"This is what going to Church should feel like," Biz says to me as we walk our suburban streets hand in hand. We cross the road to the train station on our way to the 'Light the Dark' candlelight vigil.
Normally I face forward in the train to
see where I'm going and Biz likes to sit backwards. I choose to shake
things up and join her in sitting backwards to watch the scenery fall
behind, like I'm acknowledging where we've been over where we are
going.
Sydney teems with people, each with
their own identity, their own thoughts. They are all going somewhere.
I catch the eyes of a few people going in the opposite direction but
on the whole to most I am but a momentary blur in the corner of their
eye. Some are moving in the same direction as us and we filter into
the town hall square with them under the shadow of the ornate stone
masonry Church that stands to one side. There is already a gathering
of people waiting in anticipation for the nights event. They are
mostly older folk with bright eyes and smiles etched into their
faces.
Their presence surprises me. I recall
one of the defining moments in the development of my identity when I
was a teenager. In the movie 'The Breakfast Club' I identified with
the 'freak' as they were discussing not turning into their parents
(not that my parents were an issue). She said “it's unavoidable, it
just happens, when you grow up, your heart just dies.” Judd's
character interjects with “who cares!” and through tears she
replies “I care.”
Well I'm all grown up now and the young
who now swarm into the square probably see me as a bit of an oldie
but that's ok. I've gotten this far in avoiding the death of my soul
and around me I see hope in my fellow bleeding hearts that I will not
turn into what I hated the idea of becoming. And shouldn't our hearts
bleed for the refugees we deny hope and for Reza Berati the gentle
giant who came to us for protection and a new life and instead was
brutally killed?
The dark envelopes the few thousand
gathered here and we stave it off with the lighting of our candles.
The candle I brought with me was the candle that the Church community
of Deloraine gave me when I was commissioned as a Chaplain back in
2007. It has a now faded cross painted on it above the Deloraine High
School emblem and written beneath are the words 'Here is my servant,
whom I have chosen.' This candle of symbolic and sentimental value
hasn't held a flame for seven years but tonight I light it because
while I may not be a Chaplain anymore, I still feel called to serve
the beliefs and values that I held and that I hold.
We find a vantage point near the rear
of the crowd overlooking a sea of flickering flames to the town hall
steps where the organisers have set up their cameras and microphones.
With hot wax already periodically dripping onto my hand that holds
the candle we are encouraged to vocalise or whistle rather than clap
in response to the activists and religious leaders that are to
address the crowd. Chris Taylor of the Chaser is up first
acknowledging that he is not one of the religious leaders, “there's
still time!” some wacko yells. From that light moment Chris builds
to something heavy and the response is a clamouring of whistles,
woohoo's and a few thousand raised candles. I'm glad we've left
applause behind, it doesn't suit the atmosphere.
We listen to refugees and activists and
people representing different faiths. I appreciate the different
faiths and denominations expressing solidarity with each other, and
with those of no spiritual belief, in standing together with those
that we have neglected. The Jewish leader expressing that his people
still remember the trauma of fleeing from persecution and so stand
with all asylum seekers receives one heck of a 'hell yeah.' And the
Christian leader who addressed Tony Abbott's quote that 'we will not
succumb to moral blackmail' as meaning that Tony is choosing to take
us on a course to moral bankruptcy elicits a chorus of “Shame,
Shame Tony Shame!”
Sydney has often felt like a place
without a soul to me in my short time living here. As tonights
events end and as people mill around the square and I see their faces lit by
the candles they hold, I sense a heart here connecting me to these
others. There is a pulse here despite where forces of selfishness and
fear and bigotry want to take us.
Biz and I move toward the memorial for
Reza at the foot of the steps leading into the town hall. An Iranian
flag is flown for him and mourners gather round flowers, pictures and
messages to Reza that people are encouraged to write. We deliver our
message. We walk away from that scene, a scene that is usually
reserved for viewing on our tv screens of pain half a world away. But
this is not half a world away, this I see with my own eyes, this that
has happened in our name. This is not the Australia that I want.
Perhaps I should be facing forward as I
ride home on the train but I don't know if we've turned a corner yet
so I find myself facing backwards again. And it falls away behind me
as I plug some Billy Bragg 'waiting for the great leap forward,' into
my ears. That sacred moment of fellowship where people of different
ages and shapes and sizes and cultures and beliefs can come together
as one to stand for something bigger than themselves. If I was more
poetically inclined I'd turn to Biz and say “yes, that is what
going to Church should feel like.”
