Old fashioned comfort in a hi-tech world

At winter’s end, but deep into what feels like endless lockdown, I am deeply grateful for that most old-fashioned of comforts, my hot water bottle. Aka HWB, as my mother used to call them, or, affectionately, ‘hottie’, before that appellation meant something else entirely.

It seems, judging by the racks of the things in pharmacies and supermarkets, that I am not the only fan. In a time of sophisticated technology and fancy heat packs zapped in microwaves, the humble hot water bottle remains surprisingly popular.

They are so basic and so effective. All you need to use one is a kettle and a heat source. Securely enveloped in its fluffy cover, it emits a steady warmth without incurring harm. When it starts to cool, you take the cover off and get another hour of heat.

One of my daughters has a chronic illness causing severe pelvic and abdominal pain. She has a cocktail of drugs, a tens machine, various alternative therapies, but her constant companion is her HWB. Because she uses it without a cover, her skin is permanently mottled with burns the colour of an aged Shiraz, but it eases her pain as consistently as anything else. She buys jeans two sizes too big, tucking her hottie permanently between her belly and her belt. My ailments are trivial by comparison, but a warm bottle at my back is a welcome balm on achey days.

But these old faithfuls aren’t just for the hard times. Most of my life has been lived in ancient, draughty houses where I read, or studied or, since working from home became the norm, did my day job, draped in a dressing gown or a blanket tucked so as to keep my hottie in place. I don’t like having a heater on during the day (being both anxious about the environment and careful with money); having a hottie always on the go makes this possible through a Melbourne winter.

Over the last 18 months, however, my hot water bottle has come into its own like never before. In time of lockdown we all need comfort – physical and emotional. The hot water bottle provides both in one, modest, inexpensive package. Its soothing, solid, unflashy power to comfort never fails. I cuddle it to my midriff on arctic mornings and frigid afternoons and it’s as good as having a puppy on my lap. I curl around it in bed and feel that somehow, we will get through this.

Remember God loves you. And go Dees!

Several of my male friends who started barracking for the Melbourne Football Team when they were little tackers in the 1960s, and haven’t had much joy since (at least, not from their football club) have developed a distinct spring in their step, a twinkle in their eye this season.

Lukewarm supporter that I am (I don’t love footy, but I love a lot of people who do, and a Dees win makes them happy all week), even I have been getting on the Demons bandwagon. In my defence, it’s the first time in my memory that the team I am loosely affiliated with has played football that is captivating to watch.

After the fairy-tale of last weekend’s match against Geelong, even I was listening tearfully to post-match analysis and interviews. In particular, an interview with Stephen May and Jake Lever (Maysie and Jakey – why do so many big tough Aussie Rules footballers have nicknames that sound like something from nursery school?) captured my imagination and set my theological antennae quivering.

May was asked at the post-match press conference what he had said to Max (Maxy) Gawn as he lined up to kick the winning goal after the siren. He responded, ‘I just said to him, whatever happens, we still love you bro’. Whereupon, Gawn kicked that baby straight through the goal posts.

It’s a perfect secular illustration of what I believe the God who is the source and heart of all love feels about each one of us. There are days when we kick mighty goals, and there are a lot of days when we miss. There are days when we barely make it to the playing field. Whichever it is, God will still love us. Always. The God that Christians believe was most clearly revealed in the person of Jesus of Nazareth is a God of unstinting love, boundless mercy, forgiveness that is never exhausted.

As he lined up in front of the goal posts, Max Gawn appeared to be completely ‘in the zone’, as focussed as any Olympic athlete waiting for the starter’s gun. He probably didn’t even register what his team mate was saying to him. But it is tempting to think that at some level, May’s words helped his skipper to send that ball precisely where it needed to go. Learning that we are unconditionally loved, win, lose or draw, is a lifetime journey. When that starts to sink in, it enables us to become more like the person we yearn to be.

This was published in The Melbourne Age on 29 August 2021

Online collaboration with my daughter Fi Macrae

Super chuffed to be published online for the first (and not the last we hope!) collaboration between our daughter Fiona and me. Thanks to Fi for letting me contribute to this piece where she talks about resilience in the face of ongoing medical trauma.

And thanks to Ramona mag for publishing us!

https://ramonamag.com/2021/08/this-body-is-mine-my-journey-through-medical-trauma/

'They' could be the perfect pronoun for God

As I encounter more non-binary people, I find myself becoming comfortable with using the pronoun ‘they’ as opposed to ‘he’ or ‘she’. The more you use it, the less awkward it becomes. Sure, ‘they’ is traditionally a plural pronoun. But language changes all the time. And we already use ‘they’ when we are unsure of a person’s gender.

It’s similar to becoming comfortable with abandoning a gendered pronoun when referring to the Divine. In most world religions, God is identified as male. No matter how often anyone says that doesn’t actually mean that God is a man, if God is referred to exclusively by the male pronoun (not to mention the many male titles such as King and Lord) it conveys clearly that, in essence, God is masculine. This has suited and reinforced patriarchal culture through the ages very well.

In the Uniting Church, of which I am a rusted on member, many worship leaders try and avoid the male pronoun for God. At first it seems a little clunky. ‘For God so loved the world, that God gave God’s only begotten Son,’ and so on. But it soon feels familiar. If a gendered pronoun must be used, mix them up – sometimes she, other times he.

The gloriously inclusive ‘they’ is a perfect pronoun for God, for several reasons. The Christian doctrine of the Trinity – God as Three-in-one, Father, Son and Holy Spirit, or, more inclusively, Creator, Redeemer and Sustainer – is a unique part of Christian orthodoxy. Like so much in religion, it is devilishly hard to explain, which is maybe how profound truths should be. We can discuss and explore them, use metaphors (the shamrock; or ice, water and water vapour, for the Trinity, for example) to illustrate them, in the end they are a mystery, as is the Christian assertion that Jesus was simultaneously human and divine.

God is the one who created and sustains all that is; God is the one who came among us as a human being in Jesus; God is the one who remains within and around and among us. The doctrine of the Trinity is an attempt to describe this triple experience of the essence of the Divine.

The fact that we describe God as a Trinity, a community of love, makes ‘they’ the perfect pronoun to describe God. I am reminded of Franciscan Richard Rohr’s glorious description of the Trinity as ‘a circle dance, a centrifugal force flowing outward and then drawing all things into the dance centripetally’.

Referring to God as ‘they’, or naming God as Father and Mother, is in perfect alignment with Jesus’ radical inclusivity, notwithstanding his use of the intimate form of address to God, Abba (Father/daddy). A first century Jewish man, steeped in a patriarchal system, Jesus included children, women, prostitutes, tax collectors and lepers as his friends and followers.

Every human being – female, male, other – is made in God’s non-gendered image. God is sublimely beyond gender. There are ways to convey this, biblically and beautifully, in our worship, our conversation and our theology.

This was published in the July edition of The Melbourne Anglican

Sitting with Celeste

Unlikely as it might seem, I met my friend – let’s call her ‘Celeste’ – at a silent meditation retreat. At some point during the weekend, she had a phone call she had to take. I happened to be nearby, and at the end of the weekend she apologised to me for interrupting my silence with speech. ‘My husband’s just had a grim diagnosis,’ she explained, ‘and I had to take that call’. My own husband had had a similar diagnosis that very week. We compared notes; they both had multiple myeloma, an unusual type of cancer.

What are the chances? ‘Celeste’ and I were friends from then on, instant myeloma buddies, sisters in adversity. As the years went by, we checked in on each other with regularity and remembered each other and our blokes in our prayers. At each twice yearly retreat, we made sure we had time to catch up and to hold each other, literally and metaphorically.

Earlier this year, her much-loved husband died. At our retreat just three weeks later, she told me about his good death and about how she was travelling – spoke with honesty, profound grief, deep gratitude and steadfast faith. It was a privilege to hear her story.

On meditation weekends, I like to sit at a particular window to eat my breakfast. No one else seems to have discovered my favourite spot; I make a beeline for it once I’ve made my tea, and gaze out at the rolling green of the Yarra Valley, hands wrapped around my mug.

As I sat there the first morning, I was aware of someone approaching and my heart sank. No one talks, but just having someone in my orbit makes me a little less relaxed and peaceful. When I saw it was ‘Celeste’, I breathed a sigh of relief. She took the armchair next to mine and we sat in silence, drinking our cuppas, looking out over the trees and the clouds and the light playing on the hills.

It was okay. As ‘Celeste’ said when we caught up before travelling home again, it was more than okay. As we sat, ostensibly ignoring each other, we both had a deep sense of connection, of support, of holding each other in prayer – she in her grief and exhaustion, me in the knowledge that, unless something very unexpected happens, that will be me one of these days. It had the effect of a long hug.

We met in the car park when we were packing up to go and she recalled that that was where we had had our first conversation, six years ago, when we were both reeling with news that had changed our worlds. There were tears of sadness and gratitude as we recalled that meeting, as we expressed the blessing we have been to each other.

Sitting next to someone in silence and yet in perfect ease is akin to how I occasionally feel in prayer. Utterly held by love and understanding. No words required.

This was published in the June issue of The Melbourne Anglican