Simply Simon

Sleeping high

Late last year, one of the city’s Laneway Public Art Commissions for 2007 was installed just below our apartment building. One quiet Sunday afternoon, we watched, intrigued, as more than thirty life-size dummies wrapped in sarongs and cradled in hammocks were suspended on the graffitied wall of a neighboring warehouse. The installation, created by Indonesian artist Samuel Indratama, is called Urban Apartment.

I like it.

According to the blurb, it’s “a positive statement about Melbourne’s allure as one of the world’s most liveable cities and the lifestyle choices people are making in space and place to be part of its metropolis.” As a highrise resident, I often reflect on the fact that my home sits 12 floors above street level. I live, eat, shower and sleep in a home suspended high above one of the busiest intersections in Australia's second largest city. For all its oddity, it’s this ‘being part of its metropolis’ that I relate to most. As I stand on my balcony and look out across the skyline or down at the laneways below, I feel a part of it, at one with it, gathered up in it.

My hammock may be humble, but the vantage point is fantastic!

Cookies ... again

The story I referred to a couple of weeks back--the one about two of my favourite people making cookies for their apartment complex--has made its way into today's Sunday Age (Melbourne's newspaper). You can read it here. Amidst all the negative publicity circulating at the moment about the CBD's nightlife, it's great to see a good-news story about life in the city. I'm proud of them!

Christmas Cookies

The following article--featuring two of my favourite people--appeared in the latest issue of The Witness, our denominational paper.
__________________________

Ali and Nathaniel are city kids. Home is on the 12th floor of a high-rise apartment building located in the very heart of Melbourne, Australia’s second largest city. It’s just five minutes walk from the Bourke Street Mall and bustling Melbourne Central. Ali can see Myer, the city’s iconic department store, from her bedroom window.

Though Melbourne’s central business district is home to some 12,000 people, kids like Ali (12) and Nathaniel (10) make up less than 6% of the population. Despite this and the negative clichés that surround city living, they love their neighbourhood.

Granted, getting to know the neighbours isn’t easy. As with any suburban street, there are those who are always up for a chat, and others who barely grunt when greeted. The added challenge for Ali and Nathaniel is their building’s security system. Swipe cards provide each resident access to the common areas at ground level and his or her floor. Knocking spontaneously on a neighbour’s door is impossible. Meeting neighbours happens most often around the mailboxes, on the lift, or across the laneway at the local café. Building relationships takes time and a high degree of creativity.

Undeterred, Ali and Nathaniel decided Christmas was a great excuse for a special effort. “Let’s make cookies,” Ali said to her dad. “For everyone?” he asked, bemused. With 130 apartments over 18 levels, this was no mean feat. The family agreed and laid out a plan.

Two days were set aside to make the 390 chocolate chip cookies—just three per apartment. Then Ali scoured the reject shops for cellophane paper, ribbon and gift cards. Meanwhile Nathaniel made arrangements with the building manager to get access to each floor for delivery. Come baking day and time was divided between cooking and hand writing 130 gift cards with the simple message, “Happy Christmas, with love from the kids in 1204.” Assembling each little package was the time consuming bit, including curling the ribbons with the back edge of the scissors. But by the end, a large wicker basket was full to overflowing with little packets of Christmas cheer.

Delivery was the highlight. Accompanied by a grinning building manager and his wife, Ali and Nathaniel made their way to every level of the building, one after the other, carefully hanging their Christmas gifts on each door handle as they went.

In retrospect, this was a simple act, but one with profound consequences. In the days following delivery, Ali and Nathaniel’s mailbox was inundated with thank-you cards and little Christmas gifts. They received invitations to visit neighbours in their apartments, to meet their cats and drink hot chocolates. Conversations opened up with people who previously had never even glanced in their direction. About a month later, Ali and Nathaniel received a letter from the Body Corporate--the building's management committee--thanking them for what they had done and highlighting their act as one of the most significant community making events in the history of the building. In reality, something changed in the building from that day on.

Whether we live in a high-rise in the heart of the city, a three-bedroom brick veneer in the suburbs, or a farmhouse in the country, loving our neighbours has never been more challenging or important. More than ever, it requires intention and creativity. Then again, chocolate chip cookies are not rocket science.

Crap in the Neighbourhood?

A few weeks back, an article ran in Melbourne’s Sunday Life magazine with the title 'Love thy neighbour'. To be honest, it was a fairly cheap shot at apartment living, or rather at the lousy neighbours that Australians supposedly are in high-density environments. Apparently, according to journalist Jimmy Thomson, all the ‘evidence’ suggests that “Australians aren’t merely unused to communal, up-close-and-personal living; we’re crap at it.” He goes on to tell horror stories of the apartment-neighbours-from-hell, as if to prove his point.

Granted, I have no doubt that all of Thomson’s stories are true. As an apartment dweller, I could even add some of my own. But to suggest that there is some verifiable evidence to prove the point that we happy Australian suburbanites simply can’t cope with any other form of residential life is crap itself.

The evidence that Thomson neglects to cite is that neighbourhood disputes are on the rise across the board, and nowhere more than in the low-density suburban heartlands of our major cities. Applications for neighbourhood-based intervention orders heard in the Melbourne Magistrates Court have almost doubled in the past 7 years—from 3200 in 1999 to more than 6000 in 2006. According to the chair of Law Institute of Victoria’s family law section, this dramatic increase in neighbourhood applications “reflects a society of angry people, too quick to choose American-style litigation over old-fashioned good manners.”

Importantly, I reckon this only highlights what a crucial vocation good neighbouring is. Investing in our neighbourhoods as places of connection and cooperation is about strengthening the fabric that holds our cities and suburbs together. It’s a call worth hearing … no matter where we live.

Cities (and churches) with kids in mind

As member of the City of Melbourne’s Family and Children’s Advisory Committee, I’ve gotten to listen in on some fascinating conversations about the city’s progress toward accreditation as a UNICEF Child Friendly City.

If Melbourne is successful in its plans, we’ll be the first capital city in Australia structurally dedicated in its system of governance to the welfare and inclusion of children.

The Child Friendly City movement is a UN initiative, arising out of the shared conviction that “the well-being of children is the ultimate indicator of a healthy habitat, a democratic society and of good governance.”

The definition of a Child Friendly City goes like this:

A Child Friendly City is actively engaged in fulfilling the right of every young citizen to:
• influence decisions about their city;
• express their opinion on the city they want;
• participate in family, community and social life;
• receive basic services such as health care and education;
• drink safe water and have access to proper sanitation;
• be protected from exploitation, violence and abuse;
• walk safely in the streets on their own;
• meet friends and play;
• have green spaces for plants and animals;
• live in an unpolluted environment;
• participate in cultural and social events;
• be an equal citizen of their city with access to every service, regardless of ethnic origin, religion, income, gender or disability.

Two things struck me when I read this.

Firstly, it’s inspiring. If this were a blueprint for the city’s development, Melbourne would really be one of the world’s most livable environments. It’s certainly true that if we are dedicated to making the city of Melbourne a good place for children to live and play, it will be a better place for everyone.

Secondly, it made me wonder what a Child Friendly Church would look like. What if each local community of faith was theologically and structurally dedicated to the welfare, nurture and empowering of children? How would it change what we do, the way we make decisions, and the nature of our gatherings and mission?

How’s this for a try:

A Child Friendly Church is a community of faith in which all children are able to:
• influence decisions about their church community;
• express their opinions and perspectives about the sort of church they want to be part of;
• participate fully in the worship, mission and community life of the church;
• receive quality instruction and nurture in Christian formation;
• enjoy facilities and environments that are safe, clean and secure;
• be protected from experiences of exploitation, violence and abuse;
• walk and play safely in the church’s immediate neighbourhood;
• meet friends, have fun and play;
• enjoy God’s created world;
• participate in culturally sensitive and inclusive community life;
• be equal and respected members of the body of Christ, regardless of age, gender, ethnic origin, faith experience, financial resources, or abilities.

What do you think?

Intuitions of holiness

Still pondering this idea of sacred space in the city. What is it that makes particular spaces feel different from others? Why am I ‘drawn’ to one building over another? Why do I walk away from certain places feeling enriched in my spirit?

Interestingly, the American architect EA Sovik did some thinking about this some years ago. His question: ‘What architectural qualities evoke an intuition of holiness?’

In what I’ve read, Sovik draws upon Rudolf Otto’s three aspects of ‘the holy’, simplistically summarized as (i) the devotion to truth, (ii) the commitment to love, and (iii) the awareness of mystery. Sovik’s concern is to explore the possibility of these in architecture.

To begin with the last, Sovik suggests that mystery is mediated most profoundly through encounters with beauty—“ineffable, unknowable, but perceivable, remote but fascinating. We sense it, we do not deduce it. It is an experience, not a rational conclusion. The beautiful thing invites us into a state of wonder or awe.” The beauty that Sovik describes is far more than cosmetic or faddish. A place of real beauty, he says, “is like the Mysterium Tremendum: its mystery grows as we contemplate it.”

Next, a building of truth is one that is honest. As a structure, it has integrity. Architecture is real, Sovik says, when it’s true to its purpose or function. It is a structure without pretence, false veneer or clever illusion. It is a place that never tries to be anything other than what it is. And it is what it is with confidence, grace and presence.

Finally, a building of love is one that is gracious, companionable, generous, strong, gentle and hospitable. In contrast to those buildings that speak of exclusivity, intimidation, self-indulgence or self-assertion, the architecture of love is embodied in a building that enriches and affirms all those who enter.

With these criteria in mind, I have wondered what places in the city, apart from churches, ‘evoke an intuition of holiness’ in my own encounters with them. I can think of three most easily.

The Latrobe reading room, State Library: Most Fridays I sit in this room to prepare for the week to come. I never tire of it. It is a stunning and majestic space, and one that becomes even more beautiful as time passes. It is a place of clear purpose and its structure serves that purpose magnificently. Grand, but never intimidating, it’s an inclusive and hospitable place imbued with a welcoming presence.

The Great Hall, National Gallery of Victoria. Just a week ago, my children and I did what Melbournians have done for decades. We walked into the majestic open space at the rear of the Gallery, laid ourselves down on the carpet and stared up at the magnificent mosaic glasswork that is the ceiling. That this space is both beautiful and true is evident in its enduring place in Melbourne’s heart. But what struck me this time is the welcoming feel of a space that could so easily be an elite and exclusive one. In all the years that I have been visiting, I have never once been bared from entering or from lying down on the carpet as if it were my own lounge room, along with so many others.

The Pioneer Women’s Memorial Garden, Kings Domain. Though originally established to honour the pioneer women who came to Australia from Europe, today the garden honours all women who have loved this country as home. Though perhaps more highly structured than appeals to some, I’ve always found this sunken garden built around a fountain and backed by those alluring blue tiles such a peaceful place. Since childhood it’s a place I’ve returned to with affection. It always strikes me as uniquely beautiful, true within its age and time, and somehow open to a new and more inclusive hospitality as the Australian story evolves.

Those are some of mine. What places feel sacred to you?

Theology & urban planning

Related to my last post, I have just finished reading Rowan Williams’s essay in the excellent book Spirituality in the City. Williams, Archbishop of Canterbury, is concerned to explore what it is about the urban landscape that shapes us spiritually. Interestingly, Williams's primary focus in on bricks and mortar -- the built environment of the city.

One of Williams’s early points is that the church in the city, by its very presence, has an important role to play. “In a landscape without spatial 'pauses', gaps for reflection, holy places," Williams asks, how do we nurture a broader and deeper sense of the sacred? By its presence, he argues, the church makes an important statement about values and perspective.

That said, Williams’s concern for the city’s built form goes far beyond the presence of its churches. While such buildings may stand as a powerful reminder of sacred concerns, it is the city landscape as a whole that impacts human character and community. Williams argues that a significant challenge to Christians concerned for the welfare of the city is “how to get theology onto the agenda of [city] planning.” "To talk about 'urban spirituality',” he says, “must be to talk about the politics of the built environment.”

Two passages worth quoting at length:

“In any and every programme for regeneration, Christian believers should be actively asking about the human scale of anything proposed for the material environment as a necessary aspect of caring for the spiritual welfare of the people involved. It ought not to be so unusual as it seems to be for these matters to be raised; but an approach to community regeneration that looks only for economic growth, improved choice, better access to development funds and so on will fail in enlarging the spiritual horizons of people if it is cut off from these awkward issues around the messages that an environment conveys."

"If—as St Francis de Sales is supposed to have said—spiritual direction begins when people are helped to walk more slowly, talk more slowly and eat more slowly, then the life of the spirit in the city will entail asking about the size of rooms in public buildings, the flow of traffic in streets, the level of atmospheric pollution, the maintenance of parks, galleries and libraries, the space available for children in public -- and countless other matters where decisions are regularly taken as though none of these could possibly be an issue."

Places for the soul

I enjoyed listening to a panel discussion recently. Participants had been asked to play with the idea of envisioning the Australian church twenty years into the future. Many challenging things were said, but one comment, made several times, has played in my head since.

It was suggested that the thriving church of tomorrow will not be about buildings. Rather it will be gatherings of people in homes, pubs, cafes and other ‘third places’. And where buildings do come into play, they will be more multi-purpose spaces with porous edges into the wider community. The church as a sacred building will fade away, it was said, as the organic and integrated community of faith flourishes.

Part of me wholeheartedly agrees and hopes for a similar future. As a died-in-the-wool house churcher, there is so much about this open, fluid and integrated notion of church that resonates. That all space and every aspect of life can be embraced as sacred is a liberating idea. Still, another part of me hesitates.

The city of Melbourne is home to some magnificent religious architecture—churches and cathedrals with sweeping spires, grand entranceways and hallowed interiors. As I walk the city, I often wonder to myself what difference it would make to Melbourne if all of these churches were bulldozed and replaced with more commercial office towers, retail centres or even public plazas. How different would the city feel? Would it matter?

I think it would, even to those who never venture inside. The fact is, architecture is a powerful expression of history and meaning. The very presence of these churches stands in contrast to the towers of capitalism that surround them, a reminder that there is more. At their best, they point beyond themselves to the Spirit of deeper things.

Personally, though still committed to house church, I need my occasional visit to St Patricks. My soul needs it. My sense is, whatever shape the church of the future takes, there will never cease to be a need for buildings that speak distinctively to the spirit, places of soul. While I am all in favour of community centres and multi-purpose spaces that blend faith and community, I wonder sometimes if we are not in danger of losing something of value—the power of specific places to lift the human spirit to God. While I'm not talking cathedrals on every corner, perhaps we need to remember that worship and place have a deep and time honoured human connection. Just a thought.

Vertical communities

A couple of weeks back, I attended the launch of an exhibit at the Arts Centre by Melbourne photographic artist Simon Terrill. Part of the larger Crowd Theory project, this particular exhibit focussed upon the life of two apartment towers on Melbourne’s Southbank.

Taken at dusk, mid-week, the main photograph captured over 300 residents purposefully positioned on their balconies and in the street below. Some dressed in style for the occasion, webbers fired up and champagne flowing. Others stood casually, with friends or alone. Multiple windows were ablaze with light and curtains open. Others were in darkness or with blinds securely drawn. One resident was scaling the wall with ropes. Others stood in the street staring up at the camera, hands in pockets or arm in arm. There were children, twenty-somethings, older people and everyone else in between. In a way, the end result reminded me of one of those ‘Where’s Wally?’ pictures … little stories everywhere you looked.

The photograph was not only an arts project, but an event, a gathering of neighbours and community. I loved it. To me, the end result was a wonderful affirmation of my own neighbourhood. As a dweller of a twelfth floor apartment in the heart of the city, I often field bemused questions from those who wonder why on earth I chose to live where I do, especially with children. Didn’t I write a book about neighbourhood?

Vertical communities like mine are little understood in the land of the suburban block. Just as suburbia itself is an easy target for cultural critics, so inner city apartment living is routinely caricatured as anonymous, soulless or excessively urbane. Of course, in both contexts there are those who choose to live anonymously with no desire for connection. We have our share of those. But in every neighbourhood—urban, suburban or rural—there are those who desire more.

Simon Terrill’s work provides a glimpse, a snapshot of the richness of what’s around us everyday. It helps us look more closely. And when we do, perhaps we'll see the mundane of where we live differently.

Mission in the neighbourhood

I read a fascinating interview this weekend with the pastor of a congregation in a struggling suburb on Chicago’s south side (in the US). In an age of regionalism, it was inspiring to read of a community so deeply invested in the well-being of its local neighbourhood.

Propelled by overwhelming need, this congregation has apparently been a catalyst for transformation in one of Chicago’s most challenging areas. Significantly, this change has come through a series of smaller initiatives:

• Every summer the congregation has taken to the streets to pray on every street corner of their neighbourhood.
• Through the work of local volunteers, they’ve provided educational support and job placement services for youths wanting to escape the influence of local gangs.
• They've successfully lobbied to see the number of neighbourhood liquor stores significantly reduced in number.
• They’ve provided support services to local prostitutes, offering alternative means of income to those who want to find a way out.

Most notably, the church community decided to focus on the area known locally as 'the dirty block' where violence, shootings and prostitution were at their worst. Church members systematically cleaned up the block, putting in new storm drains, painting every front porch, laying new sod on nature strips, replanting gardens, and installing lights in front of every home. Pastor James Meeks comments, "What a joy it was at night to drive back through that community to see people out watering their lawns and to see children riding their bikes. And to see all the porch lights on."

At one stage in the interview, Meeks says this:

" ... you can't build a healthy church if it isn't working to improve an unhealthy community. Many people have built 'healthy churches' while the community around them is destitute. How then am I my brother's keeper? No, in that case, I'm just my own keeper. How can a church see a community week after week and be oblivious to what's happening in that community? That's not a healthy church! Our mission is always to build a healthy people, and that automatically means that you are concerned about what else happens on your Jericho road."

A story like this is a good reminder that apart from the specifics of a local neighbourhood, the call to love our neighbours remains nothing more than a virtuous idea.
___________________
Andy Crouch. "Redeeming a Needy Neighbourhood: An Interview with James Meeks." Leadership 27, no. 3 (2006): 40-45. You can also access the interview here at the Christian Vision Project web site. Thanks Paul.