Today my city came out of its fifth COVID-19 lockdown in two years. Time functions differently when you’re in lockdown, partly because you cannot do many of the things you’d normally do, and because weekdays and weekends bleed into each other, but also because we slow down and notice what we wouldn’t normally. I spend much time in lockdown looking at our trees and observing their leaves or their lack, and the smallest signs of new growth or flowers.
When we emerge out of lockdown, it can feel disorienting at first, partly as though nothing has changed, partly as though we do not know what is normal any more. Time functions differently at these moments too. Was it only yesterday we were here last? Or was it yesterday that we were in the midst of our five months of lockdown? What feels recent and what feels long ago gets rearranged.
Time can also feel discouraging. We might ask: Why do we keep returning here? We t feel disconnected from the times in the past when none of this was real. We might fear that those times will not return.
Last week I was reminded in my devotional reading of a wonderful quote from the 20th-century Jesuit writer Pierre Teilhard de Chardin:
Above all, trust in the slow work of God. We are quite naturally impatient in everything to reach the end without delay. We should like to skip the intermediate stages. We are impatient of being on the way to something unknown, something new.
And yet it is the law of all progress that it is made by passing through some stages of instability— and that it may take a very long time.
True for beating a pandemic. True for the daily slog of growing in Christ.
And when we slow down, as in lockdown, we might ironically see growth happening in stasis. Little snowdrops are peeking through the grass. Iris stalks are pushing up from the ground ready to split open and bud. And the almond tree, Jeremiah’s symbol of watching and waiting, is budding in perfect white blossoms. My wife and I bought that almond tree when we lost our first pregnancy. Now we have three children. The almond tree has yet to bear fruit that we can eat but each year it blossoms in promise. Each year we watch and wait. And each year God promises: “I am watching over my word to perform it.” (Jeremiah 1:12) Comforted by small signs of promise fulfilled, we slowly learn to trust the slow work of God.
My home city of Melbourne is now in the unenviable position of experiencing its fifth lockdown, and many of us are finding ourselves making comparisons with “previous lockdowns” we have known. This particular lockdown has the misfortune of falling at the same time as the beginning of our long, long winter lockdown last year. And so the comparisons are easy to make, different though the circumstances are this time around. I find myself looking at photographs that show how small my children were this time last year. As I trudge through the mud of our backyard I remember the twins learning to crawl through that mud and dragging it everywhere they went. And I remember their hesitant then eager first steps and the ways I had to keep pulling them out of the not-yet-established vegetable patch that my wife was working on.
Not all memories are fond. Trauma has its own ways of influencing memories. I find personally that I revisit the experiences of trying to carry VCE students through their final year of school with all the uncertainty of the world we found ourselves in and an internet connection that enjoyed dying at key educational moments. I dread repeating the feelings of inadequacy I faced as a teacher in 2020. I am easily drawn into the fear of repeating it all.
But memories, psychologists will tell us, are not video recordings of the past. They can be skewed, rearranged, biased. Today I attempted to capture two moments of beauty that I saw through the window of my home office: droplets of water on a bare peach tree’s branches, and a shaft of afternoon sunlight through the window so dazzling that it overexposed the whole image. As with photographs, so with memories: the image we end up with is not necessarily all that we saw and experienced at the time.
There are many beautiful moments in the Bible – in the Old Testament in particular – when God is spoken of as reversing the story that His people have experienced. In Joel 2:25 God says, “I will repay you for the years the locusts have eaten.” The Psalms are full of God turning mourning into dancing. Psalm 126 has this particularly wonderful description:
When the Lord restored the fortunes of Zion, we were like those who dream. 2 Then our mouth was filled with laughter, and our tongue with shouts of joy; then they said among the nations, “The Lord has done great things for them.” 3 The Lord has done great things for us; we are glad.
Restore our fortunes, O Lord, like streams in the Negeb! 5 Those who sow in tears shall reap with shouts of joy! 6 He who goes out weeping, bearing the seed for sowing, shall come home with shouts of joy, bringing his sheaves with him.
Though in the second half of the psalm we see that the restoration is not quite finished – they are still praying that God will restore their fortunes like a dry river bed replenishing itself with streams – we have this wonderful image of seeds being sown in tears and becoming a joyful harvest.
I cannot really see the joyful harvest that is being sown now. But I know that God’s view of my story and my circumstances are not the same as mine. I need to turn my eyes to how He views this day I am in, not the blurred or washed out version that I too often see instead.
My eldest is a budding geographer. At nearly four years of age he loves reading books about the earth and its continents, its flora and fauna. We often find ourselves having quite technical discussions about the reasons why some plant or animal species are dying out, or why we have seasons. The seasons have been of particular interest ever since 2020 when every change in the seasons was of immense interest, being all we had to look at. He also knows that, while his mother and brothers’ birthdays are in autumn and mine is in winter, his is in spring, and so he can’t wait for the spring.
I for one am fond of winter. Perhaps it comes from the snow of fabled memory from the week I was born. Perhaps, being of more melancholy and introverted disposition, I like the feeling that Christina Rossetti expressed in her poem “Winter: My Secret” of being safely bundled up away from prying eyes and summery excess. Perhaps I just love winter because it’s when my birthday falls. But as I have taught my son about the seasons I have been struck by the way that winter is a gift. Human life – in fact, all life – exists on earth because of the so-called “Goldilocks zone” that our planet occupies in relation to the Sun, being neither too hot nor too cold for liquid water to be found. Winter lets plants rest. It lets our half of the planet cool. It lets animals conserve energy and hibernate. Winter teaches us to pause and trust.
A perfect place in scripture to turn to in Ordinary Time is Psalm 145, one of the tenderest descriptions of a creator God providing for the planet that He chose to teem with life. In verses 15 to 16we read these wonderful words:
The eyes of all look to you, and you give them their food at the proper time. You open your hand and satisfy the desires of every living thing.
In other translations “at the proper time” is rendered “in due season”. Sir Humphrey would say, “When the time is right”. God, fortunately, knows just when that is for each of us. He keeps Emperor penguins huddled together to survive the long Antarctic dark. He opens up snowdrops and early cheer to point to the arrival of spring. He makes some fruit to arrive in summer, some autumn, some winter. He carried the Kaputar pink slug through horrific bushfires (look it up!) and gives each of us the right things for the right season.
Not everyone is comforted by winter as I am, I know. But for my fellow inhabitants of Earth’s southern half, let me encourage us to remember the God of the “proper time”, the one who “upholds all who fall and lifts up all who are bowed down” (Psalm 145:14). We could also say all who freeze or hibernate. God who positioned our orbit for life knows our seasons, knows the days that give us life and the days that grieve us, and we can look to Him to feed us through it all.
In early primary school I remember composing the beginnings of a poem in my head. It went:
I was born in Ballarat, some miles away from Melbourne, People always said to me, “Oh my, you must be well-born.”
While I chose to prioritise rhyme and rhythm over truth (no-one has ever called me “well-born”, it shows that, from an early age, place was important to me. Growing up in southern Queensland, I was determinedly Victorian. It was very important to me that I was born in Ballarat, even though I moved when I was one year old and have no memories of living there. I would never now say that I am from Ballarat. That hardly seems true. But where am I from? Ballarat for my first year of life, early childhood and primary school in the Gold Coast Hinterland, secondary school in West Gippsland, then various parts of Melbourne for most of the twenty years since I finished school. I have never had a single place to call home.
This means that I have often found comfort in the biblical texts that speak of God’s people as pilgrims, exiles, sojourners. Having no deep sense of belonging to one place on earth, I can easily focus on the belonging I will have in the new creation when what a good friend of mine describes as my semi-nomadic life will finally find a home.
But spending the last few days in the town of my birth with my family I have been reflecting on the ways that place shapes us and how we can likewise shape place. An older town, one of Victoria’s oldest, Ballarat feels much more European than my home of Werribee, for instance. There’s an abundance of deciduous trees, a huge artificial lake at the centre, English architecture everywhere, and while it’s all incredibly lovely, I can see how the landscape was changed dramatically by European settlers during the gold rush of the late 19th century. To make this new foreign place feel like home the Europeans changed it indelibly, and in doing so had a lasting impact on how the traditional custodians, the Wathaurong or Waddawurung, could engage with their country.
This week is NAIDOC week in Australia, a week for celebrating Australia’s first nations people. The theme for this year’s celebrations is “healing country”. As I have reflected on this theme, it has struck me how the Bible’s vision of the new heavens and new earth is one of renewal and restoration not of replacement. And that renewal works on so many levels, reconciling those in enmity with one another, healing broken relationships, ending hostility between land and people, between animals. It also involves a restoration of home. The new Jerusalem is, I suspect, less about a literal political state than it is about God dwelling once more on earth with His people, their home and His dwelling restored.
If we believe this earth will not be replaced but renewed, then as kingdom people we should be working for that renewal now, as a sign of the kingdom that is coming. And that means, among other things, healing broken relationships within the land and healing also our relationships to the land.
Place matters to God. Land matters to God. Relationships matter to God. I want to live my life in a way that works towards healing in all these things.
Today would have been the 100th birthday of one of the most important people in my life: my maternal grandfather James Savage, known to his friends as Jim and to me and my cousins as Pep. Born in 1921 to an Irish Australian father and Scottish Australian mother, he grew up in working-class Sydney during the Depression, and the death of his father when he was nine due to the after-affects of mustard gas in the trenches of WWI saw his mother raise him and his two sisters alone with very little to live on. When she remarried and he clashed with his step-father he ran away to fight in WWII, flying in Number 10 Squadron with the RAAF. Returning to Sydney after the war, he eventually started working for a photographic company and as a result also became a respected photographer, especially for his architectural work for the National Trust. Forced to leave school young, he never realised his desire to be a History teacher but he inspired me with four of his great loves: history, great books, good tea (always Twinings) and photography.
Pep piled photographic equipment on me like he showered me with books. He introduced me to Dickens, Orwell, Camus, Brave New World, Joyce and Hemingway. And he taught me something that never made sense to me at the time: a picture needs something to hang its hat on. An enthusiastic reader of early Richard Dawkins and angry at the Catholic Church of his childhood, Pep subscribed to the “blind watchmaker” view of the cosmos, but believed up to his death that God was love and saw order and beauty in nature that was not easily explained by his scientific determinism. The way I look at the world has my grandfather’s stamp on it. When I see a dazzling array of light and grab my phone to capture it, Pep has prompted that sense in me. When I photograph an interesting doorway or the curious shape of a tree, Pep again. He taught me to see all the places where God hangs His hat in the world’s form and wonder, though he would never have put it that way.
Bible scholar John Walton speaks of the seven days of creation as a process of God building a home for Himself. The first six days He spends ordering His home. On the seventh day, He comes inside, hangs up His hat, switches on the lights and puts His feet up. In every arm-like tree bough I see God carving a dwelling for Himself with us. I do not know where my grandfather stood before His creator when he died – in his last days he took great comfort in remembering the Lord’s Prayer – but I know that he taught me how to see God’s world with an eye attentive to beauty and order. And my faith is the richer for it.
While I try to go through each day with my eyes open to the little signs of glory and truth that lie around me in the everyday, some days nothing much catches my eye or sinks in. Today was one of those days, my attention too divided for anything in particular to arrest me. So I found myself tonight looking back over photos from the long weekend just passed to see if anything could be a worthy subject for a reflection. This one caught my eye, an image of tall native grass that grows in the wetlands by the Werribee River just a few kilometres downstream from my house.
It reminded me of the many places in scripture when humanity is compared to grass: beautiful in its day but impermanent. Trying to locate one of these verses I found myself turning to Psalm 103, which contains these words:
The life of mortals is like grass, they flourish like a flower of the field; the wind blows over it and it is gone, and its place remembers it no more. (v.15-16
Taken by themselves these words could sound heartless, devaluing of human life. But in the psalm itself they are wedged between declarations of God’s fatherly and everlasting love:
As a father has compassion on his children, so the Lord has compassion on those who fear him; for he knows how we are formed, he remembers that we are dust. (v13-14)
But from everlasting to everlasting the Lord’s love is with those who fear him. (v.17)
We might fade from the Earth’s memory as quickly as grass, but not from God’s. He holds us in His covenant of love from generation to generation, from everlasting to everlasting, even though we are dust.
The beauty God gives to temperary things is an instructive lesson in this. God values even the briefest flower, the shortest glance of a sunset. And, what’s more, He takes our momentary days and bestows eternal significance upon them.
It was fitting that, while my brain was drawn to verse 15, the verse of the day that appeared on Bible Gateway as I went in search of Psalm 103 was in fact verse 13: As a father has compassion on his children, so the Lord has compassion on those who fear him…I may not have had eyes open much to see God in the small details of my day, but He had eyes open to see me, and He loves what He sees. May I see through the eyes of His love tomorrow.
“Which window will it be today?” Many parents of small children will quickly recognise those words which precede the moment in Play School when we “look through the window” to discover something new and exciting. I have spent much of today sitting by a windowsill with very limited ability to see. Our outside office sits at the back of our garden, with a window looking out over the fruit trees. In winter the leafless trees let in rafts of light which by afternoon mean that I am facing directly into the glare. And I am working in our outside office again, in this first week of the southern winter, because my city is once again in hard lockdown, for the time being at least. As Ordinary Time begins, it feels a curious way to be living this ordinary season, back in a situation that is far from ordinary yet which places us so immovably amongst the very ordinary things of our own homes and backyards. The familiar and the unfamiliar are in curious lockstep. We are forced to look more at our immediate surroundings and have fewer means of escape from the ordinary.
What is the spiritual fruit of this? Well, it will be different for each person, and different especially if you are not currently in lockdown and can perhaps relegate that to your recent past. But one thing I am working towards with God is to not avoid the ordinary but to look into it, to make it a window through which I can see God at work. That’s where I will see Him. He does extraordinary things, for sure, but most of the time He works in the slow, the frustrating, the “I-thought-we’d-finished-this-already” of ordinary life. So that’s where I want to look – not past the ordinary, as though His answers are magical, but in the ordinary, because His answers are trustworthy, sturdy and real.
Itching ears may long to hear, All is well. Everyone relax. But truth is rarely so welcome, or simple; more often we hear All is not well before it is well. More often the doctor diagnoses before healing; the exiles must first be exiled before coming home.
All shall be well. All manner of things shall be well. But first we must learn the difference between "well" and the "fine" or "not bad" that we utter without thought when passing in the street. Well is a deep, unfakeable truth, a nature of being that has passed through the fire, and, refined by the fire, knows that His love is there, even in fire.
Once the new year came in a traffic jam, at Borneo's mouth, when the crowds who'd fled early to escape the rush now bid each other a happy one between their cars across the street.
Another time it came while I and a friend were lost in the midst of things, driving from one house to another where the champagne was chilled and the view guaranteed. Instead we drove through a ditch and came out at a set of lights where the lights skipped across the shop rooftops.
Now I try convincing my three boys that there's no party on, while they fight through bedtime, crazed from a day of irregular food and cars. And where many can't wait to see it go and say good riddance to the year that's been, I suspect I'll say good night and catch the fireworks from my sleep.
But after years and years and years of deserts, each new year the same, fighting to smile while others raved, to see the evening slip to sleep while my children slowly do the same, I cannot say good riddance, only, Thank You, thank You Lord.