HOLIDAY STORIES OF JESUS SET IN AN AUSTRALIAN LANDSCAPE Written by Stephen Daughtry | Art by Vanessa Daughtry
“I believe with all my hoary heart that stories save lives, and the telling and hearing of them is a holy thing, powerful far beyond our ken, sacramental, crucial, nutritious; without the sea of stories in which we swim we would wither and die; we are here for each other, to touch and be touched, to lose our tempers and beg forgiveness, to listen and to tell, to hail and farewell, to laugh and to snarl, to use words as knives and caresses, to puncture lies and to heal what is broken.” Brian Doyle, from Grace Notes
It has been a revelation to find Stephen Daughtry’s stories. Not only do they absolutely bring the gospel stories home to an Australian context, they do that very unusual thing of making you want to both cry and laugh, just in a single page. Context is everything here. We can think that we understand the stories in our Scriptures, but when we read them translated into our own context, suddenly the familiar becomes strikingly, surprisingly, shockingly, new. Daughtry is offering those of us who live in the Australian context something really special – I encourage you to read and cherish these stories. Dr Meg Warner Principal, Wollaston Theological College, Perth In HOLIDAY Stephen Daughtry invites us in to encounter Jesus anew, by retelling key moments of Jesus’ adult ministry from the perspective of ordinary people in contemporary Australia. The stories are gritty; at times I could taste the dust in my mouth and felt the pain of broken relationships. These stories are also of love and faithfulness, with gentle and true transformation in the lives of ordinary people. I appreciated the deep respect for First Nations people and ways of knowing embedded into these stories, and the keen observational eye of each narrator as they tell their story in a voice that is unmistakeably Australian. What CARAVAN provided for the Advent to Epiphany season with stories of Jesus’ birth and childhood, HOLIDAY offers for the Lent season with stories of Jesus as an adult and the ongoing impact of what an encounter with Jesus may mean. I highly recommend reading or listening to HOLIDAY in Lent and Easter as we journey with Jesus through key moments of his ministry to the cross and resurrection – and glimpse the transformation in the lives of those who encounter Christ as we hear these stories. Reverend Dr Ruth Mathieson Executive Director & Principal, St Francis College, Brisbane
I couldn’t put down this set of inspiring and creative interpretations of key episodes in Jesus’ life. The vista of Australia is embedded deeply in Stephen Daughtry’s words, the images vivid and memorable. Every story has an unexpected turn, and readers are given fresh insights into Jesus and those characters who formed part of his ministry. While reading these stories, the bible comes alive in a way you won’t ever forget. The Rev’d Canon Dr Joan Riley Principal, St Barnabas College, Adelaide When I was much younger, I remember the impact of reading ‘What’s so amazing about Grace?’ by Philip Yancy. In this Yancy used real and fictional stories to bring to life key elements of Gospel teaching. For Australians I think Steve Daughtry’s story telling has even greater impact because he references places that we know and describes people who sound like us. In this collection people from Roma go to see Jonno and get baptised; the temptations of Jesus are retold in a way that invites us to bear witness; the rich young man has both a name and an epiphany; and the woman at the well works at a servo ‘in the middle of the arse-end of nowhere!’ To make something old new again is a gift, and to articulate Christian truth using Australian vernacular and imagery is an invitation to renewal. The Right Reverend Cam Venables Bishop for the Western Region, ACSQ Truly beautiful. Not many stories bring tears to my eyes, but these short tales do it again and again. Normally we think of tears being a result of sadness, but there are also the tears that come when the veil thins slightly, and through it we glimpse the beauty, truth and goodness that we long for. There is sadness involved, because it is not yet ours to enter into, but there is also a promise which allows us to dare to hope. I think this is what CS Lewis called ‘joy’. These stories are, to me, bearers of that deep joy. The Right Revd Dr Anne van Gend Bishop of Dunedin and author of Restoring the Story: The Good News of Atonement
Written by Stephen Daughtry Illustrations by Vanessa Daughtry For Jesse, Laura, Miranda, Kiah and Liam. Precious beyond words. HOLIDAY STORIES OF JESUS SET IN AN AUSTRALIAN LANDSCAPE
www.abmission.org HOLIDAY Stories of Jesus set in an Australian landscape. Copyright © 2025 Stephen and Vanessa Daughtry/Anglican Board of Mission All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in critical publications or reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without prior written permission from the publisher. Contact: stephen.daughtry@abmission.org.au A Mission Education publication from The Anglican Board of Mission – Australia 2025 Website: www.abmission.org Level 6, 51 Druitt Street, Sydney NSW 2000 Locked Bag Q4005, Queen Victoria Building NSW 1230 Telephone: 1300 302 663 Facsimile: +61 2 9261 3560 First published January 2026 ISBN: 9–781764–461504 Book design by AZanker Design – azankerdesign@gmail.com Scripture quotations are from New Revised Standard Version Bible: Anglicised Edition, copyright © 1989, 1995 National Council of the Churches of Christ in the United States of America. Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide. Cover illustration: The Spirit descended like a sulphur-crested cockatoo. Vanessa Daughtry 2025
Contents Introduction...............................................................................1 The author and the artist.......................................................5 Things to consider...................................................................6 Questions to ask......................................................................7 1 On the Warrego River.....................................................9 2 Mad Boy...........................................................................23 3 Cutting Loose..................................................................37 4 Midnight to Dawn..........................................................53 5 Double Vision..................................................................69 6 D & G.................................................................................87 7 My name...........................................................................111 The 5 Marks of Mission.....................................................129 About us................................................................................130 Additional ABM resources.................................................131 Acknowledgements............................................................. 132
Introduction If the work of the Incarnation was for God to become human, then maybe the task we have before us is to become Godly. To recognise that when many people look for God in our world, they see people of faith and expect that – in some way – we will be like God. Which is fair enough, because Christians are called to be Christ-like. This is an extraordinary responsibility. One only made palatable and possible through the knowledge and the promise that God is with us, even in our weakness. It is partly through us that the great story of God’s risky, vulnerable, profligate love continues to be told. In our lives and our decisions and our empathy and our honesty, God is revealed. And, of course, through our words. Through our stories. This is a book of stories. Stories about Jesus and the people he interacted with. Stories that try to bring to new life the old stories of the Bible. Stories that place Jesus in a contemporary Australian landscape. Stories that try to suggest that what happened then could have happened now. That God is not limited to one place and time. This is a book of stories about Holy Days. Most official church-sanctioned Holy Days have become ‘holidays’ for most of us. Days when the world used to pause to remember the great work of God in ceremony, feast and party, have become days of rest. Although there is still ceremony, feast and party to enjoy if we choose. Of course, ‘rest’ is holy too! 1
These stories are written in the hope that you have never forgotten just how powerful stories can be. We tell ourselves stories about who we are and about whose we are. Perhaps the most formative stories in your life came from your illustrated Bible, as a child. Perhaps the stories that formed you came from other books or films or TV programs. Perhaps they were the stories told to you by parents and grandparents. But be sure, stories have formed you and continue to form you. The media tells us a story. Politicians tell us a story. Culture tells us a story. The church tells us a story. And our lived faith tells us a story. Which story (or stories) we listen to and believe will shape who we are and what we do in the world. When we published CARAVAN, the companion volume to this book (dealing with the birth and childhood stories of Jesus), we received reports from groups who were studying it. One leader told me how much their group was enjoying the book and how people who had been in the group for years but had never previously spoken were engaging in the discussion because of the stories. One of the questions asked was, “This is wonderful – but are we allowed to do this with the Bible?” Well … yes! We can. We have. We are part of a long tradition of retelling the Biblical story in new ways. Every stained-glass window is an in interpretation of a story. Every sermon is an interpretation. Every shaping of the text that happens in our imagination is an interpretation. Hopefully, each interpretation opens a new door or window on the story so that we can receive it more fully and realise something new. In these stories I deal with events in the adult ministry of Jesus. I prioritise the ‘fleshing out’ of those people Jesus interacted with, in the hope that we can see them as more than just ‘props’ in a narrative that is only about Jesus. Because the Gospels are not just about Jesus. They’re about Jesus and his friends and his enemies and his context – and his mission. The people for whom they were originally written read them as contemporary stories of a contemporary saviour. 2
It may be hard for you to accept this. I won’t try and convince you. I’ll leave that to one of the masters: The first demand any work of any art makes upon us is surrender. Look. Listen. Receive. Get yourself out of the way. (There is no good asking first whether the work before you deserves such a surrender, for until you have surrendered you cannot possibly find out.) C.S. Lewis, The Reading Life: The Joy of Seeing New Worlds Through Others’ Eyes Vanessa and I invite you to surrender to these stories and take them for what they are. They are, we hope, reflections of a light we cannot completely comprehend, and must therefore come to from many angles in order to absorb as much as is humanly possible. We are not trying to be radical or controversial or even clever. We’re simply trying to tell stories that matter to us in a way that might let the story speak again, with a slightly different voice. Because we love these stories. They have shaped our lives. Whether you read them in Lent or at any other time, with a group or alone, we hope they might also shape your life. Steve Daughtry January 2026 Note: I have deep respect for First Nations people and for those Indigenous Christians who continue to generously encourage the church towards a just future. I cannot imagine Jesus entering this country without being profoundly inclusive and respectful of the spirituality and people of the land. In this light, and while personally accepting responsibility for all errors, the stories in this book that touch on Indigenous or First Nations cultures have been read and approved for publication by: Larissa Minniecon, ABM’s Truth-telling and Reconciliation Missioner. Rev’d Canon Aunty Di Langham, first Director of Reconciliation with Newcastle Anglican Diocese. The Rev’d Cameron Burr, NATSIAC Chair. 3
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The author and the artist The stories are by Stephen Daughtry, writer, Anglican priest and Education Missioner for the Anglican Board of Mission. Stephen has worked for decades in the arts and the church, as actor, director, playwright, poet, parish priest, journalist, editor, musician, storyteller. He has edited many ABM Study resources, most recently CARAVAN, ABM’s extremely successful Advent Study/Story book (also illustrated by Vanessa Daughtry). HOLIDAY is the companion volume to CARAVAN. Steve believes in the subversive power of story to change hearts and minds. The illustrations are by Vanessa Daughtry. Vanessa is a professional visual artist who also works in private practice as a counsellor and supervisor. As often as she is able, she is in wild places and deep conversations. Vanessa is profoundly grateful for the living story of Jesus, incarnate in her life. Vanessa and Steve’s creative partnership has borne fruit since they were married in 1988. The first and finest pickings are their children and grandchildren. 5
Things to consider (for all the stories) These stories are set in an imagined but contemporary Australia, an Australia that has recently been invaded and colonised by a foreign, military power. It is important to remember that the land Jesus walked and ministered in was occupied by the Roman Empire. These stories take place within the framework of that same existential tension. Because these are stories about the life of Jesus, we must assume that Christianity (as we know it) does not exist yet. There are temples, and people are religious, but it is a different world to that which we know. Similar but different. This reflects the reality of reading the stories as we have them in the Bible. However hard we try, we cannot fully understand the context and culture of the ancient Middle Eastern world in which Jesus lived. These are ‘what if?’ stories. Many of us have wondered whether it would have worked if Jesus had been born into our time and context. These stories explore that thought. The aim is to refresh the stories and help us see them in a new light. What can we see anew by looking through this lens? Many people reading this book will be Australians – or living in Australia. In every culture, the Gospel stories must take root in local soil. We have struggled with this because the church arrived in Australia as part of the violent, colonial project that transplanted a foreign culture onto Australian soil, without valuing the people and culture already here. If we listen to those people well, we might – together – be able to begin again. These are stories. Don’t overthink the ‘facts’. All these stories fit together. They are chapters of one story. In CARAVAN the stories explored the birth and childhood of Jesus. In HOLIDAY we encounter Jesus in his adult life and ministry. 6
Let me read you a story. There are video/audio readings of all the individual stories at: www.youtube.com/@AnglicanBoardMission/playlists You can play these on your phone or a smart TV or through a Bluetooth speaker. Of course, please read them yourself if you’d prefer. There is nothing so wonderful as the human imagination, and each of us will conjure different images from the same text. Questions to ask (for all the stories) If you are reading alone, these thoughts may be useful or may not be. There are no rules. If you are reading and studying in a group, please make sure everyone has an opportunity to speak as you consider the stories. Nothing kills the enjoyment of a group study more than voices that seek to dominate the discussion. • What part of the story most interested you? Why? This might be the only question you need to discuss. • Was there a character, or something someone said, that you particularly responded to – in either a positive or negative way? • Can you imagine God being ‘at work’ so dramatically in our world, the one in which we live and have our lives and loves and pains? • Without getting bogged down in arguments about whether miracles ‘happen’ or not, can you remember and describe a moment when you have felt God’s presence and action in your own life or the life of someone you care for? 7
• Many of the people depicted in these stories are now referred to as ‘saints’. In their own time, they were just ordinary people. Do you know anyone who you consider saintly? • God seems to prefer choosing the most unlikely people to change the world. John the Baptist, Mary Magdelene, the Thief on the Cross. Why might that be? • Which are your favourite biblical stories? Which are your favourite nonbiblical stories? Are there common threads? • Would you have gone out of your way to listen to this young Rabbi? How might you have responded to the Good News and the abundance of miracles? So many of these stories contain things that would challenge our understanding of what is ‘normal’. Do you think you would be ready to accept God doing something entirely odd and unexpected? How do you think your church or community might respond? • Shall we have a cup of tea? There are also questions to consider on the pages after each story. 8
Matthew 3 In those days John the Baptist appeared in the wilderness of Judea, proclaiming, ‘Repent, for the kingdom of heaven has come near.’ This is the one of whom the prophet Isaiah spoke when he said, ‘The voice of one crying out in the wilderness: “Prepare the way of the Lord; make his paths straight.”’ Now John wore clothing of camel’s hair with a leather belt around his waist, and his food was locusts and wild honey. Then the people of Jerusalem and all Judea were going out to him, and all the region along the Jordan, and they were baptized by him in the river Jordan, confessing their sins. But when he saw many Pharisees and Sadducees coming for baptism, he said to them, ‘You brood of vipers! Who warned you to flee from the wrath to come? Bear fruit worthy of repentance. Do not presume to say to yourselves, “We have Abraham as our ancestor”; for I tell you, God is able from these stones to raise up children to Abraham. Even now the axe is lying at the root of the trees; every tree therefore that does not bear good fruit is cut down and thrown into the fire. ‘I baptize you with water for repentance, but one who is more powerful than I is coming after me; I am not worthy to carry his sandals. He will baptize you with the Holy Spirit and fire. His winnowing-fork is in his hand, and he will clear his threshing-floor and will gather his wheat into the granary; but the chaff he will burn with unquenchable fire.’ 1 9
Then Jesus came from Galilee to John at the Jordan, to be baptized by him. John would have prevented him, saying, ‘I need to be baptized by you, and do you come to me?’ But Jesus answered him, ‘Let it be so now; for it is proper for us in this way to fulfil all righteousness.’ Then he consented. And when Jesus had been baptized, just as he came up from the water, suddenly the heavens were opened to him and he saw the Spirit of God descending like a dove and alighting on him. And a voice from heaven said, ‘This is my Son, the Beloved, with whom I am well pleased.’ 10
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On the Warrego River 12
I didn’t bloody encourage him. He just didn’t seem like the type to cause much bother. He looked like a bushy, dressed in the weirdest get-up. Matted hair, animal skins, no shoes. But a lot of blokes go a bit feral out here, so I didn’t see there was any harm. He asked if he could camp by the river, down in the back paddock. I just said, “go for it,” warned him about snakes, and off he went. All that crap about him eating cicadas, I don’t know about that. But he looked after himself. I went down there every so often to see that he was alright. Once he gave me some honeycomb with a cuppa. He always looked ok, in a sort of Mad Max ‘extra’ kinda vibe. Serious bugger, though. Religious. No point trying to talk footy with him. It was always, “God this” and “God that” and “Are you ready” and I thought, ‘Ready for bloody what?’ – but I never really asked. Anyway, I liked him. Kept himself clean. Did no damage. I suppose I thought he must be one of those PTSD army vets trying to get his head together. Poor buggers. Live and let live, I reckon. He went to town once that I remember. Caused a stir outside the church, preaching up a storm. Telling them they were a dirty bunch who needed a good wash. I saw that it wasn’t going to end well, so I whacked him in the ute and drove him back to the river. I could hear him from the house on still nights. Singing and praying under the stars, going on like a bloody fruitcake. But no harm done, eh? No worse than the cicadas. If I’m honest, since the wife left and the boys went north, the place had been a bit empty, and he filled the silence a bit. Good worker too. Always up for helping me fix a fence or put out feed. Stock even liked him. Never seen animals so calm as when he was around. But mainly he just sat by the river, talking to God and stayin’ out of trouble. It was about a month before the first group arrived. Bunch from town, who’d been at the church when he went gangbusters on them. I grabbed the rifle from the back of the ute, thinking they were here to give him a 13
going over. I wasn’t going to shoot anyone, just wanted them to know he was on my property, and they needed to behave. That was a bit tense. Anyway, they said they’d come to hear more from him. That he’d made sense. So, I let them in and followed them down to the river. Just in case. He was swimming, but he walks out of the water – starkers – then just looks at them and starts to talk. More of the God stuff and the ‘getting clean’ stuff and questions about how they wanted to live their lives. And they bloody listened. I got him a towel and a pair of pants. You get to know people out here. You grow up together. Even the newcomers give up their secrets in the end. And I knew most of this mob. I’m not saying they’re bad folk, just no better than the rest of us, even with their churchgoing. I could tell you a few stories about Maureen, for example. And Ahmed. It hasn’t all been Sunday School and church picnics for that lot, I can tell you. But then, they could tell you a few stories about me – some I probably can’t remember myself. Live and let live. But that was never Jonno’s approach. He was a ‘live and get better’ sort of bloke. By the end, some called him Mad John. Some, ‘Holy Jo’. Some called him ‘Bunyip’ because he was always dragging people into the river. But he was Jonno to me. But I’m getting ahead of myself. That first day with the mob on the bank, they listened. And then he tells them they’ve got to wash away the muck of their lives and get right with God. They’ve got to walk into the river with him and go under. And they did. They bloody did. One by one, they just walked in with him, and he dunked them right under and they came up spluttering and laughing and hugging each other. Then they stayed and he made them damper and tea, and they sung a bit and told stories. Sun went down; stars came out. No-one was going anywhere. And I just sat there on the edge of the firelight, listening. But he never put the hard word on me. Just gave me the occasional look to see how I was 14
and passed me a cuppa and let me be. And I noticed how that mob of wet townies were all sort of … I dunno … changed. Calmer. Kind of glowing in the firelight and acting like everything’s all okay with the world. I didn’t get it then. I kind of liked it but I didn’t get it. Never been big on the God stuff. It was nice, but. They went away and I thought that’d be that. Nup. Doesn’t rain but it pours. About a week later another mob – from Roma of all places – rock up. Looking for the “preacher” they said. I asked them why and they said they just wanted to talk, so I let ’em in. Follow ’em down. Same story. They all got dunked and they come up all clean and happy and weird. After that it was every day or so and another mob’d turn up. Then it was two or three mobs a day. The paddocks were getting ripped up with all the vehicles, so I started making them walk down to the river, thinking that’d put them off. Dreamin’. They got out of their cars. They walked. They got dunked. They skipped back home. I thought about charging admittance, but I figured if Jonno didn’t charge for the dunkins then I would have been cutting it a bit rough, asking for money. Mate, we had all sorts. Graziers, townies, city folk. A bunch of nuns. A bishop! Then the local cops turned up. I thought they were gonna run him out of town but no, they come for a dunking. I went down for that one. I swear he held them under a bit longer. Or maybe I just hoped he would. And they all came up saying they’d change their ways. All looking scared then looking hopeful. I made them walk too. Even the local Indigenous mob came one night. They’re always welcome here and they don’t ask permission. I figure it was their place before it was my place. They fish, they yarn, they shut the gates, they don’t cause any trouble. This night they sat at Jonno’s fire and sang. I wasn’t invited so I didn’t go. Heard the songs all night. Language songs. Songs about this place, I reckon. Next day Jonno looked alive with something new. Don’t know if anyone got dunked that night. And if they did, don’t know who dunked who. 15
It got so I hardly had time to work the place. People coming and going, newcomers leaving gates open. Folks coming with food and gifts for him, none of which he’d take. Some camping down there so they could be close to him. Then his cousin turns up. Stinking hot afternoon. Eagles wheelin’ across the sky. Frogs singing in the waterholes. He walks up the drive. He was on his own. Looked like a back-packer hunting for work. Asked where ‘John’ was. Took me a while. “Oh yeah, Jonno. Yeah. Nup. Yeah. Down at the river.” “Will you show me?” So, I walked him down and it was full-on weird. As in, weirder than it normally was with Jonno. He sees this bloke and he looks kind of scared and kind of embarrassed. Like I’d never seen him look before. And he didn’t say anything, which – for Jonno – was kind of a miracle in itself. Young bloke just went up to him and hugged him. No-one hugged Jonno. No-one. And then Jonno tried to send all his followers away, but the young bloke said not to. Evening dropped in, all red and gold and full of the cries of settling birds. We sat by the fire. Jonno asked me to sit too. I could tell something was up and he wanted company, but not his followers. Not this time. He introduced us. The young bloke – well, you know who he is. Everyone knows who he is now. Back then, he could have been anyone, and I didn’t take much notice. Seemed like a nice kid. Calm. Determined. Polite. Anyway, he asked Jonno to dunk him too. Talk about lighting the blue touchpaper. Jonno went troppo! No way was he gonna dunk that young bloke. He wanted the young bloke to dunk him. Said he wasn’t good enough to tie his shoelaces, let alone clean him up. Jonno was flipping out. Calling himself all sorts of names and begging the young bloke to change his mind. And all the time the young bloke just sat quietly and listened. 16
When Jonno had subsided, the young bloke made a cuppa and we sat, saying nothing. Then they stood up and started walking to the river. I followed, standing on the bank. Knowing something big was up. When they got deep enough, I could tell Jonno was wanting to leg it, get out of there. But the pup said, “This is how it needs to be, John.” Just stared him down. Then Jonno dunks him. I don’t know what happened then. I mean, I saw it and I remember it but … I don’t know what it was. There hadn’t been a cloud in the sky all day, but it was like the sun came up again and broke through thick rainclouds, just enough so this beam of light smashed straight into the river where they were. Like God was going spotlighting and they were a pair of ’roos. Then this bloody great cockatoo rips in out of nowhere and lands on the kid’s shoulder. And the noise. Thunder’s got nothing on that noise. So loud it drew every other sound into it and sucked the breeze dry. And we’ve argued about it ever since, those of us who were there. But I know what I heard. It was a voice. Not a human voice and not using words I know but using words I understood. It said, “This is my child, who I love. I’m so pleased with him.” The words every kid ever born wants to hear from their dad. The words most of us never do. As loud as a waterfall and as soft as a kiss. Just booming across the sky but also whispering in your ear. And we were all bawling like babies and dropping to our knees and then … it’s gone. It’s just gone, and the cicadas start up again. There’s just Jonno and the young lad in the water, holding each other like long-lost brothers. Then Jonno holds out his hand to me and I walk in too. And when I got there, I knew what was going to happen. But it’s not Jonno who does it. 17
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The young bloke looks at me as if to say, “You okay about this?”, and I just nod. Then he dunks me. He leans me back into the darkening water and I go under. I feel like I’m drowning but I know I’ve got breath. There’s something’s choking me, something’s trying to get out. I start to panic, and with the water flowing over me, I cough up this ball of darkness and pain and regret – this wad of sorrow and sadness that holds every dumb thing I ever did and more – and I spit it into the water with the last of the air in my lungs. And I know I’m gonna die. The water’s gone black and I don’t know where the surface is. I got nothing left and I just wanna drift away like a leaf in the current. Then he lifts me up out of the water, and I’m hacking for breath and wondering why I’m alive – and I hear that bloody great cockatoo screech from the sky right over my head, and I just bloody laugh. Laugh like I’ve never bloody laughed in my life – or not since I was a kid. Like a dam breaking. Like a chain snapping. Like a kid who’s just heard the words he’s been longing to hear all his life. And the young bloke’s smiling at me and Jonno’s bawling his eyes out and nothing seems to have changed but the whole stupid world is completely different. Like I said, I don’t know what happened. But I’ll take it. That was a while ago now. So much has changed. Not long after that day, Jonno and his followers left. Came and said thanks and goodbye and walked off up the drive. I asked him if I could come but he said I wasn’t ‘one of his’. It wasn’t cruel, even though it hurt. He was a mate. But he was right. I wasn’t one of his. Last thing he said to me was, “Keep an eye on him for me, eh?” I know now that they headed to the city. Jonno went to town on the Government one too many times and ended up in jail. Then there was 19
the ‘accident’. Death in custody. Another one. You hear the rumours and they’re not pretty. But he was never gonna be old bones. Too much fire. Too much truth. Good bloke, Jonno. Really good bloke. Broke my heart a bit when I heard. And me? I’m doing what he asked. Place is leased out. I’m travelling with the young bloke now. Keepin’ an eye on him. You wouldn’t credit what I’ve seen. Stuff I’d never dreamed could happen. Good stuff. But the clouds are gathering. News spreads. The wrong people are taking notice. And we’re heading to the city now. Might all end in tears. But I’ll be there, whatever. I heard that voice and I heard that cockatoo’s call. I’ve been under the water, and I’ve come up. I reckon if it can happen once, there’s no reason to think it can’t happen again. I told that to the young bloke. He just smiled. Then we started to laugh. 20
Prayer God of wild grace, help me to see where there is a need for repentance in my life. Help me to be brave enough to make the changes that I need, in order to follow you more freely. Please help me to be more aware of your Spirit at work in this world, that I might welcome your presence and respond to your call. Give courage to your contemporary prophets and may your church welcome them. In the name of Jesus, we ask these things. Amen 21
Questions you may wish to consider (Or you may choose to totally ignore these questions and make up a new set that suits you and your context. Be brave.) • How do you think your community would respond to a ‘Jonno’ if he turned up next week? • A big part of John the Baptist’s ministry was based on people knowing that they needed to repent. What does ‘repentance’ mean to you? Do you think many people feel a need to repent these days? Why? Why not? • In the story, Jonno spends time with the Indigenous people of that area. Early European settlers were often very keen for the Indigenous people to accept Christianity and repent of their personal sins but rarely seemed to consider the corporate sin of dispossession inflicted on the First Nations of this country. What do you make of the idea of corporate repentance? • I use the cockatoo as a symbol of the Spirit. What bird would you have chosen? • The narrator experiences the symbolic death of baptism and the emergence into a new reality. In what way was your baptism – if you remember it – a sign of change for you? Does baptism really matter? How? Why? • Can you name prophets of today who resemble John the Baptist? Who is calling out the need to repent (to turn back towards goodness and light) in our world? What are they calling us to? They need not necessarily be connected to the church. John was not accepted by the priestly class in his time. 22
Matthew 4:1-11 Then Jesus was led up by the Spirit into the wilderness to be tempted by the devil. He fasted for forty days and forty nights, and afterwards he was famished. The tempter came and said to him, ‘If you are the Son of God, command these stones to become loaves of bread.’ But he answered, ‘It is written, “ One does not live by bread alone, but by every word that comes from the mouth of God.” ’ Then the devil took him to the holy city and placed him on the pinnacle of the temple, saying to him, ‘If you are the Son of God, throw yourself down; for it is written, “ He will command his angels concerning you”, and “On their hands they will bear you up, so that you will not dash your foot against a stone.” ’ Jesus said to him, ‘Again it is written, “Do not put the Lord your God to the test.” ’ Again, the devil took him to a very high mountain and showed him all the kingdoms of the world and their splendour; and he said to him, ‘All these I will give you, if you will fall down and worship me.’ Jesus said to him, ‘Away with you, Satan! for it is written, “ Worship the Lord your God, and serve only him.” ’ Then the devil left him, and suddenly angels came and waited on him. 2 23
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Mad Boy I was back from my boarding school on the coast, with my family again. On country. Our country. Grandad was teaching me the land, so I wouldn’t forget where I belonged. He taught my dad, but my dad died. Now he taught me. He didn’t want me to just be a city boy. He wanted me to know. To remember. To sing. We’d go bush, and he’d show me how to survive. How to see and hear it. How to love it. What we could eat. Where water was. Where the sacred places were. Why they were sacred. Who could touch that sacred. Who could sing it. Who could not. The trip I’m talking about, we’d been out for about a week. I was tired. I was missing my phone. But I was starting to understand. At least I thought I was. Grandad never said more than was needed, but I could tell when he was pleased with me, because he’d put his hand on my hand. He’d say, “You feeling it?” Then he’d smile his secret smile and say, “You’re feeling it.” And at night he’d tell the stories and sing until I slept. I don’t know if he ever slept. He’d be cooking damper when I woke. Boiling the billy. Whispering. Grandad was deep like a bore hole that reached down to sweet water. He never pushed. He knew how to wait. He was like an old tree, stronger than fire and impervious to drought. He had his roots planted in millennia. I tell my kids about him now. One day I will take them back to learn what he taught me. One day soon. And he will be there. With me. With them. Still singing. With us. That day, the day we saw him, Grandad was showing me the gorge. He’d told me it had permanent water at the bottom, and a wild acoustic that – if you were in the rocky alcove he led me to – allowed you to hear a whisper spoken at the bottom of the gorge as clear as if the speaker was leaning into your ear. 25
That’s why we heard him before we saw him. A conversation with one voice. Doubts and fears and hopes and confidences, ringing back and forth from the walls. Prayers. Ramblings. Grandad motioned for me to be silent, and then he pointed. Pointed down. He was at the bottom of the gorge, by the water. His campsite nothing more than a swag, a fire and a backpack. He looked half-gone. Crazy. Thin. Exhausted. A mess. “Mad boy?” I asked Grandad. He listened for a long time, then shook his head. “Not mad.” “What’s he doing here?” I whispered. “This is not his place.” Grandad just stared me down. “This … is nobody’s place. This place just is. He came looking. It called to him. He listened. Now he’s here, so he’s welcome.” There was one tree growing by the water. There was one cockatoo in the tree. Quietest cocky ever. Just sitting, watching Mad Boy. Sometimes flew out. Always came back. Grandad sat, so I sat. We watched and listened for hours. His words started to form patterns, rhythms – a sort of song. Every word, clear as a bell. Beautiful words. Sad words. Scared words. Longing words. Brave words. We ate and drank quietly from our bags. He sipped water from the source. He lit his fire. He didn’t cook. He sang. He slept real early. Grandad sang softly over him and me. We slept. The paintings on the walls of the alcove slipped into my dreams. Danced with the prayer songs of the starving man. Made me calm. Made me hungry. When we woke, he was up and praying again, but he still didn’t cook or eat. “He’s got no food. He’s going to starve,” I whispered. “Maybe. Maybe not,” said Grandad. “Maybe that’s why we got called here. To watch out for him.” So, we started a routine. We’d go out for the morning, Grandad showing, me seeing and hearing. We’d forage and hunt and cook, then we’d head 26
back to make sure the Mad Boy was still upright, still alive. Mad Boy. That was my name for him. Grandad didn’t like it, but I couldn’t understand what he was doing, praying and starving, starving and praying. For three days we watched as he got weaker, drinking, not eating. He never saw us. Never heard us. I think all his senses were turned inwards. Maybe just focused on survival. Maybe attuned to something or someone I couldn’t access. Then the weather turned. It was around four in the afternoon, and we’d come back because the sky was darkening, and we needed shelter. The wind rose, thunder and dry lightning ripped across the evening, flashing strobe lighting across the rocks. As we watched, a dust storm formed and a mad willy-willy spun into the gorge, blocking out the sun and racing towards Mad Boy. One minute we could see him and the next he was gone. His camp and his fire and him – hidden by dust. Nothing but spinning shadows and leaves and … … and a big, white bloke cooking snags on a BBQ. He’s wearing an apron that said, “I believe I can fry!” Fluoro Crocs on his feet and floral boardies. There’s a huge esky full of beers next to him, a table set with bread, sauce and salads, a camping chair almost bigger than the bloke, and a speaker banging out, ‘I Come from a Land Down Under’. He wraps a giant snag in a wad of bread and sauce, cracks open a beer, then sits in the chair with his feet on the esky and turns to Mad Boy and asks, “Hungry?” I’d already eaten that day, and my mouth was watering. It smelt good. Real good. Better than bush-tucker. “Plenty to go round,” says the big bloke. Big smile. Big, fake smile. Big, fake, nasty smile. The sort of smile that basically says, “Watch your back”. Grandad’s gone as still as a waterhole. He’s watching like a circling hawk. Mad Boy is sitting in the remains of his camp, looking gobsmacked. Looking hungry. Looking crazy hungry. But not moving. Not replying. Just watching the big bloke. 27
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The smiling man finishes his snag then gets another one. Loads up a plate and grabs a second beer. Sits and takes his time, stuffing his face. “Can’t tempt you, then?” he mumbles through his mouthful. Mad Boy just sits, still as the rocks. “My food not good enough for you?” the big fella laughs. “‘Well, no worries, if you are the Son of God, command these stones to become loaves of bread. No biggie for you, eh? Go on, fill your boots”. There was a long silence. Mad Boy stood up. Grandad’s stopped breathing, and I want to shout “Don’t do it!” but I can’t move or breathe. Mad Boy walks towards the BBQ while the big bloke grins wider than the Cheshire cat. He reaches out his hand, like he’s going to grab a snag and even Mr Smiley looks tense. The walls of the gorge start leaning in. And then Mad Boy flips the BBQ over and scatters the food, food that spills, slides away like sand. He kicks the esky, and it turns to dust. Topples the table, scattering leaves and twigs where salads once sat. All illusion. He turns to the big fella, who is looking smaller and smaller. “It is written, ‘One does not live by bread alone, but by every word that comes from the mouth of God’.” The big fella shimmers and twists. The smile is gone, and his face is a rictus of hatred. The willy-willy rises again from the ground, lifting and covering them both and, when it retreats to the far end of the gorge, all that is left is Mad Boy, hugging his knees and murmuring words of thanks and praise. The tree’s got no leaves left and the cocky’s looking pretty ruffled. “We need to take that boy home, Grandad, get him to a hospital,” I say. “We’re going crazy with him.” “Not yet,” the old man says. “Not yet. It’s not finished yet. Don’t be afraid. He’s a strong one.” Mad Boy rebuilt his fire. The flames dancing on the rock faces, like a rave without the music. A silent corroboree moving around him, keeping him safe. He slept. We slept. Mad dreams and Grandad singing all night. In the morning, bright light and the smiling man back again. 29
He walks in this time. Black suit, black shirt, black tie. Hard-hat, clipboard, pen. Stands next to Mad Boy. Clicks his fingers, and the walls of the gorge shift and stretch, pulling upwards and forming architectural planes. Our alcove becomes the space under the roof of the tallest part of the structure. I’m in it but I can see it too. It’s the Temple in the city. The biggest one. The Temple, growing in the gorge and looking out over the scrub and the forest Grandad and I have been exploring and learning. I can see forever. I’m scared. Grandad sits. He takes his hat off. There’s the scuffing of feet moving on the roof above our heads. Voices. I can hear the man in black talking. “Watch your footing, boy. Long way down. But of course, that doesn’t worry you, eh? Mind you, you’re looking a bit wobbly. Might be easier just to let go and fall. No shame in that, is there. And no risk. For you. Is there?” Nothing from Mad Boy. The cockatoo, circling. Silent. “You look scared, boy. You don’t need to be scared. We know who’s got your back, don’t we? Or maybe you’re not as sure as all that. Take a look at that view. Beautiful, eh? You look a bit green, son. ’Cept for your knuckles. They look white as bone. Fair cop, it’s an Occupational Health and Safety nightmare up here, eh? I’d tell you to get a grip but you’re hanging on tighter than a limpet already. Don’t tell me you’re scared?” There was a scrabbling of feet. I heard Mad Boy catch his breath. “Careful, boy. Slippery, these tiles. You could fall. Or you could jump. Test your faith. If you are the Son of God, throw yourself down; for it is written, ‘He will command his angels concerning you’, and ‘On their hands they will bear you up, so that you will not dash your foot against a stone.’ Of course, they might not too. Angels might be on smoko. Wanna try it? I’ll keep a record. Answer the question once and for all?” And I heard Mad Boy say simply, “Again it is written, ‘Do not put the Lord your God to the test’,” 30
Grandad snorted with laughter. The Temple collapsed in on itself. The man in black just had time to yell, “Gutless wonder!”, and there we were, back in our rock alcove and Mad Boy was lying next to the water hole, still and stiff as a board. “Grandad?”, I whispered. “He’s dying.” “Maybe,” the old man said. “Maybe not. We’ll watch him. Let him sleep.” “Can I at least go down and make him a fire, while he sleeps?” “Later,” says Grandad. “Later. It’s not time yet. Come, that view reminded me of a place I need to show you. Let’s go.” And he stood up and walked, so I followed. Mad Boy was not moving. When we got back at dusk, he still hadn’t moved. I looked at Grandad pleadingly, but he just shook his head. “You’ll know when.” “He’ll freeze!” “It’s warm enough. You watch.” So, I did. He didn’t sit up, but his lips started to move. I could hear his breath rasp. He started to sing again. It was hard to listen to. His voice was almost gone. His breathing was ragged. The words were distinct, but sad. Deeply sad. Desperate. Then, just before he fell asleep again, it changed. The song changed. A song of trust. He was singing himself back into life. Giving thanks. Grandad was singing too. I didn’t know this one. His words were mingling with Mad Boy’s, and I swear they were harmonising, but that couldn’t have been. I slept. When I woke, Mad Boy was sitting by his fire. Grandad tapped me on the shoulder and led me away to food and sweet tea. In my dreams, I’d been walking the land with Mad Boy, telling him the stories Grandad had told me. He’d been telling me new stories, old stories, stories even Grandad didn’t know. He’d been well and happy, and he laughed easily. 31
That day we gathered more food than we needed. It took all day, and we only just made it back to the alcove as the sun was setting. At the bottom of the gorge, Mad Boy was looking weaker than ever. “Now?” I asked Grandad. “Soon. You know that.” And I did. Soon. When the sun set the gorge was plunged into darkness. Mad Boy’s fire had died, and he didn’t seem to have the energy to find wood. Spotlights. That’s what I thought at first. Some crazy ’roo shooter who’d got lost. The wild, bright, golden light filling the gorge. It was him again. The smiling man. The man in black. But changed again. Changed completely. No more disguises. Shining, blazing with light. Wings spread from his back and every feather like a beacon light. He was beautiful. So incredibly beautiful. And so incredibly cold. “Up,” he whispered to Mad Boy. “Get up! I have things to show you. Offers to make.” Mad Boy moaned and rolled away from him, blinded. But the shining man lifted him by his collar and, with a single flap of those magnificent wings, soared into the air. He stopped by our alcove, hovering. “Want to watch heaven fall?” he asked. He asked us. Grandad wouldn’t look at him, refused to even acknowledge he was there. I couldn’t resist. “Good lad,” he laughed, grabbing me in his other hand, as if I was a child’s doll. We flew upwards, through the clouds and so high I could see the towns of the plains, and the rivers glistening in the starlight. Up, higher than any mountain. Through the atmosphere, until we could see the curve of the world and the lights of a million cities. I’ll never forget it. A whole world of people, lights in the darkness, a sense that it could all be ripped apart, a sense that it could all come together. A sense that it would all come down to one choice. 32
The shining man spoke in a voice that was nothing like human. In a language I didn’t know but could understand. He sounded ancient and weary and cruel and contemptuous. He spoke to Mad Boy and in his voice there was a hatred so real that I thought he might drop us both. But there was also a fear, so dark and so palpable that he was nearly choking on it. “Boy, you see this. All this madness and folly and cruelty and brokenness. All this beauty and potential. Every kingdom and country. All these I will give you, to do with as you like, if you will fall down and worship me.” I saw Mad Boy look down at a world full of all the mess that we’ve made. I watched him think. I watched him decide. I saw him smile. I heard him laugh, exactly as he had in my dream. A wild, happy, crazy, generous laugh that rang through the stars, making them flare and fizz until their light outshone the shining man and his thrashing wings. The Mad Boy spoke, “Away with you, Satan! For it is written, ‘Worship the Lord your God, and serve only him’.” Then he laughed again, and as he laughed, the feathers began to fall from the shining man’s wings. We began to fall back towards the earth, towards the gorge, towards the country Grandad had been teaching me. And the country reached for us and caught us and set us down softly by the water hole. The shining man was gone, and the last feather fell into the fire that Grandad had made. It caught and shone and died. He was cooking the extra food we had gathered that day. Mad Boy collapsed to the ground. I looked at Grandad. “It’s now, isn’t it?” I asked. He smiled his secret smile and put his hand on mine. I cradled Mad Boy and dribbled some water through his parched lips. The cockatoo screeched, just once, and flew up into the night. Three days later, Mad Boy was full and fit to walk back home with us. We laughed most of the way back. Even Grandad. 33
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Prayer God of the hard places, we trust you never to lead us where we cannot survive. We believe that you desire what is best for us. And yet ... we are confused when we feel alone in confronting the temptations. Grant us the clarity that Jesus had in the wilderness. Give us the strength to overcome when faced with choices that might derail our lives. Send to us your Spirit, who will help repair what is broken in us. Lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil. We do not desire an untested faith but we do not willingly seek to test your love. Accept our love. Accept our trust. Accept our obedience. For the sake of your son, Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen 35
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