Ted Witham

Slavery, Saint Francis and us

If you prefer to listen to Ted preaching this homily, click below (12 minutes):

The Holy Gospel of our Lord Jesus Christ according to Saint Luke.

Glory to you, Lord Jesus Christ.

[Luke 17:5-10]

⁵The apostles said to the Lord, “Increase our faith!” ⁶The Lord replied, “If you had faith the size of a mustard seed, you could say to this mulberry tree, ‘Be uprooted and planted in the sea,’ and it would obey you.

⁷[Jesus said], “Who among you would say to your slave who has just come in from ploughing or tending sheep in the field, ‘Come here at once and take your place at the table’? ⁸Would you not rather say to him, ‘Prepare supper for me; put on your apron and serve me while I eat and drink; later you may eat and drink’? ⁹Do you thank the slave for doing what was commanded? ¹⁰So you also, when you have done all that you were ordered to do, say, ‘We are worthless slaves; we have done only what we ought to have done!’”

For the Gospel of the Lord,

Praise to you, Lord Jesus Christ.

In the Name of the Living God, Father, Son and Holy Spirit.

The whole point of having a slave is that person can do whatever you want whenever you want.

When we were in Mauritius Rae and I used to worry about our hosts’ driver who was called Anil. Our hosts owned a sugar plantation and invited us to dinner a couple of times during our seven-week stay on the island.

They would send a message ‘Anil will pick you at 5:30.’ Anil arrived promptly at 5:30. Anil drove us back to the plantation. We had dinner, not with Anil, of course. Just with Pierre and Doris. Pierre showed us over their sugar refinery, a 24-hour operation. We talked. At 11:30 in the evening, it was time to go home.

Pierre yelled across the backyard, ‘Anil! Anil!’ Anil stumbled out of his hut, shook off his sleep and drove us home. It was an hour’s drive, and then, of course, Anil had to drive an hour back again.

Anil wasn’t a slave, but Rae and I worried that he was treated like one.

The people of Jesus’ time had slaves. The Jews had always had slaves, going back to the time of Abraham. At least, the more affluent Jews had slaves. And the whole Roman Empire depended on the labour of slaves. Apparently one third of the population was enslaved. People 2,000 years ago didn’t have the same moral objection to slaves that we have now.

And the whole point of having a slave is that person can do whatever you want whenever you want.

In this morning’s Gospel reading, Jesus invited the people of his day to try a radical thought experiment: imagine you are the owner of a slave who has been ‘working all day in the field, ploughing or tending sheep.’ (Luke 17:7) When evening comes, you allow the slave to take as much time as he wants to wash and change into clean clothes. Then the slave reclines on the best dining couch in the house. Then you, the owner, the master, serve the slave his dinner, and the slave can eat the meal quickly, or can spend four or five hours at the table chatting to friends and drinking wine. You are on call until the slave tells you he has finished his meal.

Then Jesus stops the thought experiment. No: you treat the slave as a worthless slave whose job is to serve you and not the other way around. If it doesn’t suit the slave or the slave is too tired makes no difference.

This thought experiment comes from Jesus, who as Saint Mark and Saint Matthew tell us, ‘…came not to be served but to serve and to give his life a ransom for many.’ (Mark 10:45, Matthew 20:28). Not to be served, but to be a slave.

In other words, this thought experiment is not as fanciful as it sounds. Jesus himself swaps the role of Lord for that of a slave for example, when he washed the disciples’ feet (John 13:5), and really upsetting Simon Peter. ‘You will never wash my feet!’ wails Peter (John 13:8).

It’s not possible, we think. Even if you don’t own a slave, the point of having slaves is to do anything their masters want at any time. Jesus upends this idea. A slave is a human being created in the image of God, and simply because of that should be, at least, respected. But more than just respecting slaves, Jesus challenges us to serve others as if we were slaves ourselves. And especially, we should serve those who are treated as slaves.

Yesterday was the feast of Saint Francis of Assisi, a saint who means a great deal to me. Francis was the son of a cloth merchant, Pietro di Bernadone, who was growing richer and richer. Francis was privileged by having the benefit of this extreme wealth, and when he was a teenager, he made the most of the lavish lifestyle. He threw wild parties with his friends, providing the wine and food for the feasts. He gained the nickname ‘The King of The Revels’.

But he grew uncomfortable with this privilege. He was riding outside Assisi one day – and owning a horse was something like owning a Morgan Super 3 sports-car today or maybe a Rolls Royce Sweptail with a million-dollar price tag. As he rode, he saw a leper. Until then, Francis had been revolted by lepers. They were disgusting, repulsive. But on this day, Francis was moved to dismount and approach the leper and embrace him. Something changed in Francis from that moment. ‘That which was bitter had become sweet,’ he wrote later. (The Testament, 1, FAED I, 124.)

One of the first ministries Saint Francis undertook was caring for lepers; becoming their slave, their servant, looking with love on their distorted features and running sores, feeding them, keeping them safe from brigands and dressing their wounds.

Francis knew that this was how Jesus challenges us to be a slave to others. It’s a confronting idea. And we should be confronted. It goes against the way things are. It turns the world upside down.

I find it interesting that even though Francis is known for poverty, in the early years, many of his followers were queens and princesses: the Blessed Isabelle of France, Saint Louis’ sister, was a princess, and Saint Elizabeth was the wife of the future king of Hungary. Saint Clare too was from a noble family. These royals and aristocrats responded to the challenge to become a slave for others, serving the poorest, putting their lives at the service of the neediest.

I am impressed by Saint Jeanne Jugan in France just after the French revolution. She was inspired by Saint Francis to look after homeless women, eventually setting up a network of refuges throughout the east of France and becoming the Little Sisters of the Poor, who are in 2025 still serving the elderly poor. They have a house in Glendalough just north of Perth city. She too, and her sisters, respond to the challenge to be a slave to others.

And we are followers of Jesus too. The same challenge applies to us – as individuals, as the people of Saint Brendan’s. We don’t have to be the founder of a religious order, or even join one, to take up this challenge of Jesus. But if royals and aristocrats can become slaves, so can you and I.

Is there some situation where God is calling you to be a slave? Is there a person whose needs you can try to meet, but whom you avoid because you know it will be difficult? Is someone you know being held captive, ensnared in some way by someone? Is there a way to be a slave to them, to serve them in their needs? Being a slave is not about knowing you can succeed. It’s about putting aside our needs to achieve, to make a mark. Being a slave’s only about obeying the master. ‘When you have done all that you were ordered to do, say, ‘We are worthless slaves; we have done only what we ought to have done!’” (Luke 17:10)

And our ultimate Master is Jesus, and Jesus chooses to serve when others are certain it’s beneath Him.

As a parish community, we rightly hold up our ministry to the Homeless as one example where we put energy and care into serving others whatever their needs. But just because we are serving one needy group does not mean there are not others in the Warnbro/Rockingham community calling out for our service as a parish.

Today we bless our pets. The same challenge applies to animals as it does to human beings. We sometimes think of our pets as slaves. We keep them locked them up in our house or yard. We have them on a leash when we take them outside. We expect them to do emotional work for us, loving us when we come home from being away. But I am sure that we bless our cats and dogs because we know the challenge to be a slave to them too. Take note of that Lottie, and Caesar.

So this story in the Gospel about a slave coming in from a day’s work in the field is not a hypothetical. It’s a challenge. It confronts us to find ways in which serving others turns the world on its head and creates a kinder, more loving world in partnership with the One who came to serve.

Where is God calling you to be a slave today?

THE SULTAN PREACHES TO SAINT FRANCIS, AD 1219

Saint Francis, restless, always on the move,
wanting Morocco, Palestine, and Spain,
(though oft prevented by illness) to prove
ways of fraternity, and peace explain.

Embarks at last to crusade in the Nile,
no fixed strategy, gospelling his goal;
to nurse crusaders who undergo the trial
of dysentery, and their homesickness console.

At last, with Brother Illuminato,
Francis discovers God’s authentic aim:
befriend the Sultan, talk love and credo,
and Islam in the Christian to proclaim.

On coming home, he sounds the bells for prayers,
and all true Christian Names of God he shares.

Ted Witham, St Francistide 2025

The Sufi Path of Love – Saint Francis and the Sultan

Two Chapbooks by Brother Noel SSF – review

At Home in this Country

Noel Jeff’s two chapbooks reviewed by Ted Witham tssf

Noel Jeffs SSF, Ode to Warrigal Creek Massacre,
2025, A4 card folded.
ISBN 9780646826042.

Noel Jeffs, a Brother in the Society of Saint Francis comes from a farming family as I do. Settler folk like us cannot deny that our comparative wealth and social position derive from the dispossession of Aboriginal people.

The name Warrigal Creek in Victoria, like Pinjarra in WA, and doubtless similar names in other States, resonates because of the massacre perpetrated there. The name produces a complex amalgam of emotions, which Brother Noel explores in this poem.

Hope for reconciliation of country seems to be blown away by the ‘hot anger of a tied-up dog’ (line 3); shame for these murderous acts follows, and ‘now in pain I knead this atrophy’. (line 11). This line describes the violence with which the recollection of Warrigal Creek is turned over in the poet’s mind, like pushing, smoothing, pulling, pounding, tearing and restoring flour and water when making bread. The word ‘knead’ is a homonym for ‘kneed’, and I take from this that the poet’s rumination brings him to a silent place of kneeling in penitence.

The last and biggest emotion is ‘grieving’, grieving that the ‘litter of bones’ (18) may let the poet’s shame be revealed.

But hope seeps through the crammed lines of the poem. The insistence that this is ‘my country’ is used here to recognise the shared pain of remembering. It is ‘country’ as named by its original inhabitants, but it becomes ‘my country’ when truth is revealed.

The poem is printed on one A4 card folded. The front depicts four rainbow serpents entwined in a circle. The heads of the snakes form a cross with the word ‘sacred’ inscribed four times on the circumference. Printing in black and white has made the symbol rather harsh. References to the full story of the Warrigal Creek massacre are on the front and back covers.

The card would make a suitable emblem of remembrance for participants in a day of truth-telling, especially about the Warrigal Creek massacre. I commend Brother Noel for this brave contribution to the national and necessary task of truth-telling, This poem on its card is ‘a plaque to heroically // scold’ (13-14)

The Angelus and Mudbricks

Noel Jeffs SSF, Roads to Stroud: Grasping at Tears, Precipices, Sydney, Darkstar Digital 2024, 19 pages

Brother Noel’s chapbook consists in two poems of just under 140 lines each, describing the journey taken by the poet from the city into the bush of the Hunter Valley in NSW.

The Stroud of the title of Brother Noel’s poems needs some explanation as Stroud figures large in the imaginations of Australian Anglican Franciscans.

Nearly 50 years ago, three Anglican Franciscan nuns from the Community of Saint Clare in England arrived in Stroud in NSW with a vision to build a house for the Community. A small block of land just outside the town of Stroud was sold to the Sisters. Under the leadership of Sister Angela, an Australian, the Sisters, with volunteers helping, made mudbricks and constructed them into a unique building – a monastery with almost no straight lines but a lot of character.

A Chapel and Hermitage for the Brothers, initially for the priest-brothers to provide chaplaincy to the Sisters, was constructed 100 metres away from the monastery.

Since then, all three branches of the Franciscan family have made deep connections with this small section of attractive bush. Some of Noel’s fellow-Brothers make their home here, and Third Order members have enjoyed the rich hospitality of the place. Sadly, the Sisters returned to England in 2000, but memories of them are strong, especially in the old monastery, now a retreat house imbued with prayer.

In Brother Noel’s second poem under review, Precipices, ‘mudbricks and mudbricks’ (p.14) and the Angelus bell of the Chapel (p.16) take us straight to the property at Stroud. (It may also be intentional that the grey cover and simple typeface mimic the covers of the Sisters’ booklets of poetry and spirituality back in the 70s – a fitting homage!)

Noel Jeffs’ writing is thick with classical, Biblical and Franciscan allusions giving the whole experience of the poet’s visits to Stroud a nuanced exploration of ‘this parade of // fervour to want to come back year, // after year’.

The poet’s experience of leaving the city ‘awash with railway yards // tracks to sentience and homely inner-city birds’ (page 3) and arriving at Stroud where he finds it ‘ensconced in // its wilderness of wildness, made a // garden estate.’ (15)

The natural world and the human world are as entwined in the city as in they are in the country.

When the first Europeans arrived in NSW in 1788, some described the ‘natural’ parklands, the result of many thousands of years of land care by the Indigenous inhabitants, as a garden estate, so there’s a double irony in Jeffs’ description. Stroud, with its beautiful curated gum trees and mown grass, is a ‘garden estate’ hewn from wilderness.

The ‘loss’ of wilderness (or the Indigenous parkland?) is claimed with ‘a black fella warrior stood here // beckoning on, welcoming us in // in a vision.’ (15), the word ‘vision’ doing double duty here for physical vision and insight.

Jeff’s language is oblique. Words slip from meaning to meaning. As the poet is travelling north, watching the illusion of staying still in the train and seeing the bush moving, he asks, ‘What do I want to say about // the cantering bushland which // surrounds and is enveloped // by a tunnel of true darkness // which shapes my life in all its // passages?’ (12) The bush is cantering by as a horse canters, but it is also ‘canted’, (‘written slant’ as Emily Dickinson would say), so that it describes both the scenery and the poet’s inner feelings.

I relish the musicality of Brother Noel’s verse. He is a master of assonance which ranges from pure rhyme to distant echoes of sound. Savour the repeated ‘s’ , ‘p’, ‘ps’, and ‘l’ sounds in these three lines:

‘The circumference is here, and no longer

lying lips, give me a platypus and make

them safe.’ (13)

Simple in intention, the poems describe a journey home. But where is home, and what does it mean? The city ‘in which I am free // and lucky to be alive’ (1), or Stroud, where ‘I have gone to heaven, and am // coming down on the other side // of the earth’ (14)?

The archetypal ‘snakes [which] make love on poles’ (3) are a striking and original image, but they are surely meant to evoke the Caduceus, the staff of Mercury, the messenger of the gods, and widely used as a symbol of medicine. In ‘Grasping at Tears’, the poet is going to Stroud, and with him the messenger of the gods, a diplomat, the bringer of medicine, peace and healing. But the Caduceus also speaks truth with deception. The poet is an unreliable messenger, and his message is a rich potpourri of ambiguous imagery, alluring music and insights almost made explicit.

The poems are introduced by two fine photos taken by Brother Noel, the first shows the gravel road into Stroud, and the second a butcherbird enjoying her reflection in the outdoor shaving mirror at the Hermitage.

The poet may be ‘Grasping for Tears’, but it is unclear whether the tears are tears of sadness or tears of delight – probably both. I find the two poems ultimately hopeful, as the poet claims that:

‘Home is a handsome place

an exotic space for silence

A limbering tree-house (5)

***

Ode to Warrigal Creek Massacre and Roads to Stroud are available direct from the author, Noel Jeffs SSF, at noeljeffs@hotmail.com.

Weed – Or Who Do You Think You’re Kidding?

I stood earnestly at the front of my Infants class. 34 pairs of eyes were intent on me and the story book of Jack and the Beanstalk I was reading. I was five. Most of my classmates were six years old, and they sat in pairs on the heavy wooden and iron desks on the wooden floor. The tiny bench seats folded down from the desk behind: they were the sort of desks that tempted little boys to pin to their desk the pigtails of the girl in front, or plunge them into the inkwell.

My job was to prevent this kind of naughty trick.

‘Fee-fi-fo-fum,’ I rumbled my voice. I was the mighty giant. ‘I smell the blood of an Eng-lish-man!’ I could feel the shiver of fear in every girl and boy in the room.

There was a measure of desperation in my performance as I squeaked out Jack’s voice and made Jack’s Mum sound angry but still loving. It was imperative I held the class’s attention. Miss Lang had left the room suddenly just as I had started the story. She had whispered in my ear, ‘I’ve got to go to a teachers’ meeting,’ she said, ‘Keep reading stories until I get back.’

There was no teacher nearby. The Infants’ class was in an old wooden room from its days as a one-teacher school, with a verandah outside and pegs to hang our leather school satchels. 50 yards separated it from the main redbrick school building, so there was no near adult to call on. It was on my shoulders, I told myself, to keep the whole class absorbed in my storytelling and so prevent any outbreak of mischief.

I reached the climax. Jack scrambles down the magic beanstalk to escape the giant, and sees the giant catching up fast. Jack grabs his mother’s axe and cuts down the beanstalk. The giant falls from a great height and dies an oversize death befitting him.

I was already thinking ahead. I need another book. I reached out to Miss Lang’s table and quickly found her copy of Hansel and Gretel. The general feeling of anticipation which I could sense behind me would last but a few seconds. I must get the book, and I must start reading.

I bless my mother who taught me to read with expression and drama. I came to school already reading, although the family story is that I came home from my first day at school complaining that Miss Lang hadn’t taught us to read on day one.

The responsibility Miss Lang placed on me to read in her absence wasn’t fair, of course, but I guess now that she found it impossible to delay the headmaster’s summons to attend the staff meeting. Authorities were like that in 1954. His intransigeance also wasn’t fair.

But I was confident that I could keep the eyes of the children on the picture book and their ears on my dramatic voice. I knew that most of the class had not yet learned to read, and I also knew that my rival Jenny Bessen was, like me, an advanced reader and a competent teller of the tales in Miss Lang’s books.

I continued leading the children into the forest with Hansel and Gretel. There was pressure in my bladder. I knew I should hand the book over to Jenny Bessen and run to the smelly toilets on the far side of the school playground. But Miss Lang had asked me to read. I was sure she would return, and I could then excuse myself.

I ploughed on. Hansel and Gretel were trapped in the gingerbread house by the wicked witch. They were clever enough to work out a sweet way to escape while the witch was away. But the smarting itchy feeling below my tummy grew stronger. Hansel started to eat the gingerbread. I was more determined not to let Jenny read.

My bladder suddenly gave way. I was standing in a puddle on the wooden floor. But the story had to go on. Would Hansel and Gretel escape? I reached the end of the story, my sandals and feet soaked in pee.

The door opened. Miss Lang saw my predicament and reached for the book. I burst into tears. Miss Lang gathered me up and lifted me onto a dry part of the floor. I watched her, unable to move, with a mixture of relief, embarrassment and victory, as the teacher found an old rag and cleaned my feet and the urine-soaked floor.

I looked at Jenny Bessen, and I was a little ashamed to see the disapproval in her eyes. But I hung onto the sense of accomplishment that I had succeeded in holding the class’s attention until the teacher’s return. It was just a pity that I hadn’t held back from piddling in front of the class.

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Copies of my memoirs sKerricKs are still available from me: $22.50 + $15 postage in Australia. Email TedWitham1@gmail.com

Mount Accordion

I was just six years old, still young enough to be cute, yet old enough to grind down my father by simply insisting. ‘I want to climb Mount Pix with you and Jim and Len.’ The aforementioned were my oldest brothers, Jim the grand old age of 17, with a Brylcreemed slick of brown hair, and blond Len 14.

I had nagged my way into the big grey Pontiac. My father’s intention, I now think, looking back, was to park the car at the foot of the western-most peak in the Stirling Ranges, and leave me there while he and the big boys climbed their way to the top.

But I was having none of that.

From our farmhouse 30 kilometres north, Mount Pix appears a heart-stopping shade of blue. It is longer than it is high, and I have always thought its silhouette was like the cupid’s bow drawn in red on a lady’s lip.

Close up, you can still imagine the shape of the bow, but the blue has changed to the sage green of knee-high vegetation with the stolid grey of the granite sub-stratum.

Dad and the boys were each standing at a car door, leaning in to retrieve wet-weather gear, thermoses of tea, and other equipment suited for a hike in the hills. They set off along the kilometre walk to the base of the mountain.

My sandals were not suitable for the grass underfoot and leaves and stalks scratched viciously at my thighs. As I struggled to keep up, I realised quickly that the team was not about to accommodate my laggard progress. Their intent was to lose me in the early stages of the hike.

The mountain loomed before us. As the climb became steeper, the going was a bit easier. It was mainly rock at my feet and the fauna grew sparser. At 30 kilograms, I discovered my advantage over my heavier siblings. I scampered up behind them.

As I climbed, I discovered a new vantage of the mountain. It was unfolding like a vast paper toy: Mount Pix had more than one peak!

‘Stay there and we’ll collect you on the way back,’ Dad called over his shoulder. They disappeared over the first peak. I followed. For a moment, the way ahead deterred me. Beyond this first peak, the ground fell rapidly away. There was a deep valley and beyond that, an even higher peak. Was this the top of Mount Pix?

I stumbled down towards the valley, my family small sticks on the upward climb opposite. Soon, they disappeared over the top. There was another peak beyond this one.

The point and bumps of the Cupid’s bow were unfolding to be three of several peaks.

I was in fact getting tired. I remembered that Dad always fabricated a suitable hiking stick by snapping a branch off a jam tree. I looked around for a tree.

I made my stick and tested it. I was now alone in this enormous valley. Should I turn back? No, this mountain is not going to beat me. I pressed on upward with my stick working well.

The blue sky rose from the peaks either side of me. A pair of wedge-tailed eagles circled above. A willy-wagtail suddenly chatted nearby, making me jump. Something slithered in the undergrowth. My experience suggested that a bobtail or similar small lizard had produced this noise; my imagination conjured up a large snake.

I looked towards the peak, searching for the reassuring figures of my family. But they had gone over the peak. I stumbled up the hill. I thought, if I run fast enough, I will find them.

Puffing hard, I reached the next peak. From this peak, like the first, the ground fell away steeply at about 45 degrees before rising to an even higher peak. A vast empty vista of the mountain’s inside. My heart beat even faster. I wanted my Dad, but he had vanished. Can I catch up?

Then I wondered how many preparatory peaks there were before the final peak. I hadn’t thought that a mountain might go on opening up like Dad’s accordion.

If I go on, I might miss them on their return trek.

If I turn back into these huge mountain folds, I might get lost altogether. Tears ran down my face.

I will go back, I decided. I’ll pick out my outward path exactly and follow it religiously. I had to circumnavigate the slithering noise, but then I would concentrate on retracing my exact steps.

As I pushed on up the steep slope, the sky went black. I wondered if it was going to get dark, nighttime dark, but the cloud covering the mountain burst into torrents of cold rain. My t-shirt and shorts were suddenly drenched. My sandals slipped on the slick granite. My stick slipped out of my hand.

I had a picture of my body rolling down the slope, bumping and breaking bones as it went.

Suddenly, strong hands lifted me and there I was, safe up on Dad’s shoulders.

Two hours later, I was drying in front of the kitchen fire, naked. My pyjamas were in the oven, warming. Behind me, my parents’ comforting voices, an edge to my mother’s.

‘But, Roy, you couldn’t just leave him floundering while you went on. You were thoughtless. He’s only six.’

Then Dad’s calm laconic reply, ‘But he’ll learn from it, Joan. Probably remember it all his life. ‘

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copies of my memoirs SKerricKs are still available from me: $22.50 + $15 postage in Australia. Email TedWitham1@gmail.com

Dear Treasurer

The Universal Basic Income, as you will know, proposes that every citizen receives a basic income, an amount sufficient to live on. The scheme would replace most, if not all, of the support the Government provides through Centrelink and NDIS. Studies show that it would cost a similar amount to our current system.

The UBI promises to

Raise the poorest in our community out of poverty, especially those on Youth Allowance, people caring for loved ones full time and tertiary students.
Reduce inequality between the rich and the very poor, thus giving all citizens a sense of dignity.
Decrease homelessness through better distribution of wealth.
Lift productivity. People freed from meaningless work would make their contribution to society through work for which they have a passion.

The Albanese Government has the confidence of the Australian people to make bold changes to make ours a better society. Rather than tinker around the edges of the tax system, you could make a wonderful improvement to the Australian community.

Yours sincerely

Ted Witham

Sonic boom

Decibels

They must have complained directly to the Headmaster, even though the Chapel was in my day-to-day care. It seems the anonymous complainants were offended by the ‘pounding’ and ‘shrieks’ of the rock group practising in the holy space.

I don’t remember if I gave the Music Department permission for this apparent desecration or whether it was a joint decision with the Headmaster. He did have a habit of micro-managing, and sometimes that was a helpful quality. It meant that on occasions, he accidentally took responsibility for my boo boos.

The orchestra had been playing in the Chapel for some years before, and no-one had objected to their percussion or high-pitched instruments. The first I knew about the complaint was at Assembly one Friday, the whole Senior School gathered – and all were as surprised as I was.

The hymn had been sung, the lesson had been read by the Prefect, and I had delivered my five-minute sermon, and handed the lectern to the Headmaster. Peter Moyes, in his black academic gown could look quite stern, but as we passed each other, I thought I detected a twinkle in his eye and a twitch of a smile.

Mr Moyes congratulated victorious sports teams, reminded the boys to pick up rubbish, and congratulated one of the French teachers for an award he had won. All routine.

Then he relaxed into a narrative. He did like hiding good news until the end.

‘The rock orchestra,’ he started, ‘has offended someone. I can’t tell you who it is, but they said that the band was playing too loud. The chaplain and I had both agreed they could practise in this space. My chapel, our chapel, is a great place to practise. It’s away from classrooms, it has a wonderful view of the river, which I’m sure helps our musicians make excellent music.

‘So I hired a sound engineer and asked him to investigate this problem. This engineer had a sound-meter, and he came for a couple of days over three weeks. He measured the sound that was being put out by our groups.

‘I learned from this engineer that the rock group peaked at about 87 decibels. That’s like a lawnmower hammering away. That’s loud. If you listened to 87 decibels for too long or from too close, you might cause damage to your ears.’

The Headmaster paused. I could see the boys calculating what the rock group’s fate would be if it was so damaging.

Then he continued, ‘He measured the orchestra as well. Classical music, much more civilised,’ he enthused. I knew he was a lover of orchestral music. ‘He reported to me that the orchestra peaked at 95. For volume, more like a night club than a chapel,’ he said.

Is he going to ban all musical groups from the Chapel? I formed the question in my mind. I wasn’t sure – but if there was evidence, he might…

‘And last of all, he measured the chaplain speaking and singing. Father Ted peaked at 105 decibels. I’ll tell the complainant.’ He smiled his enigmatic smile at the boys and sat down.

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copies of my memoirs Skerricks are still available from me: $22.50 + $15 postage in Australia. Email TedWitham1@gmail.com

Dislocated: A country dance

Dislocated

There was a two-roomed school in Moorine Rock, and an old weatherboard hall. There are a few other buildings, including a newly restored hotel, but there is nothing big about Moorine Rock. It’s not a town, just a tiny string of buildings along the Great Eastern Highway 400 km from Perth on the way to Southern Cross.

I was there to collect a ute. Each month for 18 months or so in the mid-1990s, I took the Prospector train to Southern Cross to lead worship in two or three centres and mentor the two farmers who were studying in the parish-based TEAM program.

The parish would organise a car for me. In an average Southern Cross weekend, I would drive several hundreds of kilometres along lonely roads, huge flat paddocks of wheat or canola my only company, in order to take services in Southern Cross and tiny settlements like Bodallin and Mount Walker, each with a half-dozen worshippers.

And on this night, a parishioner had brought me to Moorine Rock to collect my transport. It was convenient because there was a party in the hall, and I could meet some new people who weren’t churchgoers. In theory, a good idea. I thought I would be up for the social challenge, but it didn’t turn out that way.

I was nearly punched.

A line-dancing troupe from Perth had visited the school that afternoon. It stayed on to provide the music for the evening. The Principal chatted with me. Her 12 pupils were lined up on the dance floor to show their parents the moves they had learned that day.

I knew no one. I looked around the hall. There were a couple of dozen mothers chatting in twos and threes. A few of the men lounged against doorframes their fists grasping cold cans of beer. Other men were outside, all in earnest conversations. I overheard ‘wool prices’, ‘canola harvest’, ‘sheep sales’. I thought I was at home in a farming community. I thought this was like the little town where I grew up. But I knew that breaking into tightly knit conversations as a stranger was always hard. I thought I was up to the social challenge.

The music started up again after a break. The Principal called for everyone to get on the floor and join the line dancing. Two or three of the women joined in. They’d done this before. A young man from the Sons of Gwalia mine, an outsider, merrily drunk and hyperactive, took himself to the floor energetically. Not one of the farmers made a move towards the dance floor.

The Principal dragged me onto the floor. Elbows linked, we jigged in our line. The dancing was quite fun, but I noticed that the young miner and I were the only males on the floor. It seemed men didn’t dance.

I scooted back and forth for 15 minutes or so until the Principal released me. I thought I would join a conversation outside in the black night around the barbecues. I stood outside two of the groups waiting for the opportunity to jump into the conversation, either verbally, or physically. I wasn’t there it seemed.

I thought of Tambellup. It was many years since I had seen such strict apartheid: women inside, men outside.

I wandered back inside and tried to join the women’s talk. One group was more inviting and allowed me to move into their circle. But I could find nothing to contribute to their talk of babies and home duties and being a woman on these vast farms. It was on that night I learned that many women in their forties with growing families and solid farm responsibilities were not allowed access to money. Their fathers-in-law insisted that he had sole control of the bank accounts. The women were welcome to shop, but every little item had to go on the farm account – and then be accounted for.

Moorine Rock was in no danger of being liberated, it seemed.

Pretty soon, I gave up trying to socialise. I grabbed a can of Sprite and leaned against a wall: an involuntary wallflower. One of the farmers’ wives took pity and asked me who I was and what I did. The usual small talk. Very soon, we were into her rare trips to Perth. I told her about my travels. She had cruised in Europe and around Greenland. Suddenly there was a man between us, his face red.

‘Let me have my woman back.’ He said it quietly, but I could hear the menace in his voice.

‘Sorry about my husband,’ she said as he led her away.

I assumed that he was drunk and that this was a one-off situation. I still thought I could handle the social challenge.

I repeated the very same mistake five minutes later. This time the angry husband was about to hit me, but his wife restrained him.

I decided it was time to leave. I didn’t fit in. I couldn’t meet the social challenge. I headed for the front door of the hall and out into the night. I had to find the ute. I had to be able to locate the ignition. If I couldn’t succeed in those two challenges, I would have the humiliation of having to go and ask one of the men for help.

I quickly picked out the only ute. I slid into the dark cab, felt for the key slot, started the motor and flicked the headlights on. Three challenges in the pitch dark, really: one, find the ute, two, put the key into the ignition slot, and three, find the headlight switch. Three challenges met. Much easier than the social challenge.

I followed the dirt track from the hall to the highway and piloted the rattly ute to my accommodation in Southern Cross.

I was glad to be alone.

On Monday, back in Perth, I visited my physio. The boot-scooting had put my back out . Dislocated – badly.

ooooooooooooo

Photo credit: jjparsonsphotography

Resisting Tyranny in 2025

Tyrants seek to expand their power. While I don’t live in the United States, the actions of its President over the past 100-plus days have implications for us worldwide.

Mr. Trump’s power comes in large part from his wealthy tech. friends, Elon Musk, Mark Zuckerberg, Jeff Bezos and others. Together they form an oligarchy whose talons reach right into our Facebook accounts and grab hold of our book buying on Amazon. We send a message on Messenger, we read a tweet on X and we are forced to see ads which further enrich these billionaires.

Can any one of us individuals change these abuses of power? No, but we can act together, and we can resist the coming tyranny.

Here are 8 acts of resistance that I have been taking. I invite you to join me.

Delete your account with X if you still have one. X is the most destructive platform. It allows bullies and ideologues to channel us into submission to their viewpoint.
Don’t scroll on Facebook. Post what you want to, use ‘Notifications’ to read the posts of friends, but refuse to roll down the screen. Each click puts an ad before your eyes and ears and each ad seen adds to their wealth. The oligarchs are viciously clever. They earn money from us and without our consent.
Stop calling your smart speaker, ‘Hey Google!’ I call, ‘Hey Dougal’, or ‘Hey Bugle’ when I want it to respond. The tech company is happy when you repeat its name a dozen times a day. So don’t say ‘Hey Google’ and don’t say ‘I googled it.’ Avoid the commercial name and say, I searched on the internet.
Avoid buying on Amazon if you can. I find where most books are for sale on the Australian site www.booko.com.au. I usually don’t need Amazon either to find books or to buy them.
Don’t buy a Tesla car. The boycott on Teslas is already hurting Elon Musk’s business. If you are buying electric, WA’s Royal Automobile Club is comfortable recommending a range of electric cars, like the Chinese-made MG or the European-built Jeep Avenger. You don’t need a Tesla.
Think about deleting your Instagram account. Like X, Instagram allows bullies on its platform. It also encourages viewers to have unreal expectations of themselves because it rewards performance over integrity.
Never tick ‘Accept All Cookies’. Cookies are designed to deliver your name to the advertisers. If you can reject all, do so. Otherwise, choose to manage your preferences by unchecking as many choices as the site permits you.
Choose ‘Ask App Not to Follow Across Sites’. When it pops up, this option reduces the ability of the algorithm to create a web of connections and so multiply the points of contact for advertising targeted to you.

God Gives Us Death

Hear Ted read his sonnet: click here.

God’s gift to us of death

God gives us death; the gift is nature kind.
Death puts to an end the pains of old age, 
making space for those in the queue behind.
God writes each chapter and the final page. 

Species yield to species, each man to a new,
Deep time sweeps all away to stubborn death.
Death’s truth’s not sad, it’s merely stark worldview:
Each allotted our finite store of breath.

So death spreads from past until the very end. 
But wait! There’s a surprise: God….! 
A new thing surpasses all we can know: 
Fresh universe of power and love to grow. 

God rips death‘s fabric the curtain to transform,
The new-made mystery; pristine creatures swarm.  

 Alleluia!

-	Genesis 1:20-23, & 2:7-8, John 1:1-18, Mark 15:38
-	Ted Witham tssf, Easter A.D. 2025