From the mouth of a six-year-old

Today's comments were sweetly and earnestly made by Miss K.

During a pause when reading to me: "How do adults learn to read so much?"; followed by, "Sometimes when I turn the page, I feel very happy. Because it's hard to read a whole page." Amen Miss K: that's exactly how I feel when reading certain theologians.

An excerpt from Miss K's news this morning: "This is my Docker's hat. It got signed. Mummy can't read who signed it, 'cause it's signing writing." What a great euphemism for doctors' or lawyers' scrawl -- "signing writing".

PS I recently spent some time in Melbourne, and have a few Melbournian miniatures -- vignettes about people, places and experiences -- which I hope to post soon.

Luther, Lesbians and Ancient Greece

Only on ABC Radio National would you hear a program this interesting (Case being brought by 3 inhabitants of Lesbos).

What shocked me most when I tuned in mid-program was Professor Louis Ruprecht talking credibly about Martin Luther's mastery of Biblical Greek and the German vernacular of his day. Wasn't this a show about Lesbians? I wondered. I thought I'd been transported back to a Reformation Church History lecture!

To find out the connection with Luther, you'll have to listen for yourself. It's worth it: Ruprecht makes all kinds of interesting asides, including the idea that, rather than studying history (as we should), often we use it in support of our own moralities. He took this idea from Nietzsche, I think.

One for the Dads

This morning I was brought to my knees -- literally -- by an acutely distressed, screaming, crying child. Welcome to the world of parenthood, mate... I can see some of the fathers thinking.

Yes, but this bellowing child wasn't mine (that one's a few months away) -- and my guess is it's a lot harder when the child's not yours. This morning's remedy? Cuddle the child. Speak soothingly to them. Pray. Get someone to call the mother on her mobile.

Twenty minutes to half-an-hour later, mum came (I was still standing there cuddling the child); about an hour later the child was sufficiently calm to go to class. And this was just the first hour of the morning.

Words and People

A group I'm part of has been watching a series of talks by the English Christian John Stott, called The Bible and the Christian Life. We've just taken in "The Problem of Culture", the fourth of six talks. What we've seen so far has been excellent: crystal clear, comprehensive, engaging, judicious -- and sometimes even funny. All this from a man who is 87 years old!

The following are loose paraphrases of three propositions from Stott's second talk ("The Double Authority of Scripture"), which I find helpful, thought-provoking and reassuring:

1. There is no ladder by which our finite minds can climb into the infinite mind of God.
2. Our words clothe our thoughts.
3. God has condescended to clothe his thoughts in human words.

By "clothe" I take the primary meaning to be disclose; though I realise our words can often cloak, i.e. hide, our thoughts.
I'd also like to broaden 2. and 3. a little by suggesting that words not only clothe thoughts, but people -- including people's characters, feelings etc.

I haven't thought long and hard about my sense of "clothes" or 'people-disclosing words', so refinements, extensions and criticisms are most welcome.

More Kids' Comments

From the sublime, "Mr Walker, I love you," to the ridiculous, "Mr Walker, can we make Christmas hats now?"

The Making of a Man

My grandfather once told me that his time in the army was the making of him. (He served during World War II.) By this, he meant that being a part of the armed forces -- as distinct from being involved in conflict -- was something of a 'coming of age'.

Living in a demilitarised country, and in a social and cultural climate that seems to be decidedly anti-militaristic, I find my grandfather's claim puzzling. Yes, I'm a product of my environment.

On the weekend I read Banjo Patterson's poem, Australia Today 1916. Though they imagine people's experience in a different war, for me, the following verses shed light on my grandfather's experience.

They battled, the old battalion,
Through the toil of the training camps,
Sweated and strove at lectures,
By the light of the stinking lamps.

Marching, shooting, drilling;
Steady and slow and stern;
Awkward and strange, but willing
All of their job to learn.

Learning to use the rifle;
Learning to use the spade;
Deeming fatigue a trifle
During each long parade.

Till at last they welded
Into a concrete whole,
And there grew in the old battalion
A kind of battalion's soul.

Brotherhood never was like it;
Friendship is not the word;
But deep in that body of marching men
The sould of a nation stirred.

Strange feelings

What would motivate someone to live and work in modern-day Iraq? The altruism of Mahatma Gandhi? A truckload of money?

Here's Newsweek reporter Michael Hastings' frank assessment of why he worked fly-in fly-out in Iraq:

It's one of those really difficult questions I've had to ask myself after what happened; um, was why do people like myself, why do people like Andi (that was her name) ... why do they go to Iraq? ... what compels those of us who go to go?
The reality is because it's intoxicating and it's exciting; and there's an element of fun involved. And there's an element of being at the centre of what is the biggest story for certainly my generation. And that's a very real feeling.

Intoxicating. Exciting. Fun. A real feeling. Hats off to Hastings for his brutal honesty. But, somehow, I'd have thought bringing the sorry plight of a bloody and anarchichal country to the ears and eyes of the world was about something bigger than your feelings.

Hastings has written a book called I lost My Love in Baghdad: A Modern Love Story. To hear more of his story -- there's a whole lot more -- check out Life Matters on Radio National.

Another slice of Cake

A MIDLIFE'S TALE
My neighbour does some funny things:
he's got three kids and he's got six drinks to go
before he sleeps tonight,
Singing liberation songs out on the front verandah.

My neighbour falls asleep out there,
he wakes up next morning with the sun,
And it reminds him that it’s time,
Well it's off to work we go,
It's always one day starting way behind another.

Dreaming is a casual thing you do if you believe
in just by chance one day the lovely things will come true.
But he's well past thinking that,
It's now a day by day proposal
he's lost the magic – [Christ] he'd like to get it back now.

Get it back now
Get it back now

Once upon a time there were so many plans.
Holidays and blossoms and some fine romance.
But it's all behind him now,
There's no game plan to be followed,
He's lost the magic – [Christ] he'd like to get it back now.

Get it back now
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The jury's out for me as to how well song lyrics work in print; my hunch is not that well. That's why they're song lyrics: they're best sung.

That said, I find this song by The Cake stirring, almost harrowing. Among other things, I reckon it captures the empty regret of a life lived for this world's dreams and thrills -- particularly as such a life and its hopes meet with the fickle kisses of reality and the passing of time. And, though I'm not middle-aged, the feeling of "one day starting way behind another" is all too familiar.

Speaking of middle age, does anyone know when this scary period officially begins? The other day a friend suggested it was at 36. Let's just say this 35 year old shot him an icy glare.