Life in the radical middle.

Is it time to reject cancel culture, and find the third way of Jesus?

"My grandfather clock was too large for the shelf,
so it stood 90 years on the floor".
- Johnny Cash

Cass writes…

I was a committed member of the Thornleigh West junior school choir. It met over lunchtimes in the heat of an Australian summer. The classroom overlooked the sports oval; its metal walls would expand and contract in the day's heat, transforming it into a sweltering oven. It was almost unbearable to be in.

I can still feel the sweat meandering down my back and sense the shortness of breath that used to entrap me as the warm air caught on the back of my throat. I tried my hardest to fill my lungs and to breathe deeply to produce the right tones and sounds. We were trying to win the local school choir competition, after all.

One day the teacher introduced us to "The Grandfather Clock Song." I was captivated by its storytelling and rich lyrics. In fact, to this day, I can recite all the words of the song;

"90 years without slumbering - tick tock, tick tock -
His life seconds numbering tick tock tick tock." 

At that point in the song, the choir mistress would stop the gaggle of schoolchildren and insist we made the tick-tock sound with more staccato inflections. And even when she said the word "staccato," she made that sound herself. And if I ever caught the eye of my friend Becky Fisher, all I wanted to do was giggle.

But the song imprinted something profound in my soul, a sadness that felt the connection between the music and its subjects. And when we sang the words;

"but it stopped, short, never to go again, when the old man died."

I felt all the emotions deeply. I was grateful to walk home from school in silence, paying my respect to the imaginary man but thinking deeply about the possible connection between a man and his clock.

Because you see…

Somewhere when life was a little simpler and slower, the Sydney Morning Herald newspaper once published plans for a stately grandfather clock in its weekend edition. And Lindsay Graeme MacIntosh, who I affectionately called Pa, bundled up the plans, and he set about building it unbeknownst to anyone else in his family.

In a little red shed at the side of his house, he slowly and carefully cut out the pieces, sanded the wood back, lacquered, and nailed. He built mechanisms and painstakingly crafted a clock that, in time, would become a family heirloom. It was beloved by all who heard its Westminster Abby chimes.

While under construction, I remember standing at the door with my ear pressed against the timber. I would call out and try to work out what was happening inside the little barn, only to be told he was building "a wigwam for a goose's bridle." I had no idea what that was, but the mere thought sent shivers down my spine. 

And one day - there it was in all its glory, "the grandfather clock," tall, elegant, and reliable. I remember lying on the floor listening to the tick tock tick tock tick tock sound. I was thrilled by the chimes every quarter of an hour, and I spent many a Christmas morning waiting for six chimes before I was allowed to run out to the Christmas tree to see if Santa had been. 

But my favorite thing to do was to watch the pendulum swing back and forth, marking the time, swinging in and out of view. I longed to catch sight of it passing right through the middle of the glass cabinet housing. 

In the middle, the bulb shone brightly. In the middle, the gold would catch the sunlight and reflect its beauty. And in the middle, I would find myself lost in thought about a man and his clock.

As it turns out, the middle matters.