I like to cycle up the bush tracks & fire breaks between Yanchep and Two Rocks. It’s pretty hard going in places with some steep soft hills, but its also a really good cardio workout. Eventually you arrive at the Breakwater Estate and if you follow the fence-line for long enough you find a gap that lets you out onto Breakwater Drive.

This morning I was cycling parallel with Breakwater Dr and along the fenceline when two roos came busting thru the bush on the road side of the fence. It all happened very quickly, but i saw one bound off, while the other lay still on the ground, her tail and leg twitching. Extending from her pouch were the paws of a decent sized joey.

I felt like for better or worse I had stumbled in on the scene of an accident and I was the ‘first responder’. As best I could make out ‘mum’ had been hurt so bad she couldn’t move, the other roo had left the scene and the baby was there on it’s own. It seemed heartless to simply hop back on the bike and let nature take it’s course.

I stayed on my side of the fence for around 10 minutes – remembering that it’s not the first roo you should worry about. If her mate was in range I could be in trouble. With no sign of the other I jumped the fence and drew a little closer.

She was twitching a little – but it was also clear that whatever had happened (probably clipped by a car) she was in her final moments of life. She was immobile and just waiting for her time to come. There was something poignant about this roo just crashing into my life in the final moments of hers. I would go so far as to say i actually felt a sense of responsibility to sit with her and stroke her neck until she died. I’m not sure what level of sentience kangaroos possess, but for a mum to be dying with her baby on-board must surely be traumatic no matter what species.

While sitting with her I rang Danelle who got in touch with Wildlife Services. They arranged for one of their staff to attend the situation. In the meantime, I was sitting on the side of a firebreak with a mum who was dying and a baby about to be on her own. Given death has visited our lives significantly over the last year I was probably a lot more patient and attentive than would normally be my form. The joey stuck his head out and I stroked his ear for a bit. I popped him out to see if he had been injured but he seemed ok – just scared – and eager to find his way back into the safety of mum – even if mum could offer no solace other than her last residue of warmth.

With the wildlife guy 3 hours away I decided to get back on the trail and trust that joey would stay safe inside mum for the next little while. As I rode home listening to David Kessler narrate his own book – Finding Meaning – The Sixth Stage of Grief, I wondered again about how the experience of death has shaped and formed me. His thesis is that after (or while) all the ‘grieving’ is done we can move forward more effectively if we can find ‘meaning’ in the madness.

One thing I know death has changed for me is my empathy and willingness to engage with another person’s tragedy. It’s still not my sweet spot – but having ‘been there done that’, I get it. And I don’t know many people who really do. So this morning as this roo landed in front of me, a different series of connections were triggered in my heart and mind. Previously I know I could have quietly chosen not to get involved – none of my business – and this is how things work in the wild. I also wouldn’t want to cool down and risk pulling a muscle when I start back in. It’s no big deal really – to sit with a dying roo and her child, but it was something I probably wouldn’t have done this time last year. It’s no big deal really – but I just wanted to recognise and acknowledge one way grief and death has impacted my life

There are other ways grief has formed me and where I have found ‘meaning’, but they can be for another post. For now it’s enough to know that the wildlife guy called 5 minutes ago to say he had found joey safe and well and she was now with the carer.

And life goes on.

I’ve been trying to describe what it’s like every time I have to look back at the day Sam died. It’ a searing, burning pain that I don’t feel from any other source. Like accidentally running your hand over the gas flame on the stove – ‘OUCH!’

There are times when we simply have to talk about the whole experience and I deliberately try not to avoid it. While I was walking the dog at the park last week I bumped into one of my retic clients from a few years back – a job Sam and I worked on together. ‘And how’s your son?’ she asked ‘He is a great lad!’ I could only give one answer, ‘Gail he died earlier this year in a free-diving mishap.’ Now no one’s having fun in this conversation – but it’s the day to day reality we just have to manage. This lady was amazing – spoke with me about him for several minutes with a lot of compassion and then told me she felt she needed to hug me – was that ok?

When I cast my mind back to that day it always begins with the initial voicemail that all was not well – I remember my calm, measured walk back from the camp toilets because I don’t panic as a rule and I try to always assume the best.

I then remember the utter panic on Danelle’s face as she heard the voicemail – I still wanted to believe he had passed out and would be revived, but her anxiety gave me cause to wonder if it might be more significant.

There was the raw fear that smacked us in the face as we stopped everything and drove out of Busselton towards Mandurah to meet him – the quiet praying – hoping – surely not us?… Then the news somewhere on the road a few minutes out of Busso that he didn’t make it – the bizarre surrealness of thinking is this really happening to us?.. Followed by the initial grappling with the news as we drove back to Busselton – somehow trying to accept the reality – knowing that somehow we needed to call Ellie who was in Noosa on day 1 of a surfing holiday…

Just recalling those moments right now feels like looking at the sun. You can only do it for so long before you need to look away again. It burns. It sears. What is to be served by looking back other than to keep being reminded of reality. But some days you have to look. You have to relive the story.

That day went on – packing up the caravan while in shock and grief – leaving the campground and driving to the marina all the while ringing family and friends to let them know… Answering Ellie’s call to tell us how well her first day of travel had gone and then giving her the news – it was like a bomb had gone off on the other side of the country… Meeting friends at the Marina and seeing his body… having the shortest time to ‘view him’, not allowed to touch because it might contaminate the body…

Driving home – somehow letting the reality sink in. Feeling desperately sad and utterly bewildered while also knowing that we had so many people around us who would care, step up and be there… Going to bed that night and then waking up to the immediate reality of Sam’s death hitting you like a sledgehammer in the face.

Recalling that day is also like walking from your car to the beach on a very hot day when you think you can do it barefoot and halfway there realise you are burning up but you have to keep going. There is no way out and no turning back – you just have to push on and make it. We can’t avoid these conversations – nor do we want to.

Now 9 months later there is the first Christmas with him not around, Danelle’s birthday with his absence so very notable. These realities keep crashing into us at different moments and I sometimes wonder if I am ok or if I need to go see a counsellor. I don’t have an answer for that. I just don’t know.

Most days I can get on and do whatever needs doing. I haven’t been crippled by the grief, and then some days I wonder if I’m dodging it. How would you know?

And who wants to stare into the sun anyway – or walk barefoot on scorching hot ground?

I can relive the day, tell the story to people who ask and I don’t shy away from speaking of his death, yet it’s hard to do any of that without an inner wrenching that you know can never be eased.

And along the way there have been people I have met who have had similar pain – they too have lost a son. I look at them in a different way now. It feels like we have ‘been to war’ together and we ‘know’ what no one else can know until you have experienced it.

Some days I am glad I’m 60 years old and might only have another 20 to go… I miss this kid desperately and continually, daily, accepting that he is not gonna ever show up again is so difficult to comprehend.

And then the other (left) side of my brain kicks in and I give myself a loving boot up the bum and a few things to do. Paint the gate, walk the dog, wash the car… just keep going.

The image in this post is of a piece of art Danelle and Ellie gave me for Christmas. It depicts the 3 of us (Sam, Ellie and I) in the surf together. It’s a stunning piece of work and so nice to have, but it’s another thing I can only look at for so long before reality begins to erode the joy. We will never do that again.

Lately I’ve listened to a few podcasts that focus on the nature of God. One was with Tom Ord, who suggests God is all loving, but not all powerful. In his framing of love he argues that real love is completely un-controlling and does not coerce any action. And therefore God – if he is ‘love’ – is unable to control any of his creation. He didn’t have much in the way of biblical framing for his argument and I would immediately contest the idea that love is completely un-controlling. I have controlled my kids at times because it is in their best interests. There is also plenty of evidence of God exerting control in scripture so I can’t buy his thesis. And the worst part of it all is that there can be no future hope of a new creation – because his God does not hqve the power to bring this about. As I listened to the final comments from the podcast hosts it was clear they shared his perspective, but were suddenly feeling the loss of hope that goes with a completely un-controlling God. If there are no guarantees of how this world will end or whether God will be able to establish his new creation then moments of loss just get darker and darker.

That is the one thing I feel we do have – hope. And that hope is precious and sustaining. The more I have looked into the afterlife, heaven etc the more mysterious it all seems to be, but I am happy to believe that this 80 years (or 21 in Sam’s case) is not the sum total of our existence. Otherwise we simply are evolutionary accidents and I find that way harder to accept than a belief in God.

While the dust continues to settle in my mind and heart I hold onto a hope I believe has solid grounding and is to be trusted. One day we will see him again and while the details are certainly sketchy I envisage a family reunited – sharing the love and joy we once had.

For now our tiny family feels like a 3 legged dog – still alive and able to function – but having to learn how to function in the middle of a life we would never have chosen. We will get there eventually, but never without the limp that comes from losing as beautiful a presence as Sam was.

(And if you are an English teacher reading this – I know these are not technically metaphors – but the title rings better than mixing similies 🙂 )

While we’re in the Christmas season and focusing on the incarnation I have been wondering whether Jesus made mistakes.

It’s a question worth asking especially when you consider the story of the Canaanite woman in Matthew 15 or Marks’ version in Ch 7 of his gospel.

I’ve been chatting with ‘R’ who is new to faith and trying to make sense of it all. (We do take a lot of stuff for granted in churches). He asks the simple question, ‘why is Jesus rude to her?‘

It’s a good question. It’s a question someone new to faith would ask because we have been conditioned over the years to screen out those errant thoughts.

But Jesus sure does seem rude. He begins by ignoring her in v. 23, then when his disciples want to get rid of her they call him over and ask him to step up. ‘Shoo this woman away Jesus!’

Jesus responds that at this point his mission is to the ‘lost sheep of israel’. I can wear that response, as he is speaking of the focus of his mission at that point (although his time at the well in John 4 doesn’t sit so well with that thinking.)

The woman doesn’t allow him to fob her off. She comes back and asks very simply ‘Lord help me…’ Her daughter is demon possessed and she is desperate. She has already acknowledged him as the Messiah, when she said, ‘Lord, son of David have mercy on me.’ She knows who she is speaking to.

V. 26 just sounds like Jesus was tired and frustrated. ‘It is not right to take the children’s bread and toss it to the dogs.’

Was he just having a bad day? For a person known for compassion and kindness to outsiders, why is he giving this desperate woman a rough time?

Everything I have explored around this section of scripture refers to the woman’s persistent faith as the notable point. No one seems to engage with Jesus’ words here or if they do it is utterly unsatisfying. 

My friend, R, has concluded that Jesus got it wrong here. He was off script and missed the mark. It doesn’t seem like a social blunder (getting their pronouns wrong…). We don’t even need to translate the words into our vernacular to make sense of it, as a reference to a woman as a dog is always offensive. Yeah maybe he was referring to all Gentiles, but still not cool.

Which of course raises the question as to whether Jesus can get it wrong without sinning. We believe in a sinless Jesus – which I will admit is tricky when we consider him as a child/teen – but perhaps then the  question comes as to what we consider ‘sin’. If we start with the premise of Jesus as sinless then we have to find an explanation for his behaviour here. My friend didn’t know we hold that view so he is wondering how we reconcile it with the Jesus in this story.

In the end Jesus does accede to her request and heals her daughter but the path there feels a bit awkward at best.

So there is a genuine question – love to hear your reflections.

This week I attended a ‘Solace’ service at Riverview church, where Ellie attends, a reflective space to acknowledge that for some of us Christmas will be a difficult time and the celebrations will be somewhat dimmed because of the pain we are carrying.

It was a valuable hour of sitting quietly and tuning in to the reality of where we are at – and acknowledging that it is hard. Sam’s death has smashed our lives in so many ways and even now 9 months on we are still regularly blind-sided by emotion and devastation.

One of the questions we were invited to reflect on during the evening was ‘where was Jesus in the pain?‘

My first thought was that my sense of connection with Jesus didn’t change during the week immediately after Sam died. When we got the news we had just finished speaking at a church camp. The day after we were home in Yanchep. I didn’t instantly feel surrounded by angels and overwhelmed with divine connection. I sensed Jesus pretty much the same the day after as the day before.

So Jesus didn’t ‘show up’ more significantly in my own time alone with him. Initially I felt a bit disappointed with that. And then I began to ponder where he did show up;

• In the first responders both onsite with Sam and Cosi and over east where Ellie had literally just set up camp at Noosa at the start of a 3 week holiday.Within minutes Danelle’s sister Janene, had booked plane tickets to the Gold Coast and was gonna bring Ellie home. Friends who lived in Murwhillumbah in northern NSW hopped in their car and drove to Ellie to be with her – a 3-4 hr drive?… Jesus was there in those people who jumped right in without thinking – who loved us enough to drop their plans and run.
• In the people who flooded us with love and support and comfort. Nothing could fix where we found ourselves, but the family, close friends, the church and the community were overwhelming in their care. Had you told me that this would be the case I would have told you to tone it down a bit. I know we are loved by plenty of people – but I had no idea just how many… We felt loved beyond what you could ever imagine. Jesus showed up in people who simply loved us
• In the meals people either brought to us, or in the uber eats vouchers we were sent. I have never been in a situation like this before so I hadn’t realised just how valuable the logistical help was. We were cared for practically and it eased the load we carried each day. Jesus showed up every day with food for over a month!
• In the Sunday gathering of our church in Quinns. Sam died the week before Easter Sunday, so the very first time we gathered was on resurrection Sunday. It was the saddest Easter Sunday I have ever been part of – because what I sensed was people ‘mourning with those who mourn.’ We acknowledged the hope of the resurrection, but in that moment the immediate reality was the loss of someone we all loved and who had been so much a part of the community. When people genuinely grieve with you Jesus is present.
• In my close bloke friends who have been able to navigate the line between genuine care and intrusion into my world. I have appreciated both the conversations over coffee and the briefest text messages – both mediums say ‘we see you and we are here.’ I have never felt like I have had no one I could speak to – in fact if anything I have been blessed with a crew of men in my life who I have been able to speak very honestly with at different times. Jesus showed up in the men who got around me and in whom I knew I could trust.
• In the people who still check in – who are happy to walk with a family thru one of the worst times of their lives. Jesus keeps popping his head up and we never feel alone.

I’ve been pondering a lot lately, but struggling to put any of it into words. Sometimes even the best words still don’t communicate the heart break and wrenching that goes on day to day. But this was something that hit me on that evening and I felt was worth sharing – as much to say thank you to those who have shared the road with us, but also to acknowledge the very tangible presence of Jesus in the community.

I dunno about you, but I have used that throw away line all too often – ‘it’s ok because God is in control.‘

When you fail an exam you needed to pass – ‘it’s ok God is in control.’

When half your church leaves because they feel like your preaching is dodgy – ‘its ok because God is in control. He is working out his plans.’

When you miss out on a job you applied for and thought you were sure to get – ‘its ok God is in control. We just haven’t found God’s best for us…’

When you have just bought a house and interest rates suddenly rise – ‘it’s ok God is in control (at least I hope he is…)’

Add your own scenario, but I’m sure if you have grown up in evangelicalism you have probably heard this and maybe said this. It seems to suggest that when things go wrong, it’s ok because God has a bigger plan that we just can’t see as yet. So if all is not going your way, don’t stress because ‘God’s got this!’

The ‘don’t worry God’s got this’ line seems best applied to first world problems and minor life disruptions. It doesn’t work so well for world poverty, devastating wars or other kinds of systemic injustice – which me wonder if it actually holds true whatsoever.

I can see that God has a trajectory on which he has set creation and that we anticipate the second coming of Jesus and the new creation as the end game – but in between I’m not sure God’s ‘got’ much at all.

It’s not to say God doesn’t interact in the world and he doesn’t influence and speak to us. I believe he does and my own experience would speak to that. It’s more to say that when it all comes down to it, he has created a natural world with laws and systems and he has either given us a free will or he hasn’t. If we aren’t completely free then it isn’t really a free will…

It’s not a deist view – more a perspective that tries to grapple with the reality of our experience in this world, while acknowledging the presence and reality of God within it.

I grew up in the era that preached ‘God loves you and has a wonderful plan for your life.’ I’m not sure if that plan was ever as simple as relationship with him. It often felt like we were being encouraged to find God’s (very specific) plan for our lives – God’s ‘perfect will’ – ever heard that phrase? Again, that framing works much better in an affluent western context. I wonder how a child in Gaza would feel hearing that today? ‘God loves you and has a wonderful plan for your life.’ It might sound a bit rich.

So perhaps before you toss that phrase around consider what you are saying by it, what it says about God and what it may therefore imply about you…

Just this week I reopened a novel I had been working on back in 2014. I had a good idea/plot and wrote around 10 chapters just setting the story up, but somehow I lost my way with it and as a result it has sat untouched for 10 years.

As I read it again this week I remembered one of the tussles I was having within myself. The story involves some pretty gnarly people who when you offended them, didn’t say ‘oh bother – please leave me alone.’ They spoke like those people would in strong expletives and plenty of them.

I’m probably more settled in myself these days so I’m not likely to get rattled. If anyone disagrees with strong language being used in stories then I presume those same people would not watch movies or TV shows with ‘bad language’? Yeah that’s where we need to be if we are gonna be consistent. Of course that then raises the every shifting question of what actually is ‘bad language’ and when does it become offensive?

I don’t plan on trying to shoot that ever moving target!

But having revisited the issue this week I’m a bit curious as to the change in my own position in the space of 10 years. Actually on reflection I wrote the story with necessary expletives in place, but I just didn’t have the confidence to articulate why it mattered. I think we get rather het up on  minor things in the church and while I’m not advocating for a swear jar in every foyer (hey there’s a fund-raising idea… 😂) I am firmly of the opinion that a story will have no credibility if it’s primary characters do not speak in the language of the vernacular.

How does that feel to you? 

(While the book will carry itself around themes of justice, revenge and grace, it will not be a ‘Christian’ book and I doubt very much you would ever find it in Koorong…)

Its been about 8 weeks now that we have had a puppy in our lives and in many ways it has been like having a toddler around again.They know very little, are completely self focused and the trick is to somehow train them to fit into your way of life rather than having them train you to their preferences.

Easier said than done. And I have done my fair share of reading and Youtubing to try and work out how to create a good dog rather than an out of control crazy mutt. There are plenty of opinions on the best ways to go about things, from the electric collar crew to the ‘just keep giving her treats until she figures it out’ mob. In many ways ‘parenting’ for dogs has largely taken on a similar tone to more recent forms of human parenting – no angry words, no hurting their feelings and definitely no smacking. Yeah right…

As I’ve read and observed about 10 different approaches, the one I like best is ‘Doggy Dan’ as his core idea is that if you want to communicate with a dog then you need to think like a dog. Dare i say this is not rocket science… But in the world of quick fixes, treats or smacks seem to be the most popular go to.

Central to Dan’s philosophy is the idea that the dog needs a ‘loving pack leader’ who takes control and gives order and structure to their lives. But to do that well you need to think like a dog. I won’t go into all of his methods, but in short it’s a framework built on trust, love and then consistent interaction in a way that the dog understands. As an example, if I come home at the end of the day to see a hole dug in my lawn there is no point in me smacking the dog there and then because she won’t understand why I am behaving like that. To her I just seem like an irrational, angry man.

Switch hats with me now to the core of why this blog exists – to reflect on missionary practices in the Western world, particularly Australia. We have to learn to ‘speak dog‘ much better than we do. And by ‘speak dog’ I am meaning we have to get a better handle on how our local people think and then communicate the message of faith in language that they can understand.

Caricatures of faith abound and they emerge from failed ventures at being the people of God in this world. Manning Clark’s autobiography (ironically titled The Quest for Grace) laments the various images that Christians took in his time. He writes of the wowsers, the straighteners, the joy thieves and also the smilers – a reference to his days on a University campus where the resident Christian group just seemed to be overly smily in a creepy kind of way.

In church we have often used both carrot and stick (treat and threat in dog language) to try and win people over. The simple heaven/hell paradigm comes immediately to mind, followed by promises of an insufficiently explained ‘abundant life’. Evangelistic crusades and rallies seem to have finally died an overdue death in the western world. My last memory is of the Impact World Tour that was written up in the local community news as a deceitful attempt at proselytisation. Shame on us for being willing to be part of it and even believing it may have ‘worked’ (whatever that may mean).

Of course we want people to meet Jesus and to be inspired to follow him and live in the way of the kingdom. If we are going to see that become a reality then we have to begin where they are at by speaking their language and understanding their current perception of the world. In recent times I have listened to a few random sermons from different churches around the city and been genuinely disturbed by the use of insider language and the inability to translate the message into language ordinary West Aussies would easily understand. (I have also seen a couple of examples of this done brilliantly which is encouraging – last Sunday at Yanchep Community Church a case in point where Ryan took some large complicated apologetic concepts and was able to translate them in such a way that anyone in the broader community would have been able to understand.

I’m not writing only to those who speak in churches on Sundays, although their voices are often heard the loudest in those settings, but rather to all of us and asking simply that we consider listening carefully to our communities questions, attitudes and fears before diving in with a one size fits all ‘Jesus fix’. When we come across the person at work who gets in our face and tells us that ‘there is no God and the Bible is a book of fairytales’, we could engage in some systematic apologetics to try and demolish their arguments, or we could try and understand why they are making those statements in that way. It involves asking questions and seeking to get a handle on how they arrived at those conclusions. Chances are the issue isn’t simply a disbelief in a higher power, but maybe a childhood hurt or a bit of religious trauma that has formed them. The ‘answer’ is not a smarter argument, but rather some grace, kindness and understanding. Perhaps they may discuss the issue further if they want to once you have proven yourself more than a crusader.

For those who may think that I am weak on evangelism – I would suggest that previously we have been in ‘aggressive’ mode. Knocking on doors and preaching in streets is a tone deaf response to this world we now live in. Sharpening our apologetic skills so we can be in shape for any ‘street-fights’ that come our way is akin to learning martial arts so you can win the fight.

Instead we begin by observing, listening and asking questions. We drop our assumptions and genuinely seek to understand the people around us – who by the way are not from one ‘monoculture’. While they may all be Aussies, they each bring their various histories, political views and personal experiences. I think of the people in my street and as I have got to know them I know that each one will listen in a different way. Each one already has a worldview and as I have got to know them and appreciate their take on the world I have been able to ponder how the Christian story may be best communicated to them. And while it’s slightly different for each of them it starts with relationship, trust and acceptance before they may choose to invite me into their thinking on why we are here etc etc.

As I’ve been reading books on dog training I couldn’t help but notice the one author who really grabbed my heart was the one who sought to enter the dogs world and see it from their perspective. In missional language we’d call this an incarnational approach a choice to enter another world and become a legit part of it, as all good missionaries do.

So if you’re just salivating at the idea of a bit of street preaching this weekend (and who isn’t? 🙂 ) maybe pause for a moment and listen to the people you are hoping to engage with. If you do you might realise that whacking them with a blunt instrument is a fairly futile approach to genuine evangelism.

There’s a line in the movie, Jerry Maguire that always intrigued me. One of his friends says, ‘Jerry’s good at friendship but bad at intimacy’. It seems Jerry can’t seem to get close enough to anyone to bare his soul and have a significant relationship.

Recently I was involved in a prayer ministry thing where the person praying for me asked how I would describe my ‘intimacy with Jesus‘. I’ve heard the phrase plenty of times around the place and never given it much thought… until that moment. I think I assumed some level of intimacy, even if I couldn’t articulate what it looked like, but I definitely wasn’t sure of that.

‘Ummm… I don’t really think ‘intimacy’ is a word I would use in how I relate to Jesus.’ I said feeling a little embarrassed by my answer. (I knew the ‘right answer’ was more along the lines of ‘oh yeah we are close – so tight.’)

But intimacy almost feels like a mis-categorisation to me when it comes to speaking of how I relate to Jesus. Perhaps it’s because I’m more thinker than feeler, but I just can’t see ‘intimate’ as the right word. And it’s not that it has sexual connotations. I don’t feel like I’m constrained by that kind of imagination – it’s more that the word just doesn’t gel for me.

What I can do is honest, authentic and genuine – raw even, which for me are words that equate to a very significant and close relationship. Does that sound like intimacy to you? 

They aren’t cozy, snuggly kinds of words which is more the tone I feel intimate takes. It’s not that I’m opposed to hugs and personal contact (to be fair I’m usually a ‘reciprocal hugger’ unless it’s been a while, or I really like you) but that just isn’t the tone of my relationship to Jesus.

If I imagine a conversation with Jesus it’s usually sitting on the hill down at the beach after work and watching the sun go down on a glassy ocean while we share a drink, a laugh and a check in. That might be a 5 minute convo or it could take an hour depending on what’s going on. Is that intimacy or just friendship?

Interestingly I find that in prayer I relate more consciously to the ‘father’ another word that can be loaded depending on your experience. Somehow ‘Father’ works for me. I can picture a good father who wants the best for his kids – a father who wants to be in on the details of their lives.

Perhaps some would call that intimate. I’d say it is personal – close and unfettered. But again ‘intimate’ just doesn’t gel. When I look for intimacy in the Bible I guess you could say it’s there in the Psalms as David opens his heart to God and that there is a degree of intimacy between Jesus and his crew or is it simple honesty and authenticity? I can identify with both Psalms and Jesus relationships with his disciples, but I just haven’t thought of them as ‘intimate’.

Again words like raw, unfiltered and authentic come to mind to describe how many of the Psalms are and how some of Jesus’ ways of relating are.

So maybe it’s a quibble over words or maybe it’s a blind spot for me. Since that time of prayer ministry I have taken a few weeks to ponder, journal and reflect on the idea of intimacy with Jesus, but I’m not feeling any light bulb moments penetrating the ether. 

All I can come up with is the idea that I can do authenticity well – and I think that fosters a good relationship – but I don’t really know how to go about intimacy.

What about you?

Is intimacy a thing in your relationship with Jesus? If so what shape does it take?

Is it important to relate in this way and if so what does it look and how does it differ from raw, authentic and unfiltered?

After-thought – Maybe intimacy is for the Myers Briggs ‘feelers’ and authenticity is for the ‘thinkers’?…

Maybe you have also pondered this word in relation to Jesus and wondered just what on earth it means. If you have some answers then let me in on them.

A few months back when the Olympics was on TV I had a sudden urge to pick up a basketball again and just shoot around. Nothing serious – just wanted to feel the ball in my hands again and enjoy the sweet sound of it swishing thru the net.

So I went to Rebel Sport and bought a ball – then went to our local park and had some fun just playing around. Along the way I also realised just how much capacity had been lost. My last semi-serious tilt at basketball was in our Lesmurdie days, I was 38 and playing veterans. I was one of the youngest and it was so easy to step around, or shoot over a guy who looked at least 50 (which seemed quite old back then.)

Following on from my solo fun I wondered if I might be able to find half a dozen locals who’d be up for a game of 3 on 3 or similar. So I booked the local rec centre, started a Facebook group and from night 1 we have had 20-30 people showing up. I didn’t expect a crowd like that, but it has been a lot of fun! Most of those present are either high school kids or in their 20’s with one or two exceptions and now I’m that guy who is getting stepped around, rebounded over and shot over.

It’s the simple reality of being 60 years old. The body cannot behave in the same way as it did when I was 21 or even 31. These days I’m happy if I make it through the hour without damaging myself in the process, but I also have to accept that the younger guys are way better players than I am. Even the ones who aren’t that good are better than me… And now I’m that guy, that if we picked teams old school style, would be picked last as the liability.

Imagine I told you I was going to take on one of these guys 1:1. You’d immediately know it wasn’t a fair match up. The physical capacity of a 60 year old body – even one in good shape – is far less than that of a healthy 20 something.

And yet Mike Tyson wants to fight Jake Paul…

Yeah the point of my post is not to lament aging. Not at all. It happens and our challenge is to be the best version of ourselves at whatever age we find ourselves. So this idea that Tyson can challenge Paul just seems like nothing more than a media stunt, or a way for Tyson to collect on some $$.

For some reason my algorithm keeps shooting me the latest news on this fight, but all I can think of is ‘why?’ And who actually thinks this is a good idea?

Tyson was one of the most feared heavyweight boxers of all time – but at 58 – even with a significant amount of training it’s hard to imagine him being any match for a 27 year old man in the prime of his life. If it’s not just about money, I wonder what is driving Tyson – is it a refusal to accept the limitations of aging? Is it a genuine self belief that he can win?

We don’t do well at accepting the physical constraints that go with aging, and most Tuesday nights I end up a little frustrated that the shots I used to make now rim out and the moves I once used to slip past defenders are now blocked at every turn.

I’m getting better at accepting my limitations, but I know I have also been infected with that ‘anti aging’ virus that keeps telling me I should expect more… Reality is I’m 60 and I bring some good stuff to this world. High level basketball just isn’t it…

So this whole Tyson / Paul schmozzle just has me shaking my head… Mike – maybe it’s time to accept reality. Jake – why not just walk away… There is no honour in laying out a 58 year old!

Lately I’ve been observing what I’ve come to call the phenomena of ‘brittle faith’. It’s kinda like a China vase, it appears beautiful and well put together but when it takes a heavy blow it shatters in a million pieces – rarely – if ever to be reconstructed.

It’s what we see in people ditching faith when it doesn’t work out as they thought it would, or when questions arise that do not get resolved easily within their theological paradigm. Typically we see this in the more ‘fundamentalist’ folks of both evangelical and pentecostal origin – those for whom a very neat and tidy theological paradigm must order their world – those who have an answer for every objection – those who seem almost afraid at times of being wrong. I’ve come across people in the creation science movement who will dismiss as illegitimate, the faith of someone who does not adhere to a literal 6 day creation. They have managed to link creation and gospel message in such a way that rejection of their creation narrative means an inability to ever find faith in Jesus. Now that’s a hard line!

And it’s also a paradigm just waiting to be smashed into a million pieces. What happens when you come across other Christians living faithful lives, but who do not share your view? I remember growing up in a cessationist environment, where it was crystal clear that God did not work in ‘those ways’ today and those who pursued speaking in tongues and other more miraculous gifts had their faith questioned and maligned. I remember shifting from that position early in the piece as I came across many, many good people who spoke in tongues and didn’t seem to be that different to me.

As a natural questioner and thinker I was intrigued by ‘why’ we held the views we did and I was naturally curious about why other people saw the world differently. I rejected the demonising of other denominations and the various ‘moves of God’, like the Toronto Blessing. I knew pretty early that my tribe were very critical of the Toronto blessing and all of the ‘nonsense’ that went with it. (God was a God of ‘order’ – and all things incredibly boring.) But the tone of those around me was definitely more fear driven than anything else.

I went to Bible College in 1990 for one year. It wasn’t a highly academic college and as a result we were fed a fairly predictable conservative evangelical theological line. We were taught ‘what’ to think. It never inspired me – in fact it bored me – because I knew the familiar paradigm and I had lived there all my life. I wanted to explore other frameworks and understand how other people read the Bible and understood the world. About 4 years later I signed up at the Baptist Theological College to do a Bachelor of Divinity. For some BTC was a controversial institution because a) they wouldn’t fully endorse the idea of biblical inerrancy. Our denomination had a big bun fight over this topic – as you do… b) They had aligned with Murdoch university so that the final degree was conferred by this institution rather than BTC itself (now Morling College). Again many were afraid that the more liberal theological perspectives of the Murdoch lecturers would corrupt and confuse the minds of good Christian men and women. There was genuine angst that people would possibly go rogue (liberal) and or lose their faith by this alliance with Murdoch.

That kind of fear only comes from those with a brittle worldview, a paradigm that relies on ticking all of the boxes for your faith to be valid. I watched one or two of my classmates lose their way in faith over their time at Murdoch, but I sensed that what happened was simply a speeding up of the inevitable.

When I come across brittle faith – narrow, sharp and locked up so tight it can never be tampered with – I fear for the person holding that faith – because I know sooner or later something has to give… and when it does it can then unravel completely and leave the person utterly lost and also very angry.

We fertilise brittle faith with statements of absolute certainty about issues on which there is often differing perspectives. When we deny people the space to consider a different way of being in relationship to God then we are seeking to control and lock them into one tight theological framework. It was my time at BTC/Murdoch, then Vose and now Morling that gave me the tools and the permission to critique my own long held faith convictions. And this was further fanned into flame by the emergence of the ’emerging church’, a movement that took many iterations and varied greatly from country to country. One dimension of the Emerging Church I valued was the space to connect with a group of people who were questioning everything, but with the hope of finding better ways of living our faith in this world.

Before my son Sam died, I loved that we could have rigorous conversations around what really mattered to God and even who God was. Even at 21, he was doing some deconstructing of the faith we had handed on to him, but I didn’t fear him losing his way because he knew he had freedom to explore and I trusted that he was seeking to follow Jesus in it all. Moreso I was looking forward to hearing and engaging with his own take on how discipleship could form up in this time.

How do you know if your faith is rugged or brittle?

A few giveaways:

• you have a list of core beliefs that go well beyond the regular orthodox creeds. eg you must hold a pre-millenial view of the second coming.
• you often criticise others inability to see the world as clearly as you do and you do it with a certain degree of pride.
• you fear being exposed to what you call ‘liberal ideas’, (perhaps in case they make better sense than the ideas you currently subscribe to)
• you are sometimes militant in your way of seeing the world.

I’m sure there are other ‘tells’ that I have missed, but I write this to simply encourage you to think and explore beyond your familiar theological understandings. Allow your views to be challenged and even exposed as wrong… But in the process build a faith that centres on Jesus and the things that mattered to him, rather than constructing a theological masterpiece that could never be tampered with. Because sooner or later someone or something will take a hammer to your certainty and splinter your ideas all over the place.

Then what?…