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Email List Faith Personal

Lessons in pastoring, lessons in friendship

It started with an email:

Hi Steve

Jason O’Neil here – it was nice to meet you on Sunday, thanks for the friendly welcome. For whatever reason I chose small talk instead of sharing something I wanted to, but you said you’re a pastor who loves the story, so here’s an introduction to mine.

It’s a complete surprise to me that God is doing something in Anna and she’s feeling a pull back into church. That’s her story to share. But she’d encouraged me to listen to your message from last month on Humility, the “building bridges, tearing down walls” one, and at the end I felt challenged to reach out to you (not sure if this counts as building a bridge or tearing down a wall? 🤷‍♂️)

But then when I met you on Sunday, I’ll admit I was feeling relatively anxious being back in the building at Riverview. The community there was home for me for some 15 years, I was very much an insider. But I’ve consciously rejected that and chosen to stay on the outside after we returned to Perth 4 years ago.

When you talked about building an inclusive community, a welcoming church, it reminded me of everything I loved about this community, and I want to be part of that. There’s two stumbling blocks for me at the moment.

One is that by most evangelical standards I’m a bit of a heretic. I’ve variously described myself over the past few years as “an agnostic christian”, “a christian mystic”, “I grew up religious”, “a god-fearing gentile” and “it’s complicated”. Unlike a lot of my friends on similar journeys, I still believe in God, even still try to be in relationship with God. But my beliefs and my language around that have really shifted. My mind doesn’t know what to believe. And yet, the Philippians 2 story you preached on, of incarnation, self-emptying, is the most compelling story I’ve encountered. I don’t know if it’s literally true, but its powerful, and its good, and I’d want to live my life following that way. Protestant churches have so emphasised correct belief and correct doctrine that when you question it all, its hard to stay in the community. And I don’t blame the churches, when you unravel your worldview like this the most common response is to call it all bullshit and walk away. Too many people asking too many questions won’t be good for the health of the community. But in your picture of a big inclusive church… where do heretics that are still interested in discipleship fit?

The other stumbling block is the churches exclusion of the LGBTQ community. Riverview was founded by a pastor who later came out as gay, and so long had a softer stance than the surrounding evangelical culture. The first time I had a friend come out as gay, it was a friend from Riverview, and I’m still grateful to him for loving me through my prejudice. But at some point (2015-ish?) the church took a stance that those in gay relationships couldn’t volunteer. When we moved back to Perth in 2018 we tried to return to Riverview for a while, but I silently took a stance of only getting as involved as a queer friend would be allowed to. (If I wanted my protest to be meaningful, I probably should have told someone 🤦‍♂️). Anyway, it turns out feeling connected at a megachurch is hard when you’re not involved in a team. The challenge in your sermon to protect the unity of the church challenged me to be less hostile towards those Christians who are hostile to the queer community – can I make space for them? But reciprocity would demand they also make space for those whose life choices they think are wrong… I have no idea what that looks like in a community in practice. I’m bored of the debate about if homosexuality is sinful (to the point about me being a bit of a heretic, I have a non-standard definition of sin anyway). But I am interested in how to build a united church when the divisions are so deep. And given the Australian church’s history of stoking division (burning bridges?) in this area… I want to hear about how you think about rebuilding bridges with this community.

I hope you don’t mind me putting all this in an essay-length email. Like I said, don’t feel like you have to respond. Me sending this is just a way of forcing myself to open up my story, rather than stay polite but closed off. If you’re interested we can pick the conversation up some other time. This is me reaching out and responding to something I felt in your sermon. Thanks for preaching it so passionately.

See you soon,

Jason

I figured I would get back to church at some point, once the kids were a bit older, but going anywhere with a one year old and three year old felt impossible. And I didn’t know where to go. It’d been five years since I left Perth, and the church I’d grown up in – Riverview – along with it. I’d tried lots of churches since then – in Melbourne and Sydney and Perth, Anglican, Church of Christ, a home church, even two separate Hillsong churches. There was a small community of about 30 people in Melbourne that felt like a spiritual home and a community where I belonged, but after it wrapped up, nothing felt quite right.

I knew enough to know that there would be no perfect place, and that if I wanted genuine community it starts with messy community. But the thought of starting over somewhere felt overwhelming, especially at this stage of life, and so I just had stopped trying. For a while anyway.

Steve’s response cut through that.

He took a walk around the park next to the church and sent an initial response. He engaged with my questions, offered no judgement, shared some of his story, and some of how he views his role. He used the word “missionary” rather than “pastor” or “leader”. To my question about where there’s a space for a heretic in church, he returned the question “what is church?” to deepen the conversation. Then he talked about how that afternoon he was going to visit a young man dying from Huntington’s disease, as if answering his own question. And then he invited me to grab a burger with him to talk more.

It was a style of pastoring I hadn’t experienced before. And definitely not at that level of leadership in a large church. The start of a friendship.

I want to tell all the stories of all the other times it cut through. It would be a long post! Instead I’ll share the message I wrote for him now that he’s heading back to Canada. (Today is his last day as senior minister at Riverview). I hope it gives you a picture of what his pastoral work, and his friendship, has meant to me:

Hey Steve,

There are many things I want to thank you for. For taking a walk around G.O. Edwards park and responding to my email and inviting me for a burger. For paying for that burger. For seeing my pastoral gifting and calling it out over that first lunch, even when I wasn’t sure about anything about church. For reading a blog post I sent you, and then reading some more, and encouraging me to the point I started writing again. For the vulnerability to share some of what was frustrating or hard for you and your family in the move to Perth. For the smile and honest-to-God “it’s good to see you” when I’d walk in late and sit a row or two behind you on a Sunday morning. For holding space for me and Anna the day after our sister attempted suicide. For calling us friends. For visiting me when I was in hospital because I had bladder problems, and not making it awkward. For being only the second person to subscribe to my blog, and the first person who is not my mum. For communicating a vision for the church that resonated with me so strongly that it shapes my own hopes and goals and plans. For helping me chart a path to nurture my preaching gift, then seeing where my family was at, just being honest that that 100% had to be the focus for the next few years. For seeing me broken and crying in the foyer, at a time you couldn’t stop, and at least making sure someone else was with me. For that walk around Heirisson Island / Kakaroomup and enjoying nature together. For hearing me as I tried to tell you how hard it was without telling you what was happening. For being at my house less than an hour after I told you what was happening. For immediately speaking hope: that you have always felt like God had better days ahead for me. For calling every couple of days. For encouraging me every time you saw me at church – I felt like you understood how hard it was. For being the first to ask, with a glint in your eye, if anyone new had caught my interest. For when you met her for the first time and, without making it weird, named the calling you see for my life.

So thank you, for all of these things.

But most of all, I want to thank you for a moment you weren’t present for. It was in the darkest point in this whole story when I was not coping at all. Visiting Anna in hospital every day. Trying to solo parent special needs kids. Carrying the weight of the start of a marriage break-down but having not told anyone yet. And in there, I took a day off, and went for a hike in Mundaring. And on that hike, God showed up. There were three key moments, each with images that shifted how I understood God to be holding me, in this situation, and in all of my life. And the second of those, I think I could only understand because of what you most love to talk about. The trail rounded a corner and hit a breathtakingly beautiful spot, and I had to stop. I felt like the Spirit was reminding me it was holy ground, so I deliberately paused, stepped off the path, and acknowledged the moment. And in that moment, I noticed that it wasn’t just a sense of God as spirit/breath, or God in Heaven over everything sense… my sense was that it was Jesus. The person, my friend. Nearby, walking along this same path, looking at this same view, with me in this. All of this. The Jesus I knew when I was young. You speak about it so often – that he calls us friends. I knew it when I was young, but in de-constructing / re-constructing my faith, I’d lost it. And in that moment, with your constant encouragements, I found it again. I’m still learning, but in that moment, something shifted.

Whether you saw your work here as being a missionary or a pastor or a friend… whatever it is, I’ve felt your love, and through that, I’ve re-discovered Jesus’ friendship. And for that most of all, thank you.

My faith is in a very different place than it was three years ago. To make it through that season and to where I am now I needed a pastor, and I needed a friend, and Steve was both.

Thanks Steve ❤️ Can’t wait for the day I make it over to Canada to visit you and the family!

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Email List Family Micro Memoirs Personal

Remembering my Uncle Brendan

My uncle, Brendan Eaton (Bung) passed away in January. Here’s the story I shared at his funeral today.


The story I want to share of uncle Brendan is about one of the most frightening moments of my childhood, and how he was there for me in that.

In the hospital a few weeks ago I heard the stories of Brendan, Rosey, and the hill trolley. Building a kart to race downhill at a breakneck pace, and then loading your little sister in it. It sounds like even as a kid Brendan had a love for vehicles, and maybe a respect, but definitely a need for speed. But it was more than the hill trolleys and motorbikes and cars – he also liked to help others experience the thrill and adventure of it.

So if as a kid for him it was hill trolleys and his little sister, by the time he was older and my uncle, he’d graduated to bigger toys. Quad bikes, specifically. And he even got a farm to ride them on.

So together with my sister Clare and brother Aaron we’d get dropped off to Toodyay for a day with Bung and Mush, and the quad bikes. I day dreamed about it, easily the highlight of every school holidays. He taught us how to ride, about safety, respect for the vehicle. But he also taught us – and showed us! – how to have fun. Nothing like that sense of adventure and thrill seeking as a kid.

That’s the first thing l want to remember Brendan for: teaching and modelling and giving us that sense of adventure.

The second is what happened on the day I crashed the quad bike. We’d been having fun in the paddocks for a few hours already, and were coming back in for the end of the afternoon. Brendan was on one bike in front, I was driving the other with my brother riding on the back, chasing him back through the gates and to the house. As we came to the corner where the gate was, there was something I didn’t see – a guy wire from a nearby pole. I hit it, at speed. The bike lifted, my brother went flying and landed on the barbed fence, and I ended up pinned underneath the bike. My memory of the moment is dark – I can’t remember seeing anything. I remember hearing myself screaming, and my brother screaming. I remember feeling trapped. The burning heat. And I remember Brendan shouting, the shouts coming closer.

See the flip side of adventure is that sometimes the risks eventuate. And in that moment, as an eleven year old, it felt like it was all over for me. But it wasn’t. Uncle Brendan was there in a moment, lifted the bike off, and got me and my brother to safety.

And that’s the second thing I want to remember Brendan for. That incredible strength, loving strength, that was there to help pick up the pieces, and let us know we would get through this.

And those two things have shaped me – willingness to live large and take risks. And the knowledge that when it does fall, there’s loving people who’ll be with you on the other side, as he was then, and as he has been even up until this last year.

Bung, I am so grateful.

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Email List Family Micro Memoirs Personal

Hello Louis

This is the moment.

You’re here. It becomes real now. I watched Anna get big. I watched her sing to you, talk to you. I felt your legs kick as I touched from outside. It was real, but it was distant. This is the moment it changes. That’s the way it works for dads. Mums bond for the whole 40 weeks. For dads, it’s when they first hold their baby. In an instant, I’m told. This is the moment.

It’s been 9 hours in this dark room. Apparently that’s quick. It felt like forever. I’m glad it’s over. I’m glad you’re here. I’m glad it’s over for Anna. That was a lot.

They’re blowing on your face.
“Come on, let us hear your voice!”
You’ve only been here for a few seconds.
Should I be worr- You let out a cry. Your voice!

They turn the lights on, lay you and your mum on the bed. Oh my god – you’re here.

I’m taking it in, taking you in, you with your mumma, and here with us.

The nurse asks something about a needle. We didn’t want this one. We didn’t want much of what they did today. I try find the word “wait”, but they put the needle in.

Oh well, you’re here. You’re lying on your mumma’s tummy. It’s perfect.

I can’t wait to hold you, but there’s no way I am interrupting this moment.

But the moment is not peaceful like I imagined, the nurses are getting anxious. I hope you’re not stressed. This is your first experience of our world. It’s loud. It’s bright. People are rushing.

One of them starts shouting and a siren goes off. A dozen people come running. There’s people everywhere. Noise. One of the nurses picks you up. There’s so much noise. So many people. I hear so many things, I only catch some of it.

“Time for a cuddle with Dad”
“…the placenta is…”
“trying to save your life”
“this is going to hurt, but we’re saving your life”

I’m holding you for the first time. This is the moment, but this is not it.

I look at Anna, she’s got fear in her eyes. I look at her body, there is blood everywhere. So much blood. It’s like a gunshot wound.

I feel the fear too.

I look down at your eyes. You’re squinting in the light. It’s so bright out here. So loud. But you’re calm, you’re not crying. I think you’re the only one here not crying or yelling.

You’re so tiny.

I squeeze you a bit tighter. Too tight? I haven’t held many babies. I thought I would be nervous about this, but I find my confidence quickly. You’re here and you’re mine and I’m holding you. I’ll hold you your whole life. I love you.

Your eyes settle on my face. I squeeze you a little tighter, and lean you into my bare chest. I don’t even remember taking my shirt off. I cover your ears, turn your eyes from the light, try to shield you. I want to protect you.

I want to protect your mum. I look over again, there’s a big nurse putting her whole weight onto Anna’s torso. She’s crying out in pain. The blood is everywhere. It dawns on me: she might not make it. There’s even more people now. One of them is putting a clipboard in front of her face and asking her to sign.

I make eye contact with your mumma. So much love. We’re both scared. Everyone is still shouting. They start to wheel her out on the bed. All the nurses and midwives and doctors go with her.

Suddenly I’m in the bright cold room, just with you. It’s quiet. You’re still squinting, looking around. At me, at the lights. Struggling to focus those brand new eyes. You’re so quiet. Peaceful.

“It’s just you and me mate”.

I’m talking about the room, calm and silent. But I’m also bracing for the possibility, the fear… I had never planned for that. I am crying. Holding you tight.

“I love you”.

As your eyes continue to wander around the wall, over my face, onto the lights, and I keep holding your tiny body tight to my chest… I know I would do anything to keep you safe. Even if it’s just you and me. There’s a deep well of strength I find inside – I didn’t know it was there, but it’s enough.

This is the moment.

Photo of my holding baby Louis, a day old, on a hospital bed.
Me and Louis, the day after this story.
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Blogmarks Family Personal

“Ode to Those First Fifteen Minutes After the Kids Are Finally Asleep” by Clint Smith

I belly laughed listening to this poem from Clint Smith. Very relatable as a parent of young ones. (It was part of a wider interview with him on the On Being podcast. I haven’t finished listening to it yet but after this poem I already loved the guy.)

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Faith Personal

Great love and great suffering

There are only two major paths by which the human soul comes to God: the path of great love, and the one of great suffering. Both finally come down to great suffering—because if we love anything greatly, we will eventually suffer for it.

When we’re young, God hides this from us. We think it won’t have to be true for us. But to love anything in depth and over the long term, we eventually must suffer.

Richard Rohr – Life Coming to a Focus Daily Meditation

I’ve often remembered this thought from Richard Rohr – said in different times and different ways, but basically: the path to transformation is either great love, or great suffering.

I used to hear it and struggle to imagine the great suffering. My life has usually been pretty comfortable.

But he’s right, if you open up enough to experience love, then you’re opening yourself up to suffering too.

Parenting has been that journey for me.

A greater love than I knew was there. More pressure than I knew I’d face. More resilience than I could have imagined I’d had, and more than I thought I’d need. More awareness of my own fragility. More delight too.

Our family is definitely still in the pressure cooker. Its hard to say what the lessons learned will be, what the transformation might look like from the other side. For now, it’s hard to get through, and not much sense of hope for change.

Remembering this thought from Richard Rohr gives a glimpse of purpose to the love and suffering of parenting. Maybe this is one of the paths to God.

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Faith Personal

Smaller miracles

It was haunting last night to walk into the hospital and see my Grandpa.

I watched my Dad pray for his Dad. As a pastor he’s prayed for many people. It’s hard to pray for someone who may well be on their deathbed. I imagine it’s harder still when it’s your dad. “Father of mercies…” he prayed.

What mercy can you ask for? It felt too late to pray for a miracle. At that age, and with cancers already leaving visible scars all over the body, you only ask for small miracles. For relief from pain, for peace, for comfort for our family.

Yet even a healing at this late stage, miraculous as it would be, would only be a small miracle.

The bigger miracle is the one that already happened. In my 26 years I’ve only ever known my Gramps as fun loving, and family loving. When he’d play jokes on us, (which he did often, he loved it), his heart was always warm, and it was fun. It wasn’t always that way apparently. I don’t know the full story, but there was alcohol, there was aggression, and he was described, light on the details, as “not a very nice person”. Until Jesus changed him. A change in personality and in heart, of that magnitude, is not common. It’s a miracle, a redemptive act of God that took something broken and made it better, made it beautiful. It is no small miracle that I only ever knew the beautiful heart of my Grandpa.

The other miracle is that the next time I see my Grandpa, the cancer will be gone from his body, his face will be young again (younger and stronger and happier than I’ve ever seen). The fragile, hurting body I saw last night will be restored and perfected. And he’ll be with his wife Shirley again, surely as happy in that moment as in the moment captured in the wedding photo on our family room. And his kids. And us grandkids. The redemption of people: our bodies, our hearts, our relationships. That miracle is huge.

After walking out last night I struggled with finding the mercy in an old man suffering. And my faith for miraculous healings isn’t what it used to be. Today when I got the call from my Dad though, amidst the tears was a gratefulness, and a hopefulness, for the greater miracles.