Small Moments in Love #3

The paths we walked became sacred to me, but like all things beautiful the memory is laced with pain.

The moments we shared- nothing more than tiny windows in time really- was mostly spent walking together.  These were occasions that allowed us the momentary chance to dream. Extracted from the complexities of the rest of our lives, these walks provided space to imagine the future. There was no clear destination in mind on these adventures- an apt metaphor perhaps for our drifting yet intoxicating bond. Mostly we would end up in the city after navigating some course through the suburban backstreets.

As we walked we talked about plans. She wanted a house with a white picket fence- in this, she was firm an irresolute. “With me?” I once asked as suspicion grew within me that I might have been an accidental character in her fairy tale.

“Of course my darling! Who else!” she replied.

“What else do you want?” I asked.

She responded with growing excitement. “Well, not much really. Just a house by the water, a family and lot’s of money so I can travel.”

“You want to travel with me, right?”

I had asked a stupid question, apparently. “Stop being so silly,” she said sarcastically. “Of course with you.”

We continued on. She was beautiful and I wanted to be around her.

I knew she was just trying to make me feel good. I grew increasingly sombre, as I too joined in the illusion that everything would work out as we planned.  This was in spite of a gnawing realisation that everything we were experiencing would soon end. I held her hand, telling myself that in so doing we would be bound together somehow. She gripped my hand in return and everything seemed OK for a while.

The twilight hours would eventually descend, and the sun would retreat so that it could commence its shift on the other side of the world. We hurried our pace, not wanting to be caught in the darkness. Once in the city, I would drop her at the train station. She always needed to leave by sundown. One day she left for good. I returned to walk the path home alone.





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An Afternoon BMX Adventure


My BMX had white tires. It was a cheap knock-off brand from K-Mart, but I rode the life out of it. I had initially wanted something cooler like a Mongoose, but I knew I this was a pipe dream fuelled by watching the movie BMX bandits. My family had little money for such indulgences. In those childhood years I took what I could get, and what I got one birthday year was a functional yet basic BMX. Despite its lowly status, my BMX did everything I needed it too and I was thankful.

I made custom modifications to my BMX, as boys often like to do with their machinery. The trend in the early 90s was to use Spokey Dokeys. Spokey Dokeys were coloured plastic beads that you would clip on the wheels. As you pedalled they would move up and down, making a pleasing clickety-clack sound. I used to pretend that it sounded like an actual motorbike, until the day my friend Shane showed me an even cooler modification: using a clothes peg, you attached a little piece of cardboard to the wheel so that it would flutter in between the spokes as you pedalled. This was advanced BMX modifications 101. It sounded a lot more like a motor than the Spokey Dokeys.


Part of the thrill of riding a BMX is to ride as part of a gang. My own BMX gang roamed the streets of rural Warragul in a spirit of adventure which had no clear goal in mind.  A motley gathering of about five misfits, after school we would grab our bikes and head off to different locations around town in search of intrigue. Favourite destinations were the Kiah Park nature reserve, the so-called snake-pit off Edinburgh St and the creepy cult house up towards the local cemetery. This house has remained the same in the decades since- a two-story wooden building which one can barely glimpse due to the dense foliage and trees blocking passing views. To be fair, it was not verified fact that the occupants (who no-one ever saw) were part of a cult, but it sure seemed that way. Either that or they were serial killers.


My own true love, however, was to get away on my own.

On the occasional weekend, I would take my BMX out for little road trips. With my trusty backpack, I would take my snacks (mostly a cheese and Vegemite sandwich and piece of fruit) and head out into the countryside to see what I could find. Most of the time these were uneventful, but I found them therapeutic. I loved the feeling of endless open space. As I built up my confidence I would travel a little further each time, gradually pushing the geographical boundaries of what I and my BMX were capable of. This all took place in the days before everyone was paranoid about everyone else being a dangerous criminal, and so my parents were relatively carefree about my pilgrimages to various outposts surrounding Warragul.

A favourite trip was to ride through a local park where the town council kept an old steam locomotive as a testament to a bygone industrial era. Once there I would crawl all over the locomotive and examine every square inch of this strange beast. I travelled to this site just last year and the locomotive has since been removed. I felt a sadness wash over me looking at the bland strip of grass where the locomotive used to sit. Must everything be a war on history?


There was this one time I got real adventurous: I decided to ride my BMX along Brandy Creek Road for as far as I could before I got scared. I was headed nowhere in particular, IMG_0117-600x340but I harboured a secret ambition to one day ride as far as Rokeby- a tiny farming town about fifteen minutes drive down the road. At Rokeby I could have parked my BMX
alongside the lake and skimmed some rocks. But it wasn’t to be. 
On this day I only got as far as the driveway to Mary Seabrook’s house, which was only a kilometre or so outside Warragul. I got increasingly worried that I was going too far and that I might be kidnapped or run over. The noise of the cars as they approached behind me was mildly terrifying. I didn’t trust drivers. 

It was near the letterbox to the Seabrook’s that I decided to park my BMX. I sat and watched the wheels turn as they slowed down to their resting position. I glanced over toward the Seabrook’s house, which stood at the end of a long driveway. It was a solitary, melancholy house that sat perched on a hill overlooking the countryside. Mary’s husband shot himself in the chest with a shotgun some years before, and I wondered if this gruesome act took place on the property. Perhaps it was haunted. What would it be like to explore this location at night time?

I ate my sandwich as I observed the mountains surrounding the town. In the distance, I could see the towering pinnacle of Mount Worth. I noticed that it was covered in trees. In fact, the whole panorama before me was so very green- the depth of which I have not seen since. It had been a sunny day but there was a crisp, fresh breeze building by the late afternoon.  As I sat I closed my eyes and felt the wind blowing across my face. I imagined I was the captain of a ship and was on a daring sea voyage. It was a nice feeling.


After some time I gathered my backpack and prepared myself for the return journey. The shadows were growing long in the late afternoon sun. I loved this time of day precisely because it frightened me. The shadows signalled danger, and my mission now was to keep myself moving ahead of the encroaching darkness before anything bad happened to me. It was a manufactured sense of impending doom of course, but the strange tingling sensation felt good throughout my body.

As the darkness grew, the headlights of the cars behind me shone ominously over my BMX as they overtook me furiously pedalling along the side of the road. I felt like I was in the spotlight of some interrogation, except I couldn’t defend myself because I couldn’t see exactly who was advancing on me. All I knew is that I had to pedal faster and faster. Eventually I caught sight of the lights of the local Milk Bar around the corner ahead. I knew once I got there I would be safe. From there it was not too far to my house, and the streets from that point on were all lined with homes with their lights on.


I made it home safely and rejoined the noise and clamour of my family. My BMX was stored safely in the empty space under our house, where it would endure the stuffy darkness until the next afternoon’s adventure. Despite walking into a flurry of family activity, I was still imagining myself out by the Seabrook’s letterbox, planning future trips to the faraway vistas I had observed that afternoon. I had done well to make it as far as I had, but I promised myself that next time I would go even further.



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Portrait of an Anxious Mind

I realised I had been on the same webpage just 1 hour before. It was 2am and my panic resulted in another bout of sleeplessness, so I had been indulging in a favourite pastime: googling my headache symptoms in a subconscious attempt to prove to myself I was about to die.

I didn’t really want to die, did I? Perhaps it was better than this? Why was I so anxious about dying anyway? Perhaps it was because I knew I was going to hell?

I had been scrolling through various health and medical websites for the past 3 hours, trying to find something to would convince me things were not that bad. I doubled back on WebMD for the second occasion, thinking that I might have missed something the first time around. When I first loaded Dr. Google I was content to merely list my symptoms- right side headache, head pressure, dizziness, stiff neck …ad nauseam. This repetitive action brought up a staggering array of results, each of which informed me that I was about to die. I could feel my stomach twist and turn in a familiar yet still unwelcome knot of fear.

My wife suddenly turned in her sleep. She murmured something and then resumed her bliss. I was jealous. 

I kept going with the checking, convinced that somehow the information online would make me feel better. I then remembered something: I could put quotation marks around a search term to pull up results that contained that exact phrase. The Lord was indeed shining his light on me. I set about this new task with the eagerness of an apprentice determined to prove himself to his master. There was no turn of phrase I didn’t try:

“It is unlikely to be cancer”

“Cancer is rare”

“Rare in people under 40”

“Recovery rates are good”

“It’s probably nothing serious”

And so I continued my paranoid search in the darkened moments of the early morning. It got so bad that at one point the Google server sent me an automated security message: “Your account is displaying suspicious behaviour.” Great, I thought. I was now marked as spam.

My wife woke-up. “What are you doing? Stop that for God’s sake. It doesn’t help.” I knew this but simply couldn’t look away from the screen. 

The glow of the screen transfixed my eyes as I gazed into a world of medically induced fear. What I learned over the past 3 hours of relentless checking was that I had cancer. I also had Multiple Sclerosis. It was also likely I had some sort of thyroid problem, with a possible bout of TMJ thrown in for good measure. Overarching all of these perilous conditions was the ongoing threat of instantaneous demise due to stroke or aneurysm.

“Just put the bloody phone away,” my wife muttered under her breath. 

With reluctance, I put the phone down. Just one more website and I would have been OK. It would have told me that I was overreacting and that my anxious mind could produce the very symptoms I was seeking reassurance for. Having woke-up my wife and got myself listed as a spam account on Google I placed the phone in my draw and shut my eyes.

Sleep came slowly. I woke the next day exhausted from last night’s battle. I had to face the world- a world of superficial appearances and never ending pursuit of all forms of success, where everyone wants you to be healthy and well and just super confident and together all the time. A world where daily lies are the currency we use to co-exist: “I am doing great thanks, how are you?” “Oh yeah my wife? she is amazing! we have the best life!”

It was a performance I had undertaken countless times before. And I was good at it. But this morning my body would not let me. I called in sick and opened up google on my phone.

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Small Moments in Love #2

The Church I attended throughout my childhood was small but vibrant. Each Sunday evening we would have a more informal service that was designed to ‘reach out’ to people from non-church backgrounds. I remember these services as a lot of fun, particularly as they were followed by a relaxed dinner in which we would all chat. One of the women in the Church had connections with the local First Australian community, and would regularly bring along a group of girls to these services. They were of similar age to me- perhaps around 11 or 12. Over a period of a few weeks, I noticed that I had caught the attention of one of this group, who would often stare at me at various junctures during the service. Was it possible that she liked me?
I certainly liked her. She had deep, searching brown eyes. I liked the way I would catch her smiling at me from across the Church. I pretended I didn’t notice for the most part- a mixture of disbelief that someone as pretty as her could actually like me and an equally strong desire to be seen as ‘cool’ and nonchalant. Even so, I would steal a gaze in her direction when I felt it was safe to do so.
Yet my ability to wistfully stare was hampered by the fact that she was always surrounded by her friends, who banded around her in what I perceived as a mildly protective stance. They used to stare at me too and would giggle in a way that made me feel as if there was something positively ridiculous about the simple fact of my existence. Again, I tried to ignore it, whilst simultaneously enjoying the attention. However, one evening after the service this group of friends approached me as I stood alone in the Church foyer. I noticed my future beloved (my imagination was working perfectly well) was not with them. Continuing to giggle, one of them shyly told me “My friend likes you.” And with that revelation, they skipped back to their friend and proceeded to assess my face for a reaction.  I smiled at her and tried my best to display a combination of  romantic interest and apathy- a difficult mix to get right.
Eventually, we all left for the night. I only saw the love of my life on one more occasion. Later that same year I attended the Warragul Show with some friends. It was the usual kind of country town deal; a blend of kitsch entertainment with exorbitant prices. Nevertheless, the whole town seemed to be there and it was the most fun one could reasonably hope to have as a grade Sixer. At some point, I noticed the same group of girls from the Church service. They were hovering around a stand selling cheap trinkets. I decided to keep back, too nervous to approach. I didn’t want to appear desperate.
Unbeknownst to me, the girls were already fully aware of my presence at the Show. In fact, at the precise moment I saw them they were helping my beloved choose a bracelet to give to me. Upon deciding, her friends raced up to me and said it was a gift to me from their friend who ‘really, really likes me.’ With that, they ran off, keen to observe my reaction from a distance. In pleasant and nervous shock, I unwrapped the tissue paper in my hand. The contents appeared to reveal nothing more than a crinkle of plastic. It seemed there was no bracelet after all. I looked toward the group of smirking girls, sighed, and deposited the object of my rejection in the nearest bin.
I went to stride away in defiance but was stopped in my tracks by the same group of girls, who had ran up to me before I could escape. “Why did you throw away the bracelet?” they asked. “She really likes you and chose that herself. HOW COULD YOU?” I was mortified and explained that I thought it was a cruel practical joke and also that I thought I was in love with their friend. I raced back to the bin and retrieved the crumple of plastic. On closer examination, there was indeed a small, faux-silver bracelet inside. One blink and you would miss it, as I indeed did.
With my heart overflowing with regret, I put on the bracelet and chased down the object of my love. For the first time, I approached her directly. I ran up to her and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek before running away so that I could watch their response to my kiss from a safe vantage point. It was to be the last time I would ever see them. They were still laughing together and smiling back at me.
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Western Civilisation in the Twenty-First Century Conference

I will be speaking at the University of Adelaide History Department’s Western Civilisation in the Twenty-First Century conference on 20-21 February, 2020. My paper will deal with nationalism and racism as manifest in various extreme heavy metal subcultures. The event looks fascinating with lot’s of interesting speakers and topics.

More details can be found on the event page:





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Nazi Show Trials and the Politics of Condemnation

Roland Freisler was one of the more unsavoury personalities of the Third Reich-era. This achievement was no small feat given his competition: Himmler, Bormann, Goebbels and Streicher were all strong contenders in the crappy personality department. Nevertheless, Freisler occupied a unique place in the pantheon of Nazi functionaries as the odious Judge responsible for condemning thousands of political prisoners to their death.

Born in lower Saxony in 1893, Freisler saw action in the German Army throughout the First World War, receiving the Iron Cross first class. Captured by the Russians on the Eastern Front, Freisler used his time in captivity to learn Russian and cultivate an intellectual interest in Marxism, and some doubt exists as to whether he actually became an ideological sympathiser by way of a dubious associations with Russian military forces. Following his return to Germany in 1920 Freisler resumed his legal studies at the University of Jena. He received his doctorate in 1922, which was eventually published as Schriften des Instituts für Wirtschaftsrecht (Fundamentals of Business Organization). A respectable career in the legal profession followed, in which Freisler distinguished himself as both ruthless and articulate.  Freisler’s biographer Helmut Ortner describes the young lawyer as being “extremely competent in his field and a skilled public speaker,” as well as being a master of “stalling tactics and the art of the probing question”[1]-skills Freisler would use to great effect in coming years.

During this period Freisler involved himself in the National Socialist German Workers Party (NSDAP) via a role on the Kassel city council. A skilled political strategist, Freisler was able to steadily increase his profile within the Nazi party and when Hitler made Chancellor in 1933 Freisler was rewarded with a post as the Director of the Prussian Ministry for Justice. Freisler functioned as a fanatical advocate for the Nazification of Nazi law and helped institute legal changes that would reflect the ideology of Nazism- many of which related to so-called ‘inferior races.’[2] In terms of historical memory, however, Freisler’s lasting legacy is as the noxious president of the Volksgerichtshof– the People’s Court. It was the People’s Court which hosted the infamous Nazi show trials, which are known to history as the stuff of dubious legend.

imagesThe Nazi show trials were nothing more than exercises in party propaganda. Film recordings of these events[3] depict a lonely, crestfallen defendant who had been condemned to death from the moment of arrest. Facing a panel of Nazi-appointed judges and legal staff, the accused were berated, screamed at and mocked in what appears to be little more than an exercise in inflicting humiliation and shame. Behind the defendant lie the courtroom audience and press- many of whom gathered for the purposes of obtaining enjoyment through watching the condemned receive Nazi justice. When called upon to present their defence, the accused faced the intimidating task of facing Freisler disdainful glare. Surrounded by antagonism, many of the defendants were reduced meek whimpering in the face of Freisler verbal ferocity. Appeals to reason, lack of evidence or clemency were utterly in vain, as the proceedings inexorably hurled toward their pre-determined outcome. Many of the accused were at pains to express their loyalty toward ‘Volk und Vaterland,’ and many could appeal to their military service during the Great War as a sign of sacrifice for the nation. That this meant nothing in Freisler’s ‘People’s Court’ merely reflected that the trials were not about prosecuting specific crimes but were instead oriented toward condemning the failure of individuals to reflect Nazi ideology in a sufficiently fanatical and zealous manner.

It is the public nature of these trials which attest to the essentially voyeuristic nature of law and punishment. The punishment being meted out to these alleged ‘criminals’ was in actuality an exercise in entertainment and sadism- twin elements of Nazi justice in which the public was also complicit through their willingness to inform on their friends and family at the slightest misdemeanour. In the Nazi ‘courts’ it was not enough for the prisoner to receive their inevitable sentence swiftly and with minimum of fanfare. Rather, what was essential was that the accused be stripped of their dignity and credibility in the most public way possible- the legal equivalent of the guillotine in the village square. For Freisler, the true crime of the accused was not simply their arrestable offence but related instead to a broader failure to conform to the type of individual required by the Nazi dictatorship. And of course, I use the word ‘individual’ loosely here, as the ideal ‘individual’ for the Nazis was one who did not think critically or independently, but instead unquestioningly submitted themselves to the Führerprinzip.

In his study of the history of the prison, Discipline and Punish, the French philosopher Michel Foucault gives expression to the idea that justice primarily functions as societal revenge toward an individual who dares to defy the moral conventions of the time. The reflections raised by Foucault remain pertinent in our own time of pervasive outrage and mercilessness:

The judges of normality are present everywhere. We are in the society of the teacher-judge, the doctor-judge, the educator-judge, the social-worker judge; it is on them that the universal reign of the normative is based; and each individual, wherever he may find himself, subjects to it his body, his gestures, his behaviour, his aptitudes, his achievements. [4]

According to Foucault, the criminal is judged both officially (according to the law) and the members of the society in which the ‘crime occurred.’ This dual dynamic can be observed in the show trials, as the filming and public spectacle allowed for the maximisation of shame and degradation- and all for the most trivial of misdemeanours (where they did occur at all). The goal was the non-existence of the accused- both literally and symbolically. In the process of condemnation, they became a persona non grata– one without a history or a future. This all had the additional benefit of acting as a fairly effective deterrent to others who might contemplate acting on their rebellious convictions.

The question now becomes: far have we evolved from the era of Nazi show trials? The answer is perhaps not as clear-cut as we might think. Any response to this question must give primacy to the role of technology in our society. The possibilities for self-expression inherent in the age of social media, for example, have also brought with it the curse of superficial moral condemnation, in which the failings of an individual are broadcast to great swathes of people ready to pounce on the accused. What has emerged is a ‘people’s court’ of our own making- one which runs parallel to the state legal system. The new court of public condemnation functions as a space for mass humiliation and degradation, in which those who have failed to meet the moral expectations of a particular group fall prey to humanities lust for blood. Today’s accused remain immortalized in digital memory- broadcast around the world to suffer a condemnation perhaps far worse than any fate that could be meted out by Freisler’s court. And if the reality of this seems overwhelmingly bleak, we can perhaps take small comfort in the manner of Freisler’s death. The Nazi parties toughest and most fanatical Judge died during a bombing raid as he was trying a case in court- a somewhat satisfying end for a truly obnoxious individual. Apparently, no-one mourned his passing.[5]



[1] Helmut Ortner, Hitler’s Executioner: Roland Freisler, President of the Nazi People’s Court (Yorkshire: Frontline, 2018),

[2] In these effort Freisler found inspiration United States racial segregation laws. See James Whitman, Hitler’s American Model: The United States and the Making of Nazi Race Law (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2017), 103–6.

[3] For an assessment of the role of film in the administration of Nazi justice see Peter Drexler, “The German Courtroom Film During the Nazi Period: Ideology, Aesthetics, Historical Context,” Journal of Law and Society, Vol. 8 No. 1 (2001): 64–78.

[4] Michel Foucault, Discipline and Punish: The Birth of the Prison (London: Penguin, 1977), 304.

[5] Granberg, Jerje, “Berlin, Nerves Racked by Air Raids, Fears Russian Army Most,” Oakland Tribune, 23 February 1945, p. 1.


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Writing Passionate History: The Example of Jules Isaac

Must the writing of history always be undertaken in a spirit of cold detachment, or is there a legitimate place for the use of passion as a guiding force in the pursuit of historical inquiry? Traditional wisdom would suggest that objectivity is paramount in the interpretation of historical events and that conclusions become clouded and biased when objectivity is compromised through the influence of subjectivity. While I agree that the need to remain impartial in the study and interpretation of historical materials is fundamental, I wonder If it might not be possible to write genuinely passionate history while remaining faithful to the ideals of academic vigour.

I raise these questions because my thinking on this topic has been challenged recently through my study of Jules Isaac’s The Teaching of Contempt: The Christian Roots of Anti-Semitism. At the outbreak of the Second World War, Isaac had already distinguished himself as a writer of essential textbooks on French history, yet the anti-Semitic climate of Vichy France would present confront Isaac with an existential tragedy that would forever alter the course of his academic pursuits.  Attempting to seek refuge from Nazi persecution in the French town of Riom, Isaac’s wife and children were arrested by the Gestapo as he was out for a walk. Despite his pleading with the Nazi Government for their release, they all died in Auschwitz.

url1The trauma of this event utterly disoriented Isaac, who was stricken with profound and lasting grief. Yet the devastation of losing his family was to prompt a drastic reconsideration of the trajectory of his intellectual interests. Even though Isaac was already in his senior years at the time of the war, the real impact of his legacy was to be felt in the years to come. Having already been interested in the Christian roots of anti-Semitism for many years, Isaac used the tragic death of his family as an underlying motivational force, which fuelled a new passion for examining how the history of Christian theology has codified anti-Semitism. Isaac’s wife perhaps had a sense of his future significance before her death. Before her deportation to the Auschwitz death camp, Isaac’s wife left him a note which said to “save yourself for your work; the world is waiting for it.” (1)

Isaac’s study on the theology of Anti-Semitism is the outcome of his struggle to come to terms with the nihilistic, murderous rampage of Nazism, which symbolized for him the natural endpoint for systematic anti-Semitism. The study utilises a series of theses and correlating responses to illustrate the various strands of anti-Semitic theory. For example, Isaac chooses to place under the historical microscope the widespread theological view that the Jewish diaspora commenced in A.D. 70 after their military defeat in Judea. Instead, Isaac suggests that the dispersion of Jews had commenced far earlier, thus calling into question the established view that the dispersion of the Jews was a result of ‘Divine retribution.’ Isaac continues his study with an examination of the alleged decadence of the Jews during the early Christian period and the age-old notion of the Jews as murderers of Christ. (2)

The intellectual coherency and clarity of Isaac’s study are undeniable, but what immediately struck me about the text the passionate zeal which emanates every page. Isaac makes no secret of his overarching mission to challenge the various theological justifications for anti-Semitism, and the depth of this conviction fuels his intellectual pursuits to the extent that might make a more clinical historian uncomfortable. Does the display of such passion then corrupt the final text? The beauty of Isaac’s work is its deep engagement with representative Catholic and Protestant scholars, each of whom is profiled not just for their contributions to anti-Semitic theological trends but for their status as bearers of historical traditions- many of which may be subconsciously reflected in unquestioned attitudes and doctrinal assumptions.

Despite Isaac’s intellectual rigor, there remains the danger that a passion that arises from an a priori commitment to a religious or political cause can distort both methodology and conclusions. Does this danger- which Isaac manages to avoid- warrant a complete disavowal of passionate history? I maintain that it does not. Yet if we allow for the possibility of the experience of deep passion as motivating historical research, under what circumstances should this be endorsed? I contend that writing history in a passionate way is justifiable when the subject relates to matters of significant moral and ethical import. In the case of the Holocaust, for example, historians have an obligation to incorporate a moral perspective when dealing with subjects of such magnitude. To remain silent on the ethical lessons of the Holocaust would be to detract from its tragedy and would reduce research to the cold reiteration of facts without any requirement of moral education. (3) Of course, all of this is to say nothing of the impossibility of entirely objective historical writing, which is always motivated by the researcher’s often unexamined personal biases. At the very least, Isaac’s work demonstrates a successful attempt at fusing unbridled passion with scholarly integrity and goes part of the way in de-stigmatizing the rightful place of emotion, moral commitment, and passion in the art of historical research.



(1) See Claire Hutchet Bishop’s introduction to Jules Isaac, The Teaching of Contempt: Christian Roots of Anti-Semitism(New York: McGraw Hill, 1965), 9.

(2) Martin Luther, On the Jews and Their Lies, translated by Martin H. Bertram, in Luther’s Works (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1971), 47:267.

(3) Robert P. Ericksen acknowledges this in the preface to his work treating the role of German Churches and Universities in the Third Reich. Robert P. Ericksen, Complicity in the Holocaust: Churches and Universities in Nazi Germany (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012), xiv.



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Die Botschaft Gottes: A Translation of Introductory Material

In 1940, theologians from the Jena-based Institute for the Elimination of Jewish Influence on German Church Life published an edited version of New Testament titled Die Botschaft Gottes(The Message of God). [1] The purpose of the translation was to offer German Christians a way of reconciling Christian doctrine with the ideology of National Socialism. It was also important for political reasons, demonstrating to the leaders of the Nazi Party that Christianity could be made to reflect and endorse the anti-Semitism of the time. Die Botschaft Gottes drastically revised many of the texts within the traditional New Testament canon, with a particular emphasis in removing positive references to Judaism and Jesus’ Jewish background.

88930779_8148DieBotschaftGottesA key element of my doctoral research is to provide an in-depth exegetical and theological analysis of the content of Die Botschaft Gottes. As yet, there is no extant English translation of the work, despite some vital contributions by a number of influential scholars within the field. [2] My research hopes to make a contribution to this field of study by shedding some much-needed light on the content of this controversial work. I offer here a translation of the introductory notes written by the editorial team based at the Jena Institute. [3] This material assists in establishing the context and aims of Die Botschaft Gottes.

Foreword to Die Botschaft Gottes

 Many German people are deeply moved by questions of God and eternity, the underlying reasons for our life, and its purpose and meaning. Their questions are an indication that they long for a renewal of the religious life of Germans. This work is dedicated to them and represents a new translation of selected essential parts of the New Testament.

 When Luther published the New Testament translated by him on the Wartburg in 1522, the German people took hold of it in a flash, and it became the decisive step on the path to his Reformation – for with his translation of the New Testament, he opened up the source of his work to the German people. This act of Luther remains untouchable in its form and language.

However: How many German people can still relate to the New Testament in the language and form that Luther gave it? The treasure contained in it is in earthen vessels; these threaten to obscure it as times change. We present this work because we are convinced that there is an eternal treasure in the earthen vessels of the New Testament. The goal is to present the divine truth of the New Testament, the message of God, in a new language and in a new form to the questioning German man or woman. Thus, it contains the divine truthof the New Testament. The passages in which this divine truth has found a lasting expression are selected and translated; this expression can take hold of us, just as it has taken hold of the generations before us. This divine truth is extracted from the earthen vessels of a world view and an awareness of life that are no longer ours because God has placed us within a different history and has shaped us through it. Just as the divine truth of the New Testament, as the message of God, has “awakened and changed” the people of past generations in their worldview and in their awareness of life towards faith and love, it also wants to prove its liberating and blissful power to our hearts.

The selection and design of each section reveals that they have made use of the rich insights and knowledge that German theological studies and religious research have gained about the genesis and content of the New Testament. However, the aim of the work is not a scientific study but a religious contribution to the clarification of German religious questions, demonstrating how the New Testament’s divine truth and the message of God contained in it, are and can be “the power and wisdom of God.”

The material is divided into four parts: The first part contains the message and story of Jesus of Nazareth as presented in the first three Gospels. The second part is the fourth Gospel, which bears the name of John and presents a self-contained picture of Christ. The third part conveys the interpretation and testimony of the divine truth that appeared in Jesus Christ, as it grows – awakened by the apostles – out of the experience of the first Christian communities. Finally, the last part, through its connected text, offers an insight into the first decades of the Christian movement and represents an appendix to the actual work, which is dedicated to the “message of God.” These four parts are designed according to the aspects mentioned above. The individual considerations that guided our work are laid down in a document published by the same company, Das Volkstestament der Deutschen [The Testament for the German People or The People’s Testament for Germany].”

The work, created during the time of the decisive German struggle, aims to be a service to the soul of the German people. Our motto for the task that springs from our responsibility to our people and their life of piety is Martin Luther’s saying: “I have translated the New Testament into German to the best of my ability and conscience. In doing so, I have not forced anyone to read it; instead, I have left it free [to everyone] and have only done it as a service to those who could not do it better[themselves]. No-one is forbidden to come up with a better one” (open letter on translating). An inner connection to Luther’s work, who throughout his life worked on improving his Bible translation, has inspired us to our work.

While working on the translation, we have seen many sections in a new light. We can therefore only hope that those who read attentively also experience something of this. May it also shed some light into their lives and show them why we do not stop announcing the message of God in Jesus Christ.

So, we would ask you: Take it and read!

Learn with Jesus to believe in the Father and seek His eternal kingdom with Him!

Walter Grundmann                 Erich From

Wilhelm Büchner                    Heinz Hunger

                                                Heinrich Weinmann

 In the year of the decisive German struggle 1940



[1]Institut zur Erforschung des Jüdischen Ein flusses auf das deutsche kirchliche Leben, Die Botschaft Gottes(Leipzig: G. Wigand, 1940)

[2]See Susannah Heschel, The Aryan Jesus: Christian Theologians and the Bible in Nazi Germany(Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2010), Robert P. Ericksen, Complicity in the Holocaust: Churches and Universities in Nazi Germany(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012), Doris L. Bergen, Twisted Cross: The German Christian Movement in the Third Reich(Chapel Hill, NC: University of North Carolina Press, 1996)

[3]The editorial team included Walter Grundmann, Erich From, Wilhelm Büchner, Heinz Hunger Heinrich Weinmann



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Legacies of Sexual Abuse: My Experience


John came into my life when I was around 14. He had been invited to our Church as a guest speaker and had soon moved to our town to start a new life for himself. He was charismatic, friendly and liked great music. I was attracted to him because he was in a band, which I assumed made someone instantly cool. Being twice my age, he took an interest in me and we soon began to hang out as friends. He would encourage me, tell me that I was a great drummer and buy me food. Oftentimes we would meet at his place on weekends and watch movies together. We used to go on drives to the countryside. We would laugh, blast music and talk about our favourite bands.  He would also molest me.

These were confusing events for me, and I cannot say that they truly registered as traumatic at the time. In fact, part of me probably enjoyed the sensation. It was new, felt good and was rebellious. However, my encounters with John were not my first experiences of premature sexual awakening. Some 7 years earlier I was attacked in the toilets of my local swimming pool by a mentally ill man who had been let out for the day for good behaviour. Luckily for me, I was able to elbow him in the balls before he could finish his unholy task. I was about 8 or so.


The point of my writing here is not to get into the particularities of the abuse, for that is the domain of therapy. Rather, I want to share my experience of some of the enduring impacts that sex abuse has left in my life. Each story is different, and there are no easy formulas when it comes to figuring out how these kinds of traumatic events will linger into adulthood. Yet I strongly feel that there is a distinct lack of awareness as to how early sexual abuse experiences impact and shape a person in later life. As a society, we tend to assume that one’s sexual activity (including sexual-related failures and transgressions) define the core of an individual heart, when in reality one’s sexuality is the result of an extremely complex interaction of emotional and psychological influences which often go right back to childhood. It is often not easy for people to understand how sexual abuse shapes a person’s life, which means that the victim is always on the back foot and at risk of re-traumatization. It feels like one is permanently misunderstood.

The first thing I remember feeling in the immediate years after these events was a distinct dissociation from my physical body. I felt- and continue to feel- that there is a profound chasm between my physical self and my inner life. It is as if my body is just a random vessel which houses the only thing that ultimately matters- my mind. The ideal of a harmony between spirit and body for me remains an aspirational goal. I have never felt in control of my own body, and have developed this weird idea that my physical self belongs to others and is their rightful property.  I remember one time back around 2009 in which I found myself at a bar. As I was standing alongside the wall waiting to order a drink, an American girl approached me out of the blue demanding to come home with me. I agreed, but as we neared my place I changed my mind. I didn’t want to go ahead with the assumed sexual experience. Something about this girl just didn’t feel right, but I went ahead with it anyway because I did not have the right to turn her down.

This feeling of dissociation led one of the most significant long-term struggles in my life, which has been a pathological inability to say no to others. This has been particularly manifest in my intimate relationships, in which I have allowed myself to be caught-up in situations that I know are not good for me but for which I have lacked the inner confidence necessary to articulate my boundaries. Unfortunately, and to my lasting regret and sadness, this inability to assert myself has led to me hurting and causing pain to others.

Finally, sexual abuse -and the range of complications this brings- leads to inner emptiness. For most of my life, I have felt as if there has been a shadow following me through my days, and that my view of the world is through a faint lens of sadness and longing. I don’t know how to fix this. Several months ago, a so-called ‘minister’ told me that my experiences and perceptions of the world were indicative of one who was ‘not living their best life.’ This may well be the case, but such reductionistic thinking fails to grasp how sexual abuse affects a person. I crave a deep, profound, and existential feeling of joy and meaning, but I find that it still eludes me.


I would like to end this reflection with some words of hope. Despite a confusing mixture of love and loathing of the Church, I have found that my faith in God has sustained me throughout some very dark periods in my struggle. I have also come to a place of both acceptance and (as bizarre as this sounds) thankfulness for the experiences I have had. They have offered me a first-hand experience of the true shades of grey which make up our human nature. What matters in life, I believe, is that one views it as a journey of self-discovery. There is usually not a clear destination in mind, but this is irrelevant.  We each have our struggles and demons, but the candle of hope only really flickers out when we stop striving to grow in maturity, wisdom and compassion. I leave you with a quote from Friedrich Nietzsche, who in The Birth of Tragedy wrote following: ‘There is no truly beautiful surface that has no terrible depth.’




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A Haunting in an Empty Church

When I was in primary school I used to practice my drums at Church. My Dad was the senior minister there, allowing me to be in the privileged position of being able to access the building out of hours. For my parents, this was a far better solution than me making my ‘infernal racket’ at home. It suited me too. There is a certain joy that comes from playing with true abandon…one is utterly unconcerned with volume or other such restrictions and is truly free to indulge the extent of one’s musical whim.  The Church offered this opportunity and I accepted it with relish.

In those days I lived in a small town in which everything was quick and easy to get to. To get to the Church from my home I rode a shitty BMX with white tyres. The trip took about 20 minutes. I took a windy path which traversed both streets laced with standard country-town homes as well as more isolated parkland which lie in the shadows of St. Paul’s Anglican Grammar School. This educational behemoth stood arrogantly perched on a hill as if mocking those unfortunates who could not afford its prohibitive fees. Once clear of the parkland I would commence the final ascent up Bowen Street which lead to Church.

brookerpark_cropped_optimized-1If I were to re-trace this route now I am sure it would appear trivial compared with the vastness of the distance in my childhood mind. The 5 minutes or so it took to clear the parkland felt as if I had entered a strange unknown, darkened world. The sparseness of this hidden nook contrasted so distinctly with the homely and familiar streets just beyond its border and resulted in a sense of undefined expectancy. The park also felt truly eerie, although I cannot precisely explain why. The dirt track was lined with dense native trees, which were themselves parallel to a mostly-empty creek bed. It should have been a quaint environment, and it likely was for the few who did venture into this neck of the woods. For me, however, the dark green overhang and afternoon shadows remained faintly unsettling, and I was always relieved when I would emerge from its clutches.

Soon enough I would arrive at my destination. Upon entering the Church I would always feel both intimidated and claustrophobic, although I was also determined to override these uncomfortable sensations with an assertion of my own toughness. Despite this resolve, however, the feeling that something wasn’t quite right refused to depart from my consciousness. Part of this was undoubtedly due to the geography of the Church itself. Sitting on the opposite side of the same mountain which housed St. Paul’s, the Church was surrounded by grassland which led down the mountain toward the local Golf course. This lonely space created a sense of vulnerability which was not helped by the fact that the Church building itself featured copious amounts of windows. No matter where one was positioned in the Church, there was a corresponding window which allowed for the possibility of external observation. During the daytime hours, this was a nice feature as it allowed vibrant streams of sunlight to penetrate the dim interior of the Church. One could also stare out the windows at the golf course, which offered charming views of its lush greenery.  By late afternoon, however, the shadows would lengthen and the darkness would steadily increase as if Satan himself had gathered his demons and was launching an assault on the house of God. The soft, faint orange glow from the ceiling lights did little to remedy the fading twilight, and one had little choice but to accept that the Church had lost its battle to the dark realm.

ae224b6ccb35de4698c8579c95694333_-victoria-baw-baw-shire-warragul-warragul-church-of-christ-03-5623-4073htmlThe Church was a relatively new building-some ten years old- and was built with contemporary aesthetic tastes in mind. Sparse but functional, it featured a central worship area, offices, kitchen, a playgroup area, and a large foyer. As as child I remember thinking that the ceilings were ridiculously high, and that my psychical presence in the building was insignificant. The imposing structure was intimidating, and each time I entered its confines I could never really shake the feeling that I was doing something wrong. This was no place for trivial musical pursuits but was instead the very heart and soul of all serious Christian activity. At least that is what I was told.

This feeling of guilt was never quite strong enough to dissuade me from my purposes. So, parking my BMX at the front door I would barge straight into the foyer and do a quick walk-around to make sure nobody else was on-site. This was an essential risk-management strategy, as I had already been told off for bashing the drums too loudly by an old dear who was hidden away in one of the rooms on one occasion.  I was accused by her of disrespecting ‘the Lord’s house-‘ a charge which was hardly an isolated event.  After repeated run-ins with the senior folk of the congregation, I had learned from a young age that old people own the Church and that one had to cater to their tastes if one wanted to have a peaceful time of it.  Undertaking a brief reconnaissance for the presence of these white-haired gate-keepers was a necessary step in protecting myself from additional outrage.

If the coast was clear, I would dump my back-pack by the side of the Churches drum kit and commence my assault. As a delightful red ensemble of 1980’s vintage, the Sonor drum kit provided me with all the tools necessary to unleash percussive hell. I would mostly try and recreate the beats I heard on my favourite recordings of the time, although my drum teacher had given me a book of rudimentary exercises to work through as well.

It was as the sun was fading one late afternoon that I first experienced a menacing presence. The drums were situated along the side of the Church stage, and to play them would require having one’s back to the empty seating area and Church foyer. In these twilight moments, the shadows would gradually eliminate the last vestiges of light, and I would take this as my cue to get the hell out of there. Even though the Church building was relatively new,  it felt as if it was embedded with an oppressive presence. On the afternoon in question, I had immersed myself in my drumming for longer than expected and felt a spontaneous yet distinct feeling that I was being watched. As I continued playing, I turned my head to face the back corner of the Church, which housed a door leading to the kitchen. Whatever might be causing this feeling was coming from that section of the Church. I heard things banging back there, even though I had already checked the building for surprise guests. I told myself that it must have just been a draft of wind. In actuality, I had no idea what was happening.  I told myself that my mind may have given itself over to creative embellishment, but I knew deep down that something just felt wrong.

When this sensation first struck me I felt a tingling throughout my body as my nervous system registered its cognisance of an imminent threat. In spite of the masses of space, I felt instantly claustrophobic. The air felt thick with a stifling warm air, despite the relatively cool temperature. I was frightened and I knew that I was somehow not alone in the Church. Telling myself over and over that I was overreacting, I  decided to keep drumming, as if in defiance of the mysterious spirit encroaching upon me. My bravado was misplaced, however, and I felt the physical symptoms of panic rising within me: quickened breath, hot sweats, and rapid heartbeat. The feeling was growing stronger and more real. I couldn’t deny it any longer. I packed up my belongings and made for the door. I walked slowly at first- one last attempt at denying the reality of the situation. But as I approached the door I quickened my pace to an eventual jog. I shoved at the double doors, convinced that they would somehow refuse to open and I would remain a captive of the Church and its oppressive spirit. Yet the doors easily gave way with my push. I burst forth into the open air, leaving the claustrophobic darkness of the Church behind.








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