Tuesday, March 20, 2007

Oh, Happy Day!

In order to get to uni, I have to take a train; and in order to get to the train station, I have to walk. It's a pleasant, fifteen minute stroll - and, this morning, made all the more pleasant by the fact that I had to wear my raincoat.

Yes, you heard me correctly: I was wearing my raincoat.

And that's because it was raining. And not just a passing shower, but a constant, gentle, soaking rain. The kind of rain for which our parched, drought-struck country has been thirsting after. Alas, by the time I made it into the city, it had stopped coming down; and didn't rain for the rest of the day, despite the skies remaining overcast and threatening. We need much more of the kind of rain that fell this morning; but, oh, what a joy to have some rain of this variety at long last.

Let's pray it continues.

Talk to you soon,

BB.

Quote for the Day: Rain is what makes flowers grow - and taxis disappear. (Hal Roach)

Saturday, March 17, 2007

The Heat of the Dinner Party

The other night, my Dearly Beloved and I watched Guess Who's Coming to Dinner? on DVD, starring Sidney Poitier, Spencer Tracy, and Katherine Hepburn.

Aside from the fact that my Dearly Beloved described Mr Poitier as "sex on a stick", the thing that struck me most about this movie was its disarming frankness on issues such as sex and race relations. Granted, the film was made in 1967, at the height of the "swinging sixties", and granted also that matters such as sex and race relations were the point of the film, the unabashed fashion in which this film tackles these contentious subjects is both refreshing and captivating. And let us bear in mind that the civil rights movement, and the upheavals of the end of segregation, were still being played out in America at that time, leaving millions with raw and anguished sensitivities.

The plot of the film is simple enough: the daughter of two wealthy, white liberal parents returns home from a holiday in Hawaii, bringing with her a man she has met while away, and with whom she has fallen in love. Simple enough, except the man turns out to be black, a fact that confronts the parents with their own prejudice. At first, they try and pretend that they are concerned for the welfare of the young couple, and the hostility they will face on the matter of inter-race relationships. All too soon, however, it is shown that what really disturbs them is the fact that their lovely young daughter wants to marry a talented, intelligent, black man.

There's a terrific scene in which the mother (Hepburn) and the father (Tracy) are contemplating the situation. Hepburn laughs wryly and says something to the effect of: "We raised our daughter not to be prejudiced, to not see any difference between black people and white. We taught her that folks who do are sometimes hateful, mostly ignorant, but always wrong. We just forgot to tell her not to fall in love with a negro."

Of course, the difference between their pretensions and their actual attitudes is illustrated by the fact that they have a black cook/housekeeper. But it is in this character that we also get to see another dimension to prejudice. Because of all the people you would expect to be on the young black man's side, it would be the black housekeeper; and yet she is immediately hostile to him, and sustains that hostility throughout the film. Indeed, there's a brilliant scene in which she gives him a piece of her mind, informing him that she knows what his "game" is: that he is some "smooth talking" hustler looking to exploit a vulnerable and naive young woman in order to get "above himself". Her prejudice is the prejudice of learned helplessness, of accepting that there is a "natural order" to existence and that anyone who breaks the conventions of that order must be immediately "pulled into line".

The young couple are played by Poitier and Katherine Houghton. And they, too, have their failings. The daughter is to some extent quite self-involved, acting on impulse without consideration for the feelings of others, and simply expecting that they will fall in line with her plans. And Poitier, while pretending to be mindful of the sensitivities of the situation, in fact backs Hepburn and Tracy into a corner by delivering a rather self-serving ultimatum. In exploring all these foibles, the film is not being nihilistic or cynical; on the contrary, it is simply reflecting on the fact that prejudice is about more than just race bigotry - it is the assumption that other people will respond in certain ways on the basis of how we have defined who they are.

And the counterpoint that illustrates this principle occurs in the figure of the old Irish Monsignor, a long-time friend of the daughter's family. You would expect this figure to be an unreconstructed racist; afterall, the Irish in America were noted for their hostility to African-Americans, a hostility extending back to the so-called "draft riots" during the American Civil War, when Irish mobs in New York lynched blacks en masse. But it is the Monsignor who unhesitatingly and unconditionally accepts and welcomes the young couple's relationship, overthrowing the ancient stereotype; because, of course, it would have been both a stereotype and racist to have assumed he would be racist on account of being Irish.

I won't spoil things and reveal the denouement, suffice to say that Spencer Tracy delivers one of the most brilliant soliloquys in film history at the end. There is little to wonder that this film was nominated for 10 Academy Awards; what is inconceivable is that it didn't win all 10 - unlike, say, that piece of melodramatic tripe that was Titanic, and which ended up winning a swag. On a personal note, I spent the whole film looking at Spencer Tracy and thinking: "He looks like my father". Naturally, my Dearly Beloved, being the sensitive and sweet-natured being she is, remarked that Spence, in his appearance and attitude, reminded her of Yours Truly!

Postscript: One poignant aspect of Guess Who's Coming to Dinner was that, in certain scenes, it was possible to detect signs of the Parkinson's Disease that was to afflict Katherine Hepburn's later years: the involuntary shaking of the head or hands. And yet she carried off the role with great poise, charm, warmth, and humour. At one stage, watching her, I said: "Gosh, she's beautiful!" And not because she looked beautiful, but because, in her character and in the signs of the disease that was only then just emerging, she conveyed the terrible beauty and dignity of life and being.

Talk to you soon,

BB

Quote for the Day: Terrific - I'm married to a combination of Spencer Tracy and Homer Simpson. (My Dearly Beloved, talking about Guess Who)

Saturday, March 10, 2007

Broader Horizons?

As part of my Period of Discernment with the Uniting Church in Australia, I have been talking to my mentor about chaplaincy. I have been having this discussion with him partly because the POD is about exploring the individual's call to ministry, and what form of ministry that call may take. Ordained ministry as a congregational minister is not the only form of ministry within the church; the UCA, like most other churches, has both ordained and lay ministries to which people may be called. The purpose of the POD is to help them discern in which one of these ministries they are being called to serve.

Within the UCA, there are two forms of ordained ministry. One is the Ministry of the Word (congregational ministry) while the other is the Ministry of the Diaconate. The Diaconate is a ministry that is focused on pastoral care, and can operate both within the congregational setting and within the wider community and institutions. Some Deacons act as pastoral assistants to congregational ministers; others work within institutions such as hospitals; some functions as chaplains; and others perform a combination of these tasks. It is an incredibly rich and varied ministry.

Personally, I feel called to the Ministry of the Word; that is, to being a congregational minister. However, I am also interested in chaplaincy, and with the possibility of combining chaplaincy with congregational ministry. And chaplaincy is an interesting role, because it can be performed by both ordained and lay people; it is a role in which the ordained and lay ministries cross-over. And that is the other reason why I have been discussing chaplaincy with my mentor: because I wanted to obtain some insight into chaplaincy and how it operates from the perspective of an ordained minister; but also because I have in mind a particular form of ministry to which I feel called and for which I feel there is a very great need.

As readers of this blog will know, in a former life, I worked for a white-collar trade union; indeed, my involvement in unionism in various capacities goes back the better part of two decades. During this period, I made a number of observations:

  • Working for a trade union means dealing with human suffering. This seems a somewhat melodramatic statement until you realise why trade unions exist: because the employment relationship all too often involves exploitation and/or victimisation of employees by employers. Not always, and as I mentioned in an earlier post, one of the arts of trade unionism is knowing when your own members are at fault or not telling you the truth. But the bottom line is that no-one calls a union to tell them that everything is fine, that they are being treated properly and paid correctly. On the contrary, people call the union because they are in distress: they are about to be sacked, or are being bullied, or discriminated against, or victimised in some way, or exploited. Which means people who call the union are, at best, concerned, and frequently highly stressed. Which means being a union official is a stressful occupation.
  • The union movement operates in a uniquely democratic/political environment. The leadership of unions are not appointed, like chief executives or board members. On the contrary, every three or four years, they have to face the membership, conduct an election campaign, and risk being challenged for office, in order to retain their jobs. In some unions, this electoral process extends down to the staff as well. Thus, there is a certain degree of understandable angst among elected officials about their job security and whether or not they will be challenged at the next election. Which makes the internal environment of the union intensely political, a factor which gives rise to stress and tension.
  • Being a union official is an intensely thankless task. On the one hand, union officials must deal with the frequently unrealistic expectations of their members; the "wave a wand and make it alright" attitude among rank-and-file union members is widely prevalent. Over and against this is the fact that union members pay their dues to receive the benefits of membership, including competent industrial advice and advocacy. On the other hand, union officials rarely receive any acknowledgement for their efforts; you can put months or even years of your life into a member's case, only to have them walk away at the end without a word of thanks. By the same token, some members for whom you feel didn't get a good result are intensely grateful just to have someone on their side, someone to speak on their behalf. So the thanks, while few and far between, also occurs in the most unexpected places.
  • Union officials suffer from being members of a "closed community". That is to say, many union officials feel unable to talk to their families and friends about what happens to them within their work as a union official because people outside the movement just don't "get it"; they don't understand the "context" in which stress and tension arise as a result of working for a union, and thus are unable to effectively act as "sounding-boards" or avenues of de-briefing. Exacerbating this tendency is the fact that the political environment within a union makes many officials hesitant to talk to their colleagues out of fear (whether justified or not) of any potential consequences for doing so. Thus, many officials simply try to "cope" without having anyone with whom they can "let off steam"or turn to in times of crisis.
  • Working for a union frequently "burns out" people - for the reasons stated above, but also because union officials struggling to cope with crises or stress tend to "self-medicate"; that is, they turn to alcohol, for example, for stress relief. Which isn't to say that there is an "alcohol problem" within the union movement, or that unions are populated by sad, hopeless drunks. Rather, that in the absence of other support mechanisms, the "quick and easy" fix of alternatives such as alcohol can be a trap into which some fall, and which in the long run contributes to their sense of distress and isolation.

It is for this and other reasons that I feel there is a real and urgent need for a chaplaincy mission to the union movement. Moreover, I feel that my past experience as a union official equips me to deal with some of the cultural aspects of the union movement which may be problematic for others.

My mentor generously provided me with the details of a UCA minister who is also an emergency services chaplain;and he graciously agreed to meet me. We had a most interesting and enlightening discussion; and although I was a little disturbed to realise that, in so far as chaplaincy is concerned, matters within the church appear a little haphazard and ad hoc, nonetheless, I was able to clarify my thinking in this area. And the result is that I feel even more strongly compelled than before that I should make it part of my response to God's call to engage in some form of chaplaincy to the union movement. Moreover, I don't think that I need necessarily wait until the POD is completed, and the church indicates whether or not I am accepted as a ministry candidate. I think I need to take the initiative; I will discuss this with my mentor and reflect further.

But I feel very excited by the possibilities and the prospect for broadening horizons.

Talk to you soon,

BB

Quote for the Day: For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven. (Ecclesiastes 3:1 - NRSV)

Monday, March 05, 2007

Send in the Clowns

I went into today's Greek lesson not feeling terribly confident. Afterall, I had endured a less than ideal week in terms of study, what with various events and commitments to deal with, and relatives on both sides of the family providing very unwelcome distractions (is it too late to be adopted out?). Not that I'm offering excuses; just explaining that I was feeling less than boned up (and NO I'm not being crude) heading into today's weekly installment of torture by Koine.

My feeling of unease was not mollified when I noticed there was more than one missing place around the table this morning. I already knew one of my fellow students had decided enough was enough, and I started to wonder whether or not more than a few others had come to the same conclusion. The lecturer was also looking mightily pleased with himself; for a moment, it looked like his cunning plan to get out of marking a lot of exams at the end of the semester was bearing fruit.

Fortunately, it transpired that a couple of folks were running late or otherwise indisposed. Whether or not they turn up again next week is another matter. For the nonce, I was still content that I continued to be surrounded by plenty of fellow sufferers.

And so we commenced the lesson with a revision of last week's work and the exercises we had been set. Now, I produced a less than stellar performance, but I actually noticed that I hadn't done too badly either; my translations were either pretty good or just off the mark. Granted, there were some that stumped me altogether, but I was actually quite pleased that I seemed to be making some headway. Yet the curious thing is that I hadn't the faintest idea about the grammar; somehow, I had just managed to nut out what the sentences meant (or had nearly done so, anyway).

I was feeling a tad disturbed by this when one of the other students confessed to the same experience. And then a thought occurred to me: maybe if I can get enough of the vocab stuck in my head, I might just be able to make a fist of this subject. That is to say, when translating from Greek to English, an inside out understanding of the grammar is not strictly necessary; a sufficient dosage of vocab combined with a sense of sentence context might just be enough to see me through.

Naturally, the universe having the sense of humour that it does, I quickly realised that my revelation was not going to be the salvific experience for which I'd been hoping. Because, of course, when translating from English to Greek, I have to remember the right case endings and where the postpositives go and so on and so forth. And I'd be willing to bet my bottom dollar that our lecturer, being the smiling assassin that he is, will require that we render into our best Koine more than one passage of English for the exam.

But I thought to myself: maybe I might at least have the key to understanding at least half of this Greek thing...

Or am I just kidding myself? Am I doomed to end up with the linguistic equivalent of the custard-and-cream pie in the face...mmmm, custard and cream pie (incoherent Homeresque gurgling...)

Talk to you soon,

BB

Quote for the Day: Language is not simply a reporting device for experience but a defining framework for it. (Benjamin Whorf)