MUM SHIRL BLACK SAINT

27. BLACK SAINT AND MUM SHIRL (1975-6)

Right now, in 2010, Australian Catholics are starting to fizz and bubble at the prospect of our very first dinki-di, true-blue Aussi Saint: Mary MacKillop. I recall with pleasure getting swept up in the euphoria when 200,000 (or was it a million?) of us swarmed out to Randwick racecourse in 94-5 for a gigantic beatification ceremony. Yes, we screamed and yelled and waved flags and chanted  VIVA IL PAPA as Pope John Paul II paraded around the track in his bullet-proof Pope mobile, blessing us adulating thousands. It was a truly grand day.

It had been a long haul for Mary. Of course, she had muddied her chances in insisting on rights for her sisters.  Apart from some scurrilous talk about her being a drunkard, from some evil rivals, there was worse. You just don’t take on the hierarchy, especially in those days when bishops were absolute potentates. Being clobbered with an excommunication certainly did not look good on her CV and this proved one of the most formidable hurdles. But, in the end, there was no staying the ways and wiles of the Holy Spirit. Her impact on the Catholic scene in Australia was immense and anybody with half a brain could see she was a saint. And it’s coming to pass.

I’m grateful for the many “saints” who have touched my life. Well, for a start, there is mum- Mary. But bias would preclude her maybe. But seriously, I have been blessed in the mums and dads of students I’ve taught, the many friends who squander goodness and love on me, colleagues and acquaintances. And yes, I have lived with some wonderful, saintly Brothers who really do radiate Jesus in so many ways.

But, if pressed the name my top contender for the big SAINT I would have no hesitation in naming a woman who could stride out with Mother Teresa and the best of them. And yet, she was surely rough-as-guts, tough-as-teak, no-nonsense, straight from the shoulder AND with a heart as big as Uluru. Like Jesus she never ceased reaching up, lifting up, comforting and giving hope to the most desperately oppressed. Her name was MUM SHIRL.

For just a few weeks over Xmas in 1975 I worked as a volunteer, along with Br. John Roland with Mum Shirl and Father Ted Kennedy at their Redfern “refuge”. What a combination those two were. In our racist culture they provided a haven.

When Fr. Ted had been appointed as PP at the newly refurbished residence at Redfern he saw the huge problem confronting the community with a growing number of urban Aborigines living off the streets, comforted only by booze and drugs. With Mum Shirl he opened up his presbytery and part of the school to offer a “home” for desperate people. Each morning and evening they would provide a good hot meal and then provide lodgings in the fine old 19^th century house.

When John and I arrived there to assist there were about 40-50 for breakfast and a few more at night. In the winter these numbers swelled of course. During the day they would mostly head out around the pubs or stay drinking from a flask of cheap sherry on site. I found it all very depressing and a bit scary. There could be sudden bursts of anger and violence.  Being a white man did not win friends.

We had a short induction: some ten of us sitting around on the floor, chatting and drinking and sharing stories. Mum Shirl was really holding court. We drank in much of her wisdom. John and I were replacing a group of Jesuit novices who had finished their gig. Mostly, we were there to assist in all sorts of ways: taking people to hospital, or to Central railway, or helping with the serving of food, cleaning up and just hanging around. They were long days. But the nights were quite scary. There we were, three of us: Fr Ted, John and myself in Ted’s small room which opened out on a large carpeted (much needing cleaning!) and the door could not be locked.

 Right outside there could be a group or two, gathered around the sweet sherry flagon and boozing on. Voices snarled, yelled, whimpered and floundered on. Now and again it seemed that murder was imminent! But I did get to live with it- secure that Fr. Ted, their hero, was there. One night I woke up in fright as shouts crescendoed only metres away and hell was about to unleash. I blanched. There was no Ted or John. I quailed. Then, though this maelstrom I heard a tenuous, trembling voice- John’s. It was such a polite request.

“Would you please mind lowering your voices just a little.” I think there was a momentary pause, like a locomotive topping the rise before plunging on. I’m not even sure whether they even saw John, let alone hear this quavering request. I just know I was so glad when he came to protect me!

Later on, I proved to be a hero myself, but that can wait.

I found the best way of passing the nights was to slip down to the kitchen block where mum Shirl had a room. I prize those long chats at night. I suppose it was the first time I had a deep encounter with an Aborigine. There was so little literature even then that could help you understand the suffering and oppression that they had suffered going back so far…at least to Governor Philip who was such a “saint” with his enlightened approach. Here, in 1975  was less than ten years after the referendum when we finally accepted them as “Australians” and they were given the right to vote.

She had so many sad stories of growing up on “a mission” which was virtually a prison camp out of town- which was mostly off   limits. Sadly, the Catholic Church was part of the national culture and apart from outstanding people who rocked the boat, we followed the Government’s line and policy. And yet, Mum remained a staunch Catholic.
“I’m an MRC” – a Mad Roman Catholic” she would say.

By God’s great providence she and Fr Ted Kennedy had met, some fire had flared as their kindred spirits and hearts of deepest compassion committed themselves to this people who had lived here for 10s of 1000s of years- even before Jesus was born! They had survived but at terrible cost. Mum Shirl and Fr.Ted would be their greatest support in desperate times. What a great team they were! She told me that she often used take a pistol as back up in extreme situations. At one stage when some young, angry blacks had cornered Fr.Ted on the stair case, in the early days before they knew him, and were about to beat him up, she yelled from downstairs:

“Back off you blokes or I’ll put a bullet in you”. The message was soon learnt.

One night I was trusted with an amazing revelation. She told me that her greatest day as a Catholic was when she learnt that there was a BLACK SAINT. Surely there had been more, like the martyrs of Uganda but she’d not heard and certainly there were no pictures or statues.

“He was a south American black saint, a brother who helped poor people. His name is MARTIN DE PORRES. “

It was amazing what they meant to her.

“And I take him with me wherever I go”, she explained as she opened her handbag and showed me the little15cm plastic statue of the Dominican saint. I was most impressed, imagining it would be quite snug beside a .22 or.38 pistol !!

“But there’s more” she said. With this she opened a wardrobe. Marshalled up on one shelf I could see a whole platoon of Martins ready for service.

Now, if the Vatican would be more wise in its choice of saints, they would make more impact on the people in need. Do we need more popes, nuns, priests, celibates?  Why not more mums and dads and ordinary people to allow us better to identify with them. And why the hell isn’t Archbishop Romero a saint and martyr?

It was in one of these night sessions that I shared a few of my problems with her.  I mentioned “old Jack” who used to sit on the fence after breakfast, a real loner.

“Just watch him and never turn your back on him.”

He was a pretty nasty feller. I was watchful and tried to be courteous. But I had my revenge in some sense. I returned late in the afternoon from a sortie and as I walked into the yard there was a stoush in progress, judging from the mob gathered up the top end and yells of

 “Hit the bastard Larry” And worse. Warily I approached and my heart gave a little leap as big Larry whacked old Jack and sent him to the dirt.

 Now, I had become quite friendly with Larry, a big, light skinned man of mid thirties. I’d helped him out in a critical situation. I was aware that if he continued the bashing he could have murdered the older man. Besides both were pretty drunk. His backers were urging him on. Suddenly, I felt sorry for Jack. Compassion had struck me.  Quite resolutely I pushed into the ring and grabbed Larry by the arm- gently of course.

“Larry, I reckon you’ve proved your point. Let’s call it quits here”. Or heroic words to the same effect. Larry gave a half grin with “OK Bro”. And it was over.

But then, only the name of Fr. Ted saved me from a belting. It was Christmas Eve, and strangely it was very cold. Fr. Ted was to say an evening  Mass. After tea I went from the kitchen over to the house to grab a jumper. Lying sprawled at the entrance was a young black, drunk and out to the world. I couldn’t carry him but had to get him into the warmth. As I was dragging him in, two young “bloods” loomed up.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” came with much menace. It could have been ugly.

“I’m here helping Fr Ted and Mum Shirl” I said.

That did the trick. After some consideration they grunted something and disappeared.

 I arrived at this bizarre Mass, attended by some 20-30 people, mostly Aboriginal and mostly drunk. There was barely a clink of coin in the plate. But after it was put on the altar an very drunk woman staggered up with $5 and slurred very loudly

“And that’s for you, Fr. Ted.”

It was very different at St. Mary’s Cathedral when we buried SAINT MUM SHIRL. It was packed, with many standing outside. I was able to push in the east door and was standing quite close to Leah Purcell who sang most feelingly. Near the front was our esteemed Governor General , Sir William Deane. (John Howard, the PM was nowhere in sight)

It was a triumph for this illiterate woman who had blazed across our sky with a fierce glow to fight injustice and give hope.
                          SAINT MUM SHIRL HELP US IN THE QUEST FOR RECONCILIATION.