I have always had a secret admiration for the good king. To me he set a wonderful example of how a king should be. The fact that he did it on the 26th of December, the feast of Stephen, for whom my greatly admired uncle was named, makes it more special.
I feel that every one should share this wonderful saint’s attributes.
During a time of joyous festivities, he glanced outside – it was a beautiful winter white snow view.
Then he saw a poor person struggling in the snow to find firewood to keep himself and his family warm.
In the 10th Century, kings usually ignored peasants and their plights. This king was different – he had compassion and a generous love for his fellow man.
Good King Wenceslas looked out On the Feast of Stephen When the snow lay round about Deep and crisp and even Brightly shone the moon that night Though the frost was cruel When a poor man came in sight Gathering winter fuel
He called his young page who was a local lad to ask where the peasant was from.
Hither, page, and stand by me, If thou knowst it, telling Yonder peasant, who is he? Where and what his dwelling? Sire, he lives a good league hence, Underneath the mountain Right against the forest fence By Saint Agnes fountain.
Notwithstanding the weather or the distance, he himself went out to help with gifts and firewood.
Bring me flesh and bring me wine Bring me pine logs hither Thou and I shall see him dine When we bear them thither. Page and monarch, forth they went Forth they went together Through the rude winds wild lament And the bitter weather
The going was hard and the young feller faltered, but had the courage to call out.
Sire, the night is darker now And the wind blows stronger Fails my heart, I know not how I can go no longer.
The king was resolute and filled with good purpose, he gave the page hope and direction and told him to have faith that they were doing the right thing
Mark my footsteps, good my page Tread thou in them boldly Thou shall find the winters rage Freeze thy blood less coldly.
Encouraged and filled with the zeal that the king had shown him, he struggled on and found warmth in his cause.
In his masters step he trod Where the snow lay dinted Heat was in the very sod Which the Saint had printed.
This is the very spirit of Christmas and the message is for us all
Therefore, all of you, be sure Wealth or rank possessing Ye, who now will bless the poor Shall yourselves find blessing.
Usman Khawaja is a nice guy. However, saying his shoe statement is not political is naive at least or cynical or worse. The way the whole thing played out in a typical woke episode.
A public figure, paid to represent his country, departs from the uniform to endorse a statement on his shoe written in the colours of a political entity.
That is a political action, like taking the knee or black power saluting during the national anthem.
Quite correctly, this act was prohibited.
The fact that he was allowed to wear a black armband is a weak, unacceptable, woke compromise.
In Khawaja’s context it is an individual political statement. It is clearly not a mark of respect, worn to honour the death of a family member or a universal icon, relevant to the sport.
The fact the the team administration and captain allowed the armband is how woke works and it is a failure in principle and integrity.
Where does the rot start? Right at the top – this is what Anika Wells the Federal Sports Minister said:
“As the federal sports minister, I have always advocated for athletes to have the right to have a voice and to speak up on matters that are important to them,”
I agree with that, so long as they don’t use their workplaces. They are employed as athletes to perform their skills before a paying public. They need to keep their personal, political lives separate.
The making of political statements can cause tension amongst cricket followers of diverse views. Usman acknowledges his intended ‘statement’ attracted abuse. The Minister and Pat Cummins and many others clearly support it.
What if the team members were required to wear LBGTI rainbow emblems on their shirts?
What if a sportsman chose to wear a black armband on 30 April – the day of Hitler’s death? Or 6 August .. the Hiroshima bomb anniversary or … you get the picture.
Use of the public platform to promote personal causes should be prohibited and sanctioned.
The last words of Giles Corey as he was judicially crushed to death in an attempt to get him to answer to charges of witchcraft. He was 81 years old.
He defied the sheer madness of a society that tolerated in the name of God and the law, widespread, hysterical allegations of witchcraft. Such perverted zealotry was deemed appropriate by many.
“The Crucible” is a play about the 1692 Salem witch trials, including that of Giles Corey, written by Arthur Miller. Its themes are as relevant today as they were when aimed at the Communist witch hunt in the US in the early 1950’s.
Some girls were seen dancing in the woods by a minister in the rigidly conservative Puritan society of Salem in Massachusets. They pretended they were under spells and witchcraft was blamed. They began naming people as having communed with the Devil and influenced their behaviour.
Suddenly a vehicle was found by some to settle scores, old and new. Others came forward and alleged bizarre behaviours. A zealous minister interpreted and prosecuted the allegations. Hundreds were accused, arrested and tried on allegations that could not be proved. The mere fact that many alleged the influence of the Devil was accepted as truth.
Those denounced were arrested and required to admit their connection with the Devil or deny it and be hanged. Most did and saved their lives but lost their estates; nineteen men and women did not and were hanged. Giles Corey, 81, was squashed to death.
It was like reading accounts of today’s woke mobs baying for policemens’ or Jews’ blood or the credence given to the gender dysmorphia hysteria of teenage girls. It sheds light on the reality of mass psychogenic illness, which are very real behaviours with no known physical cause, a form of social influence, which defies our understanding.
… but now the little crazy children are jangling the keys of the kingdom…
The Crucible, Act 2
What is so frightening about social media today is the immediate identification by millions with reports of situations. One consequence is a cacophony of ‘me too’ howls which generate so much noise that they are almost impossible to deny. Substantiating the truth is no longer relevant. The mere noise of the mob causes knee jerk political response.
Protestantism was mass resistance to the existing Church’s iron grip on society, the Inquisition, suppression of challenge and direction of government. Ironically the idols and ritualism of Catholicism were rejected and the swing went to the rigid strictures of Puritanism which added zeal and the same belief that the Devil was ever present. The pendulum swung but the iron rule of the Church prevailed.
We see now the rise of ultra right wing nationalism across the western world. Apparently a reaction to the huge influx of Arab and African refugees and the campaigns of woke movements such as #metoo and BLM, which pillory historical figures and values and call for reparations and bending the knee in acknowledgement of white patriarchy guilt. Mere allegation is sufficient for substance of wrongdoing.
Just like in Salem in 1692.
Serious splits in society have formed and we will be pressed to answer whether we agree that taking the knee is a good thing or face consequences.
Lulu and I set off on her walk; she checks each house on the left today, sniffing for new smells … or scraps.
No-one else about apart from the birds. Butcher birds whistle to each other, wood ducks qwuackle softly from up in a dead gum tree; the local kookaburra guardian of the park watches with its hard smile and calculating eye.
Cockatoos shriek at the morning flock of corellas which cackle back derisively; the Pacific Koel repeats its whistle warning of rain to come. Noisy miners live up to their name shrieking their anxieties to all and sundry.
Another wood duck has lost her mate and is quacking mournfully: where are you, I am worried, come back.. They pair for life so separation anxiety is severe.
Four young bush turkey males scavenge the path near the creek, keeping a weather eye for the local boss turkey with his bright yellow necklace – he can’t stand other male turkeys.
The swamp hens (pukekos in New Zealand) have re-built heir nest on the rock in the middle of the creek for the fourteenth time. Their chicks are now grown and forage for themselves. Pacific black ducks flash past to skim land on the creek in the clear water surrounded by lily pads.
A turtle stretches its neck on a tree in the river watched by three water dragons posing in the sun at different spots on the bank.
The Willy Wagtail twitters questions at us as we pass by over the bridge; the wood duck with fishing line on its leg scampers away again – Redlands Wildlife will again try to catch her soon.
The tawny frogmouths huddle in the tree over the road, almost invisible.
The morning crow choir chorus in Bahrs’ corner gum tree disturbs sleepers for miles around.
The blue faced honeyeaters search the last jacaranda flowers for nectar and the white ibis shiftily sidles out our drive.
sillysocksonfriday 