Liturgies

Monday, April 30th 2018

The Stories of Us

By Robert Perrier

Robert speaks about how communities gather around their stories and are held together by them. His hope is that stories will always reign and remain at the heart of St Marys In Exile.

In November 1979, a DC10 with 237 tourists on board flew out of Auckland, New Zealand, for an overflight of Antarctica. There was cloud about, but the passengers could still see many of the ice continent’s spectacular geological features. 

The flight plan included a loop over the Ross Sea close to Ross Island before continuing up McMurdo Sound towards the McMurdo ice shelf. Ross Island is a volcanic mountain range. It has two active volcanos named after the colonial ships that first landed there. One is called Mt Erebus. In Greek mythology, Erebus was the personification of darkness. The other is called Mt Terror.

After doing its loop, the DC10 straightened on its way to the ice shelf, but instead of flying up the Sound, it flew head on into Mt Erebus killing everyone on board. 

My GP, Henry, told me this story just over a month ago. I wanted to get a referral from him to see a psychiatrist who specialised in Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. For those of you who don’t know, many years ago I was diagnosed with late-onset PTS as a result of life-threatening infant and childhood trauma. My father was a violent man. He used knives, bottles, fists and vile derogatory language to exert his power. It took some time for the PTS to fully emerge in me, but when it did, it was terribly destructive. These days my condition is largely non-symptomatic and my life is enriched for understanding its origins and its nature.  

But recently someone acted violently towards me and it triggered a post-traumatic response. I wanted professional help to ensure it would not deepen into something more debilitating. 

The psychiatrist came highly recommended. Many of his clients were returned soldiers. When I learned this, I was worried my troubles were nothing as serious as a soldier’s and consequently the specialist may not consider me a priority. I expressed these doubts to Henry. Henry responded in two ways. Both came in the form of a question.

“What do you think the difference is between your experience of PTSD and a soldier’s?”

“I don’t know what you are getting at,” I said.

“A soldier knows who the enemy is,” said Henry, “the person who abused you was supposed to love you, not kill you. What kind of messages enter the head of a child who is abused and derogated by the person whose duty is to hold and protect him? That kind of abuse attacks the very essence of your worth as a human being. Those messages last a lifetime.”

That’s when Henry told me the story of the plane flying into Mt Erebus. 

At first, the airline blamed the pilot. It’s the easiest thing. Blaming the victim. But after an investigation, the authorities found the source problem wasn’t even in Antarctica. It was in New Zealand. New co-ordinates were programmed into the plane’s flight management computer days before take-off and no one told the crew. The pilot had no idea about his fate or the fate of those in his care.

When the plane completed its loop over the Ross Sea, it was thirty kilometres off course and rather than accelerating down the Sound, it flew into Mt Erebus instead.

“Your brain is like that plane’s computer,” said Henry. “In part, you are a product of what was programmed into you when you were a child.”

Henry then asked me what I did to stay well today. 

“I have a programme,” I said. “I do yoga and meditate. I have a support network of personal friends who are not afraid to be honest with me. I seek counselling when I need it. I have you. I give back. I make music. I’m an active member of a number of communities.”

“Yes,” said Henry, “And that is the point of the story. That disaster would not have happened if the aircraft was in a populated area. Even with the wrong coordinates. There are too many visual markers and radars. There are other aircraft and flight controllers. They would notice if the aircraft was off course. But in Antarctica there were no makers or flight controllers or other pilots. The DC10 was flying solo and pre-programmed for catastrophe. Your practice, your networks, your community” said Henry, “are the flight controllers and other pilots. They look out for you and, if necessary, bring you back from danger.” 

Recently, in one of Terry’s homilies he talked about the fate of St Mary’s-in-Exile (SMX). There had been a series of Board workshops which focussed on the future. Without some form of transformation and reinvigoration, there was a fear the community would eventually die. Among other things, the Board felt that SMX needed a set of beliefs which could both bind the community and attract new people, particularly families and younger people. Terry encouraged us to think about what those beliefs might be.

This homily is a response to that call.

I started it with a story about a visit to a doctor who told me a story about a doomed aircraft. In the telling of the story you also learned a little of my past. You may also have gained some insight into the nature of post-traumatic stress particularly as it affects children. But, primarily the story is a parable about the importance of interdependence.

All communities gather around their stories and are held together by them. In the Christian tradition the stories come from the bible. At their best, they are instructive and encourage us to be our better selves. In my view, the most effective bible stories have their roots in reality. For example, the story of the money lenders in the temple, or the stoning of the prostitute or the return of the prodigal son. They are believable. At their worst, the stories are catastrophic dystopian fantasies which put the fear of death into us. Revelations. Need I say more?

So what is our story? The story of SMX? It depends on your perspective. Not one of us will see the same situation in exactly the same way. So, in a nutshell, this is mine.

At some point in its life, the old St Mary’s became a refuge for those who were disillusioned with the institution of the church. We connected with the idea of the church as family but rejected the idea of church as state. We wanted to hold on to some of the church’s cultural traditions, especially its commitment to social justice and we also wanted the right to challenge the power of the state. So St Mary’s also became a platform from which the rebellious spirit within the family of the church could find voice in celebration and in action.

That purpose ended the day we walked out of the old St Mary’s church down to the Trades and Labour Council Building.  Pressured into a self-imposed exile, we were no longer malcontents fighting for the prostitutes in the temple or rebels wanting to expel the money-lenders and merchants. That’s because we were no longer in the temple. 

We were also no longer physically proximate to Micah, the social justice arm which St Mary’s had given rise to. This sense of “being separated from” was exacerbated because compared to the spacious down-home open embrace of the old church and presbytery, the new venue had the ambience of an office. To overcome our disappointment, we jokingly called the TLC, the Tender Loving Care building. But, in our hearts, many of us knew the old game was up and no one was quite sure what new game we were in.

There were arguments, discussions and prognostications around the nature of our statelessness and homelessness and what our new purpose might be. Some people left and others stayed. Some fell out. New people came and some of those who left returned. I stayed but I didn’t get involved much in the discussions. Finding answers to questions was not the reason I was ever with you. I stayed because I love what you do and, because of what you do, I love you.

And I stayed because of the stories. I particularly love the stories which come out of us. I love Peter’s stories about his chickens and goats and donkeys. They are usually apt and so full of love and vulnerability they often bring me to tears. Some other stories of the community, like Mary Pease’s “Life and Death – A Foot in Both Camps”, I will never forget. Hers was a story of how she was dealing with life in the face of her imminent death. It was a story of gratitude despite her physical suffering. She told it with such courage and grace, I left that Sunday uplifted and liberated.  

But aside from the stories of us, I also appreciated hearing again the fantastical stories which celebrated the birth, death and resurrection of that strange bloke, Jesus. I’m not sure why, but probably because, like us, he too was a rebel who stuck it up them. 

Christian stories are so imaginative—magic tricks, improbable births and resurrections, miracles all over the place—they are all there. And there are lessons to be had from them, provided we don’t get caught up in taking some of the shenanigans too literally.

The great playwright Shakespeare knew this and reminded us of it in his plays. His last play The Tempest is full of spirits and sprites, half-human creatures, sorcerers and magicians. And despite being a fantasy, it is packed with poignant observations about the human condition.

At the end of the play, the main protagonist, Prospero, comes to the edge of the stage and addresses his audience. He speaks to them about the play they have just seen. But, when he addresses them, it is clear Shakespeare is not just talking about the actors or the play. He is also speaking about himself and his body of work and about us and our common fate.

Our revels now are ended. These our actors, As I foretold you, were all spirits, and Are melted into air, into thin air: And like the baseless fabric of this vision, The cloud-capp'd tow'rs, the gorgeous palaces, The solemn temples, the great globe itself, Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve, And, like this insubstantial pageant faded, Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff As dreams are made on; and our little life Is rounded with a sleep. 

So let’s come back now to the little life of us which, not yet fully rounded, is still unfolding. The question the Board is grappling with is this: is it unfolding to death or can there be some form of resurrection?

The theme of this Easter’s celebrations was the desert. Some may not agree with this, but I think we, as a community, have been in a kind of desert ever since we left the old church. And I’m content enough in the desert. There’s plenty of time and space in a desert and with all the social media these days, we need it. As Susan Sontag says. “Time exists in order that everything doesn’t happen all at once…and space exists so that it doesn’t all happen to you.” 

But the more we stay as we are, the more likely it is we will eventually merge with the desert.

Dust to dust.

On the other hand, I’d also be just as content if we decided to come out of the desert. To work towards rebuilding a community similar to the one we had in the old church. A multi-generational community made up of families with kids running amuck and young people wanting to change the world and with leaders and elders who are unafraid to stick it up them wherever they may exist. 

Such a community would look much different to what we have now and not be an exact replica of what we had then. And it would take thought and resources and effort to achieve.

Do we have the will? Do we have the energy? Are there the resources? These are all practical questions which would need to be answered.

But whether we are unfolding to this future or that, or, indeed, to a future altogether different, my prayer for this community is that the stories always reign. That the stories always remain at out heart. Especially the stories of us—us and our sometimes easy, sometimes difficult, but forever loving, little lives.