone would leave. Someone always leaves. Then we would have to say good-bye. I hate good-byes. I know what I need. I need more hellos. – Charles M. Schulz


It was February 1985 when I loaded up my 1967 Valiant Station wagon, affectionally called “Boris” (the nickname of an old flame), and drove myself from Rockhampton to Melbourne. I was all of 19 years old and, of course, had the world all figured out …!! What took me to Melbourne? Well, I could say it was the leading of the Divine, or a career move, or a whole bunch of other crap, but really I came down because a tall, gorgeous redhead young man had stolen my heart on his short visit to Rockhampton and I was stalking him 😃

I had no idea that this guy was also the pastor’s son at a conservative, Pentecostal church in Melbourne. I still remember the first time I set foot in that place. I felt like I had stepped into another planet and I’m sure with my tight jeans, several ear piercings and motorbike-friendly hair I would have looked like an alien to the parishioners. That was over thirty years ago! How time flies! Here we are all these years later with three incredible young adult kids, two amazing daughters-in-law and two fur children, facing yet another major move and transition in life.

Melbourne has been home for over three decades. As we move to the Sunny State we say goodbye to a city that has held our great joys, amazing triumphs, disastrous failures, disappointments and seasons of what felt like intolerable grief. We say goodbye to family and friends who, when you boil it all down, really are all that matters in life. We say goodbye to communities we love. We say goodbye to a home that has been our haven and most pleasant place. And before I can talk about a different tomorrow, I have to rest in this hauntingly painful place of goodbye. Goodbye sucks!

Is there an elegant way to let go? Can you really say goodbye without anxiety, grief, fear, and horribly ugly crying? If so, I haven’t figured it out. In the past, I have heard people speak lightly and with great excitement about closing a chapter and beginning a new one. I have also heard people talk about living life without regrets. I have not mastered either of these. I find letting go and closing chapters extremely painful. And if you are short on regrets – please come and see me, I’m happy to share.

So I sit here in this liminal space. I am not sure what tomorrow holds. As a person of faith I trust the guidance of Providence. I reflect on my life and like Jacob would say, “You have been here all along, and I didn’t even realise.” I choose to trust this Divine Presence in this place of great unknown. However, I do not deny the tears or the grief. For these are all part of what it means to say farewell.

So, Melbourne, thank you for opening your arms to me. Thank you to my faithful and loving friends. I could not imagine life without you. Thank you to my family – you are my greatest joy and sense of fulfilment in this short life. Thank you to my adversaries – from you I have learnt that I am stronger and have more courage than I ever realised. I’m forever grateful. Thank you to the Spirit of Life that lives in and through me, forever pushing me beyond the edges of safety and comfort.

For all of you, who for many reasons have had to say goodbye – you know this feeling well. Goodbye really does suck. We need to learn to feel, rest and trust the seasons, even the sucky ones.

Nothing makes the earth seem so spacious as to have friends at a distance; they make the latitudes and longitudes. – Henry David Thoreau


In the Path of the Storm

“We live in a world that is beyond our control, and life is in a constant flux of change. So we have a decision to make: keep trying to control a storm that is not going to go away or start learning how to live within the rain.” 
– Glenn Pemberton
Ten days ago we had a huge wind storm here in Melbourne. The effect of this storm was felt for days afterwards as trees came crashing down, blocking roads and cutting of power supply to hundreds of homes. Bushwalking with my fur children this morning, the pug became very engrossed in inspecting the huge root system of a massive gum tree that stood in the path of the storm and now lay smitten across our regular walking track. There is a whole separate, tiny ecosystem that lives under these wooden giants.

The storm that came brought winds of over 100 kilometres per hour. It seemed to come out of nowhere. No one could predict its path accurately. Storms come when they want to, how they want to, and where they want to. Even our most modern societies stand little chance when Mother Nature thunders with terrifying magnificence.

Every year we witness all sorts of storms which beat up a part of our planet. Somewhere, someone will be in its path and the result is never pleasant. Superstition and extreme religious views often fuel the misery. Storms have been considered as God punishing innocent people for hundreds of years. The marginalised and oppressed people groups, according to some, are always to blame for the heartache that storms bring. And people, afraid of disasters, buy the complete voodoo spiel!

Perhaps it is easier to blame someone for storms than to face the fact that storms are part of life? Perhaps, when people buy into a religion that tells them that no bad things will ever happen to them and that their God always protects them from storms, the natural reaction to disaster is to look for a cause? How easily we revert to karma; the idea of some angry, retributive ‘god’ that needs appeasing. It is very uncomfortable to think that just like my gum tree friend, now lying by my feet and being inspected by the pug, we too will find ourselves in the path of storms not of our own making but simply because storms come when they want to, how they want to, and where they want to. Storms, dear friend, are a part of life.


There will be days, months, years, when it will feel like your life is directly in the path of an unyielding, merciless storm. Most of the time we don’t have a clue why this is so. Guard your heart against the ‘counsellors’ that will attempt to pontificate from their perceived moral high ground or soap box into your life. You don’t need to take their rhetoric board. You see, friend, storms come when they want to, how they want to, and where they want to. They come into the lives of the just and the unjust, they will rage in palaces and the poorest hovels, they will find a path through the most modern city and the deepest jungle. Storms are what storms are … and now and then we will find ourselves in the path of a storm.

Faith does not guarantee the ceasing of storms in your life. Storms come and go. Trying to create a religious ideology that ‘storm proofs’ our lives will only bring deep disappointment and resentment. Faith recognises that the Divine walks with us ‘through’ the storms. You are not anymore loved, holy or special because you have not experienced many storms. Neither is there anything ‘wrong’ with you if you happen to find yourself in the path of a storm.

Storms, after all, come when they want to, how they want to, and where they want to … and you, dear friend, are still loved.


A Tribute to the Exiles Past and Present

“Exile is more than a geographical concept. You can be in an exile in your homeland, in your own house, in a room.” – Mahmoud Darwish


I remember those in exile from my childhood days. They became outcasts because they protested when people were oppressed and marginalised because of the colour of their skin.
They were mocked and ridiculed as they marched.
The government and church set its face against them. People were persuaded by the lies and slander: “These people will destroy our land as we know it, our families, our homes, our future …” Fear ruled the day.

Many of these exiles never saw liberation. They died with only hope for a different tomorrow.
They fought for justice that they would never see.
We remember those exiled to the margins. We will not forget their tears.

This is my tribute to the exiles both past and present.

The marginalised ones. The forgotten ones. The ones held in contempt. The invisible ones. The ones who have been colonised, murdered, exterminated, raped and beaten, in the hope that they will lose or forget their song and story. The ones who have been displaced and rejected. The ones who have been used as footballs by those in politics and used as scapegoats by those in the business of religion.

This post is to remember those who had a dream: that all people are created equal. It is to remind those who are tired and weary from pleading with deaf ears and stone hearts that every step towards inclusion of people groups that were once socially exiled, both in sacred text and throughout history, was met with great resistance. It takes a long time for the walls of ignorance to crumble. Every privileged generation finds it hard to let go of the safeguards they have set in place that determines who is in and who is out, who is valuable and who is not, who belongs and who is exiled.

To live in exile is to live in a space that does not feel like home. It is standing on the outside looking in. It is yearning for belonging, to be seen, to be heard, to be understood. It is to suffer the disappointment of empty promises. It is to be the target of passive aggressive language by those who become offended when their lukewarm acknowledgement is not met with accolades of adoration from those who carry deep wounds and scars.

This is a tribute to the exiles past and present.

It is to remind you that the margins are sacred, that the Divine sings over those who lament in exile. That the One from whom people hide their faces, who was despised and rejected, familiar with suffering, that very One stands as a prophetic witness amongst the exiled ones to testify to their pain and walk alongside them. You are not forgotten.

This is a tribute to the exiles past and present.

May your path be blessed. Blessed in the truest sense, not the plastic gimmick modernity calls ‘blessing’.
As you are exhausted, with no place to turn, may you be blessed.
As you have lost so much, all that has been dear, may you be blessed.
As you walk with humility, may you be blessed.
As you show mercy to those who showed you no mercy, may you be blessed.
As you seek peace amidst inflated egos of entitlement, may you be blessed.
As you are persecuted for seeking justice, may you be blessed.

This is a tribute to the exiles past and present. You will not be forgotten.

“Our hearts of stone become hearts of flesh when we learn where the outcast weeps.” – Brennan Manning


The Broken Birch

“Wholeness does not mean perfection; it means embracing brokenness as an integral part of life” – Parker J. Palmer


Spring has come to the world’s most liveable city. You would be forgiven for doubting this. As I write, Melbourne is in the throes of arctic-like weather conditions and it is pouring down gallons of water that are creating havoc across the State. But when you look outside, Mother Nature calms our fear and produces the evidence – Spring is here! My garden is thriving. Amongst the many plants bursting with new life is a tree that stands taller than all the others: a birch with a peculiar story.

When we moved into this house we had many generous people give us plants to help establish this ginormous garden. We also kept our eye on any nursery ‘specials’. We planted a small birch grove because a nursery was shutting down and they were selling birches as part of a ‘super’ special. They also gave us a birch for free. Someone had accidentally broken it whilst moving it to a new spot. It was a quarter of the size of its birch brothers and sisters and frankly, looked miserable.

In hindsight, birches were not the best choice for clay soil, but hindsight is not always helpful. Our birches struggled to establish. They needed extra tender loving care in those hot summer months. Except for the broken birch. We all expected it to die. It did the opposite. Defying birch-law, clay soil, brokenness and the misery of its tribe, it grew and flourished. Within three years it outgrew its birch siblings. Today, it is a magnificent tree that provides shelter to so many other plants. It is easy to forget that this was a broken birch once …


You see, friend, in life you will face many circumstances and situations that will cut you off at the kneecaps: personal failure, the betrayal of friends, financial hardship, death of a loved one, illness, loneliness, changes – the list goes on. When you walk through these shadowed valleys it may feel like everyone else around you is standing tall, growing and flourishing. Everyone else, but you. You feel broken on the inside and no amount of positive thinking and meditation seems to cure that nagging pain within.

There are many times in life that we are that broken birch. It’s no use trying to tell ourselves some pseudo-narrative to dull the pain. There is no way ‘around’ these valleys. We have to learn to walk through them. Religion that calls you to growth without suffering, without pain, without heartache and without experiencing brokenness is no true religion, but simply a decorated band-aid for grievous wounds. In life you will experience brokenness.

Just like my birch, you may also find yourself planted in places that are less than ideal. Environments that should hamper your growth and well being. But my broken birch tree didn’t seem to take that much notice of that. It grew anyway. The environment was not its defining moment or its core identity. The reflection I take away is that sometimes we simply have to ignore the masses and the circumstances, put our head down and grow anyway. The opinions and ignorance of others does not define you.

In the end, dear friend, only you can live the life given you. And you have been assigned to live it amidst all the ups and downs and ‘accidents’ that come your way. Only you hold the integrity of your narrative. Only you can tell your story. No one else. People may try. They may refer to you as that ‘broken birch’. Don’t argue with them. Smile and wave and get on with your life. And when your inner core and strength overshadows their fear and judgement, show them much kindness …

“The Wound is the Place where the Light enters You” – Rumi


“He Should Get His Wife in Order” – Reflections on Religion and Patriarchy

In April 2015, I recorded an interview with Dean Beck on Joy FM. It was part of the Inside Ex-Gay programme produced by Nathan Despott. I was there as someone who had been a Pentecostal minister for many years to reflect on the damage done to LGBTIQ folk who have experienced ex-gay therapy in conservative, evangelical churches. I was also there to apologise for my ignorance and for unwittingly being part of an ideology and practice that created so much pain and death. When the interview aired, some sections of conservative Christians world imploded like the bird on Shrek.

I received my fair share of fury. My partner did too. His, however, came in a different manner. He was criticised for not ‘controlling’ his wife. Surely, he should be able to ‘get her into order’ and have her ‘submit’ to him. Unfortunately, this sort of aggressive rhetoric did not just come from extremist fundamentalist groups, but also from people who should know better – from those who have observed the carnage left in the wake of such ideas. It brings to light an ideology that feeds the modus operandi of some religious institutions: a deeply embedded patriarchal misogyny disguised in religious piety.

Where did this idea, that when a woman in some Christian settings differs from her partner he needs to put her ‘in order’, come from? More importantly, how has this mindset outworked itself in organised religion, culture and society? Patriarchy has ‘worked’ because it has been economical. It also has to keep evolving in order to convince a new generation of its benefits. One of the ways it continues to be upheld in many modern church contexts is through the theology of ‘headship’ (a rather sloppy theology … but I get ahead of myself!) Headship theology has been around for over four decades. Some of the ideas surrounding it came from the controversial Presbyterian minister R.J. Rushdoony, in the 1960s, and was popularised by disgraced, Wheaton College professor Bill Gothard, who argued that it was “God’s chain of command”, in his famous Institute of Basic Life Principles.

Headship theology, part of Rushdoony’s Reconstructionist Theology, was devoured by conservative churches and Christian family groups as ‘sound theology’. It spawned endless amounts of books, video ‘teaching’, and seminars that continue to be popular in many churches to this day. Many of these groups are convinced that society is facing a cultural crisis based on the rejection of a biblical understanding of family, marriage and sex. It also serves their political views and aspirations. Their interpretation of the Bible, of course, is presented as ‘sound doctrine’ and who wants to question assumptions that are rendered as “God’s idea and that are not open for human re-negotiation or revision”? Well, actually, there are quite a few who want to question this paradigm and interpretation – including me. It is time to question. It is time expose some of the underbelly of this dangerous teaching.


Christian conservative fundamentalists espouse patriarchy when they declare that wives must submit to their husbands. This practice and paradigm has greatly contributed to the abuse of women. The recent Mark Driscoll saga is a good example of such.  Some argue that most evangelicals practice a ‘soft patriarchy’, which de-emphasises male authority and defines male ‘headship’ in terms of ‘loving sacrificial service to one’s family’ and that the abusive rhetoric like that of Mark Driscoll or John Piper is simply ‘hyper-headship’. Cynthia Ezell counters this with: “Patriarchy is not responsible for an individual husband’s violent action towards his wife. It does, however, create an environment ripe for abuse … Patriarchal beliefs weaken the marital system so that the deadly virus of violence can gain a stronghold.” In other words, whatever form it takes, patriarchy and headship ideals, create environments more susceptible for abuse.

Feminist historians have compiled a large amount of historical data to demonstrate how patriarchy has provided the foundation for male domination which has often led to abuse. It is evident in ancient cultures, and despite the waves of feminism and endeavours of our modern age, this abuse continues. Church fathers contributed to the dilemma. And to this day we witness its effect on women all around the world. So when an individual or an organisation is motivated from a framework that does not just endorse gender hierarchy, but rather enshrines it as ‘God’s idea’, women face several challenges:

  1. They may themselves be entrenched in these paradigms based on their own personal desire to ‘please God’.
  2. Any abuse that may (not will, but MAY) follow has ‘God’ attached to it. Spiritual abuse takes a long time to recognise and a long time to recover from. It is difficult to untangle from an ideology presented as “the will or order of God” for those desperately wanting to serve God.
  3. Any serious critique or debate of people holding to ‘headship theology’ and patriarchal misogyny will be considered as an ‘attack’. Any debate is silenced with “the Bible is clear” (actually, no it isn’t!) or “She is a feminist” (well, yes, I am – you should be one too).

This blog is written for those of you who are have suffered because, for a myriad of reasons, you have sat under religious authority figures who have used theology to oppress you. I want to acknowledge your pain. Abuse of any form is not okay. It is also to remind people who hold positions of religious influence and ‘authority’, or for marriage partners, that to distort the sacred text and to oppress others in “the name of God” is repulsive. If you are experiencing abuse of any kind, including an ideology enforced upon you disguised as “God wants you to submit”, please find a safe place/person to receive help and support, resource yourself, and begin to detangle from toxic religion.

Beware of manufactured political patriarchal ideas peddled on the religious market, often by well-meaning, zealous folk. It is okay to question. Employ critical thinking in what you are being told to believe. You have one short life to live, dear friend. If you have a faith – may that faith bring you joy, freedom, grace and love.

There is neither Jew nor Gentile, neither slave nor free, nor is there male and female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus. Galatians 3:28

Epilogue: For those wondering … my partner and I are very comfortable holding differences. We see it as part of human relationship. We are partners in life, so of course we will discuss anything that impacts our lives – including a radio interview. Sorry to disappoint the detractors.


Lazarus at Our Gate


In the Gospel of Luke, Jesus tells a story to his predominantly devout Jewish listeners. It is a story of a rich man, “who was dressed in purple and fine linen and lived in luxury every day.” Jesus draws a strong contrast in his story between this rich man and a beggar by the name of Lazarus, who lay at the rich man’s gate. “He was covered in sores and longed to be fed with the crumbs that fell from the rich man’s table.” Jesus continues the story and describes their respective deaths. The rich man ends up in Hades, a place of torment, while Lazarus finds himself at Abraham’s side, where he is comforted. Despite his pleas, the rich man was shown no mercy. “A great chasm has been fixed between us and you”, explains Abraham in the story. The rich man was beyond rescue.

The story leaves me uncomfortable. It is a relief to hear that the character of Lazarus is now in a place of peace. However, the rich man … this is a steep price to pay for being rich?! Wait a minute! Was that the problem? His opulent riches? Then, how the heck, did Abraham sidestep Hades? Abraham was describes as VERY wealthy. He had ample livestock, silver and gold (Genesis 13:1). It seems to me, that having riches alone is not the problem here. Perhaps the point of the story is that the rich man, with all his wealth, had the ability to help a dying beggar at his gate, but did NOTHING about it.


In fact, it seems that the rich man’s ailment was the same as that of the pious and pristine religious leaders of that day. They went to great length to protect their pedigree, orthodoxy and pious devotion and missed the whole damn point! “Woe to you, teachers of the law and Pharisees, you hypocrites! You give a tenth of your spices-mint, dill and cumin. But you have neglected the more important matters of the law: justice, mercy and faithfulness. You should have practiced the latter, without neglecting the former. You blind guides! You strain out a gnat but swallow a camel (Matthew 23:23-24).” The rich man, like the religious lobby group of Jesus’ day, became blind amidst their power and wealth, and failed to notice the beggar at their gate with his horrific injuries.

I can identify with the rich man. I, too, live in opulence in comparison to over 80% of the world. I cannot recall a day in my life that I went hungry, or when I was thirsty, or cold and did not have extra clothes to put on. When I get sick, I find a doctor and buy medicine. At night I sleep in a warm house and a warm bed. In so many ways, I represent the ‘rich man’. This reality is brought home to me every single day – when I see the faces of distraught asylum seekers, when I notice the plight of my city’s homeless, when I study the horrific statistics provided by UNICEF – that 29,000 children under five die every single day due to poverty, when I talk to friends and others who suffer from mental health disorders, struggling to receive adequate care, daily facing discrimination from so many sectors of society, and as I listen to the stories of my LGBTIQ friends, marginalised by their churches and often rejected by their families who attend those churches. In comparison to the rest of the world, I am that ‘rich man’. The only question left to answer is how I will respond to Lazarus at MY gate.


So is there an antidote to ‘rich man blindness’? Are we doomed to live our lives in compassion paralysis as we hoard our goods and safeguard our assets? Do we keep making excuses for our lack of involvement in the fate of Lazarus at our gate? Perhaps we can pretend Lazarus is a threat? Some ‘other’ that has come to invade our peace and quiet. Maybe we can change the language by describing a broken, destitute man as an ‘illegal gate squatter’. That will make us feel like we have a right to ignore his needs. It would even be better if we can dump him at our neighbour’s gate and let him become their problem while we safeguard our own borders. And while we tell ourselves all these lies, the rot continues to grow inside of us. But there is another way …

Woven through the sacred text is the virtue of Generosity. Not only is it a virtue, it is the very essence of the Divine. The offence of the rich man is that another human being lay suffering at his very gate and he withheld generosity and mercy. Generosity is displayed in so many ways – our connection to others; our willingness to listen, to understand, to help; the way we see, talk and behave towards those who are on the margins of society; how we treat all of God’s creatures; and the consideration we show to our planet. The list goes on. In a culture of fear and paranoia, to live with a spirit of generosity towards others is indeed an anomaly.


In a world dominated by greed and violence, where the rich become richer, whilst feeling threatened and ‘persecuted’, and the poor continue to languish at the expense of our lusts, the story that Jesus told snaps us to attention. We need to consider our ways. Dr. Charles Birch once said that the rich must live more simply so that the poor may simply live. When we develop a generous heart and way of life we usher in a different tomorrow, one that brings healing to the wounded and hope to those in despair. Generosity, my friend, comes to us at the price of self-sacrifice. Just like the rich man we have a choice: fear or generosity. May we choose that which brings life.

“Attention is the rarest and purest form of generosity.”
— Simone Weil

Honey, I Shrunk the House!

Freedom, it seems, sometimes comes to us disguised as pain. Perhaps, that’s why it takes us so long to fully embrace it? It has now been several years since I became a fan of the minimalist movement – you know, the idea that you actually need a whole less shit to make you happy? Outrageous! I have also been continuously challenged by how I live, recognising that I need to learn to tread a lot more softly on Mother Earth.

With the pursuit of a simpler life came a change of work circumstances for my partner. He felt it was time to make a shift. In his words, “At age 54, I am at a time in life when I’d like a smaller world not a bigger one, a slower pace not a faster one, and a simpler life not a more complex one.” So we stand at an intersection in our lives that demands us to be honest about what has been brewing in our hearts for a long time: it is time to lose in order to gain.

One of our first steps has been to downsize our house and get rid of a mortgage. Sounds great? Not when this is the spot that has become my ‘thin place‘. Over the last few years, this home as been my place of refuge. I love the garden which has been a massive labour of love. I work from my office and watch the birds busily going about life just outside my window. It is the place where our family and friends have met. So many lives and stories have been shared in the kitchen or sitting on the porch. This home holds untold memories. To say goodbye is not easy. A simpler path comes at a price.


Everything in life comes with a price tag. To embrace convictions and live authentically sounds wonderful, but, trust me, there are many times you will have to be very brave in order to do so. For us personally, to pursue this simpler life we are learning to fly against so much of what ‘mega’ Christianity has embedded, encouraged and enshrined: the desire to influence, to become bigger, to be famous, to accumulate, to safeguard … the list goes on. However, for my partner and I, this no longer holds any attraction. In fact, for us (and we realise this is not everyone’s story or path), the pursuit of more is full of emptiness. We have been challenged to live a different life … and, in order to do so, we need to let go.

So it’s time to shrink the house! Shrink our footprints. Embrace a different tomorrow. I have always prided myself with the idea that I do not ‘horde’ or ‘accumulate’ stuff. Well, this blog is a confessional. I have spent hours sorting through stuff that I haven’t used or looked at for several years. I am now doubly motivated, as we will be moving into a house half the size of the one we currently live in. Everything I own is being scrutinised before being packed. It is exhausting … and freeing. I can’t really explain it, but there’s something very liberating about deciding to take just one pot of a certain size, not three, or just one set of crockery, not the whole caboodle I kept for entertaining the many large groups we would have through the house every year. 

And before I make myself sound like a minimalist saint … I have failed the packing ideal with my books. O my glob! I am attached to those books. It was fairly320px-Carl_Spitzweg_021 easy to part ways with books that flogged a certain modern religious pop culture or ones that upheld an ideology of colonial, white, privilege under the guise of orthodoxy. In fact, they made great fire starters. But other books … well, they are all coming. Remember, I am a recovering ‘accumulatist’.

I am discovering that shrinking brings joy, that less is definitely more – not just a fancy cliche. Life is found in the word ‘few’ and contentment is a most wonderful travelling companion. Of course, I grieve over what was, I feel the deep loss of what I have here. There is pain in minimising . Don’t underestimate it! However, I also feel the excitement of freedom from debt and stuff … there is no price I can put on that. 

Friend, we all make decisions every day to either simplify our lives or make them more complicated. May you choose wisely. May you choose life.


Changes, Changes, Changes!

To every thing there is a season … Ecclesiastes 3
Changes, changes, changes … many years ago a sage whispered those words in my ears. Life is all about changes. My life has been witness to so many changes. There are times I wish it wasn’t so. Sure, change can be exciting and full of adventure but change can also be traumatic. Change can be so very painful.

I am packing up house again. When we bought this block of land nearly nine years ago, I wanted this to be the last move. I have moved over thirty-five times in my life. I wanted this home to be the place where I turn 90, sit in my rocker, watch the sunset, smoke a pipe and demand more wine! It was not to be. Changes, changes, changes.

There are so many changes that we face in our lives: a new relationship, or the end of one; a new job, or an employment termination; the arrival of a new family member, or the loss of a loved one that leaves us gutted and empty for years; a new home, or, like me, packing up the boxes to leave; a new tribe, or saying goodbye to a group that you poured so many years of identity and belonging into. All change requires us to adjust. All change causes stress, one way or the other.


Not all change is easily defined into the ‘good’ or ‘bad’ box. Our personal make-up, and how we perceive change, has a lot to do with how change will ultimately affect us. In some way, just like our canine companions, we are creatures of habit. We like things to stay the same. But Life refuses to pamper that notion. So is there something we can do to create greater change agility?

Perhaps the most important thing is to recognise that certitude is not really part of life’s dance. We prefer a slow and predictable waltz, yet life often demands we commit to a daring tango that will require all our focus and energy. Maybe that is why we are so drawn to absolutes, comfort and security? Deep inside we know that change is as sure as the rhythmns of the seasons, but we have become infatuated with the idea of an everlasting summer … and is that any wonder when so many modern mantras and cliches feed our false paradigms of safety and certainty.

As a person of faith, I find hope in the thought that Divine Providence holds our fragile world. Like a skilled weaver, the Author of Time is creating a magnificent, colourful tapestry that holds the tears and joy, as well as the shadow and light of history. Considering this, is it any wonder that change has been woven into the fabric of our existence? We all play a part in a compelling narrative that propels us out of comfort zones and makes us confront our embedded resistance to change.

So, dear friend, if you, like me, are facing seasons of change, I truly empathise. Each person’s story is different and there are really no trite answers to anyone’s situation. I simply believe we arrive at some intersections in our lives that often only present themselves once in a lifetime – and when they do, it is time to be brave. To be brave does not mean the absence of fear. Rather, that we refuse to allow fear to dominate that moment. So here is to you, here is to us. Let’s be brave together.

Just when I think I have learned the way to live, life changes. – Hugh Prather


Reflections on Faith & Superstition

“Fear is the main source of superstition, and one of the main sources of cruelty. To conquer fear is the beginning of wisdom.” Bertrand Russell


Myth, legend and superstition: the stuff of my childhood. Those familiar with Norse and Germanic mythology will know some of the popular Icelandic sagas like The Saga of Volsungs, with dragons and treasure and a hero called Sigurd. Then you add the East Prussian myths and superstitions and you have a cauldron of fear and excitement. Both sets of my grandparents were superstitious. I recall my mother telling a story of how her parents treated the wart on her finger by rubbing a potatoe on it under a full moon, and the next day it was gone. These were the stories that filled my imagination as a child.

Many years later, I would read the surprising ancient text of the Gospel according to Luke. I approached this biblical narrative with the same mindset as I would a Brothers Grimm Fairy Tale or Norse mythology. Yet, I was very quickly engrossed in the story of a remarkable revolutionary. In the words and life of Christ, I found a compelling blueprint for societal and cultural transformation. The words of Jesus, to me, held no comparison to any fairytale, nor, could they be regarded as wisdom literature from a benevolent Jewish rabbi. They were dangerous words – subversive and highly political in their context. They led to his death. This Jesus story was very different to those of my childhood. And this man, carrying a cross, beckoned me to do the same. It was an invitation to follow in his radical footsteps and learn that love is greater than fear.

There was a fearlessness about Jesus that was breathtaking. The centrality of his message was transformation through the realisation that a different kingdom had been ushered in – different to the kingdoms that were built on power, politics, fear, greed, or even religion. It was a message of hope to the oppressed. His kingdom message turns societal norms on its head: where the first will be last, where the poor are blessed, where the humble are honoured, where the servant is the greatest, where the outcast and marginalised are welcomed and accepted, where love overcomes fear …

Where love overcomes fear! Perhaps this holds a key to the genetic difference between faith and superstition? They both look so alike at times, like wheat and tares. Some of my friends would argue that there really is no difference. The same factors that motivate a mother to rub a potatoe on the finger of her child, believing for healing under the full moon, some say, would be the same factors that cause another mother to pray for her child and believe for the same result. Faith and superstition: is there really a difference? They seem identical.

When you begin to critically examine some of the contemporary Christian messaging, you may find it extremely difficult to tell the difference between faith and superstition:

– A God who is portrayed as love, yet will banish those who refuse to reciprocate his love to eternal torture.9_funny_jesus_thumbs_up

– A God who ensures that you get a car park in some shopping centre when you pray ‘just right’, but seems to be deaf to the cries of 22,000 children that die every day due to poverty.

– A God who will give you ‘your best life now’ when you adhere to certain success paradigms, or tithe, or send money to that evangelist.

– An everlasting, almighty God who loves everybody, but in a twist that resembles an Orwell novel, especially if they are white, male, privileged and conservative …

… it all sounds a bit superstitious, doesn’t it?

Some modern expressions of Christianity seem to have drifted a little ways from a Rabbi who preached about a kingdom of good news that seemed to benefit ‘the least of them’ the most. In fact, it seems that the basis of some of the current Christian ideology is based on karma and superstition: “Do this and God will do that.”

It is in the time of crisis that these apparent identical twins of faith and superstition begin to bear fruit. And it is in their motivation that the difference is most noted: Love vs. Fear. Crisis is one of the few times that you can stand back and very clearly distinguish the two. Superstition, which I observed in my childhood and later in some Christian paradigms (including my own, when I was in the throes of fundamentalism), is driven by fear.

Fear that becomes palpable in times of crisis or contradiction.
Fear that reverts to karma.
Fear that paints pictures of a God that needs to be appeased.
Fear that sees ‘the other’ as evil, far from God, or responsible for the bad things that happen.
Fear that forgets that loving your neighbour the way you would want to be loved and accepted, kind of goes with this radical Jesus that Christianity is meant to be built upon.
(O and let me just spell out this neighbour bit: this could be your Muslim Neighbour, your LGBTIQ Neighbour, your Refugee Neighbour, your Poor Neighbour, your Other Religion Neighbour, your Obnoxious Neighbour, your Ill Neighbour, your Old Neighbour, your Asian Neighbour, your Black Neighbour, your White Neighbour, your Global Neighbour … get the picture?)
Fear and conspiracy theories that can reduce followers of Christ to angry and paranoid people, with a massive persecution complex.
Fear that always needs a scapegoat so we can feel better about the angst of our own vulnerability.

Faith, on the other hand, approaches times of crisis quite differently:
Faith recognises in the biblical narrative a greater story of Divine Providence.
Faith sees Christ as the expression of this Divine Providence.
Faith believes that the good news of Christ’s kingdom brings hope and light in times of darkness.
Faith produces actions that speak of hope, light and love.
Faith sees the image of God in every human being and therefore treats every person with dignity and respect.
Faith believes in Grace, not Karma.
Faith believes that love is the greatest – no excuses, no uncomfortable pauses … The greatest of all is love.

The genetic make-up of faith causes it to shine with love in times of crisis. Where fear becomes a quagmire of paranoia, protocol and law, faith chooses the path of risk and courage, because for faith, perfect love drives out fear.

So for faith, love always wins.

There is no fear in love. But perfect love drives out fear … 1 John 4

Girl is holding a black cat

Idyllic Iceland – Part 4 (Finale)

“Adventure is worthwhile” – Aesop


I was wrong! You know, this bit from Part 3: “But if you are after a fast, busy, techno holiday with smoke and bubbles – Iceland is not for you.” I wrote that after circumnavigating most of Iceland, but I hadn’t arrived in Reykjavik. And two thirds of Icelanders live in Reykjavik! And in summer they never sleep!

After leaving heavenly Skalanes, we headed south. The roads become wider and there were noticeably more people and tourist buses on the move. At our accommodation near Skogafoss, another beautiful waterfall, a local informed me that Iceland tourism has been growing 20% per year over the last five years, and it is putting tremendous pressure on the infrastructure. In 2017, Iceland is expecting over two million tourists . Not only is that a new record but that is a heck of a lot of people for a tiny country of around 330,000 people.


The south is beautiful. Walking on the Vatna Glacier, Iceland’s largest ice cap, with its eerie stillness and black, white and blue colourings, felt like I had been transported into the fantasy realm of Narnia. I could have spent hours staring at Iceland’s most visited tourist destination: the Jökulsárlón Glacier Lagoon.


We took time to visit Geysir (meaning gusher), with its spectacular geothermal pools and diva of a geyser, after which all other geysers are named.


All history and geology buffs should visit Thingvellir. So much of Icelandic history and identity was shaped here. It is also the meeting place of the North American and Euroasian tectonic plates. I walked through the middle of the rift and marvelled at the wonder of our world.

Our last few days have been spent in the island’s capital, Reykjavik. We arrived in time for the Annual Jazz festival and settled ourselves in a little apartment in the middle of the city. Our stay co-incided with a weekend, and it feels like the whole city centre has become a giant street party that really only gets going after midnight. Icelanders don’t settle down in one pub for the night, they crawl from one to the next, getting progressively louder as they do. I am very in love with my industrial ear plugs right now!


The time has come to pack and take the long journey home. Iceland has been a blast and I am so very grateful to have shared the time with my most favourite human and partner-in-crime of 30 years.

I highly recommend this part of the planet to all who have a sense of adventure and wanderlust.

I will leave you with a few more travel tips:

1. Book your accommodation ahead of time. In summer this tiny island takes a tourist beating. Don’t expect to book last minute. Even with my partner’s careful planning, there were some areas that were nearly booked out … and that was months ago.

2. Alcohol is very expensive here. If you enjoy a glass of red, I suggest you buy a bottle at the government run ‘Vinbudin’. The restaurant prices are ridinkulous!

3. You can save money on meals by ensuring that your accommodation includes breakfast. Also, many of the small supermarkets around the country have delicious fresh sandwiches for sale. These made up most of our lunches. Find out where the locals go out to dinner and eat there. Many of the highlighted restaurants are simply run for the large tourist buses that roll in.

4. There are so many amazing geothermal pools right around the island. Some are free. Others are part of a local swimming pool and the entrance fee is minimal. Speaking about swimming pools, these play a major role on any Icelanders recreation list. You will find locals speak with a sense of pride about their pools. We avoided the Blue Lagoon near Reykjavik. At €65 ($94 AUD) per person with towel and locker hire, that was beyond premium! We chose a local pool with hot springs and paid $11 for both of us 🙂

Here ends my Icelandic iPhone travel rambles. Wherever your travels take you, pilgrim, may you feel humbled at the grandeur of the planet we call home.


All journeys have secret destinations of which the traveler is unaware. – Martin Buber