Five Years Under the Southern Cross: Experiences and Impressions

by Frederic C. Spurr

The figures, while valuable, are quite superficial. More than four millions of people claim to belong to the Churches. If the claim were real, we should require to build many more churches than we at present possess. But, as a fact, not twenty-five per cent. of the population attend church regularly. There is much to be thankful for, but the condition of things is distinctly unsatisfactory. Abstinence from church, however, according to the census figures, is not due to the spread of Agnostic or Atheistic principles; it finds its reason in the sheer indifference of the majority of the people. One could wish there was enough of interest in religion to awaken hostility towards it, for hostility means life, while indifference means death. The indifference has no intellectual basis whatever in the vast majority of cases. In this seductive climate pleasure is the ruling passion. Men think of little else than enjoying themselves. Work (as little of it as possible), play, and sleep; this is the Australian trinity, adored by the many.

One reason for indifference or hostility to the Churches is found, as has already been indicated, in the grotesque misconceptions invented or fostered by certain Socialists. In one Labour weekly there is an incessant “girding” at the Churches. The clergy and Church members are eternally placed in the pillory. In a long paragraph headed “The Church a Buttress of Capitalism,” this paper says: “Being blinded by superstition and sentiment, the workers have allowed themselves to be fooled and hoodwinked. They have believed what ecclesiastical diplomats, to serve ends of their own, chose to instil into their ignorant minds. They have believed, as these tricksters tell them, that they must be content to remain in the position of life in which it has pleased the Almighty to place them.” The insane charge that our Churches are the homes of grasping capitalists, the places where the poor are taught to keep their position in humble dependence upon their betters, is recklessly untrue. For one thing, Australians would not support this kind of teaching for a single hour; for another, they never hear anything remotely approaching it. Invincible prejudice of this kind is pitiful, but it has the fatal effect of keeping many people outside the churches.

The broad question of religion in Australia cannot be considered without distinct reference to the influence of climate upon modes of thought and expression.

It is not, of course, concerning religion per se that there is any problem under the Southern Cross. Climate affects only the accidentals of our humanity; it does not touch the essentials. All that makes man man is found equally in Britain, America, Australia, the Orient, and the Islands. And the essence of religion—of Christianity—remains the same in any climate and under any conditions. Of all Christians, notwithstanding their colour, or habits, or surroundings, it is demanded that they shall obey their Master and conform their lives to His.

The problem concerns the form, or forms, which this religion shall take in a new world. The Anglo-Saxons who came out to Australia as pioneers brought with them their traditions—personal, domestic, social, religious. In the Old Land custom had decreed a certain type and standard of dress; a certain style of house; a certain mode of living. The pioneers, in transferring their bodies from Britain to Australia, transferred these styles and modes at the same time. They affected frock coats and silk hats—positive absurdities (the latter especially in a semi-tropical climate). They built many of their houses on the English plan—another absurdity. And they observed English hours of labour and business, and adopted English food—a final absurdity. This Sicilian or Greek climate demands a style of dress and a mode of life such as those which have been evolved by experience in the older countries rejoicing in a sun like ours. One day Australia will fit its Greek or Italian life into a suitable environment.

But the British who first came out also brought with them a set of traditional sentiments associated with their religion. December 21 was known to them as the shortest day of the year. Christmas was observed in a setting of ice and snow. Santa Claus was a creature of the cold, and appeared enveloped in furs. The Watch Night service was celebrated in the gloomiest time of the year. Advent was the ecclesiastical season appropriate, by reason of shortening days, for meditating upon the end of all things. On the long and dismal nights of December, Spohr’s “Last Judgment” seemed a fitting work to be performed. And last, the pioneers—many of them Scotch—brought with them the Puritan spirit and austerity.

And the climate mocked these traditional sentiments. December 21 turned out to be the longest, the brightest, and often the hottest day of the year. Christmas fell in the midsummer, when frequently the heat is almost unsupportable. The familiar ice and snow were entirely absent. Santa Claus in furs appeared ludicrous. December was far too cheerful a month for the encouragement of gloomy thoughts upon the end of all things. The cricket and the frog, the ’possum and the jackass, the mina and the thrush, all threw out their defiant challenge to Spohr and his awe-inspiring work.

And the climate is triumphing. It is true the traditional “Father Christmas” appears in more than one place in Australia. But a new “Father Christmas” is arising. He does not descend chimneys, nor shiver with the cold, nor affect snow trappings. He drives along the streets in a bush wagon drawn by bush ponies. The new “Father Christmas” is an Australian, pure and simple. The children understand him and revere him—so far as Australian children revere anything. He is essentially modern. He has no ancient history behind him, and in this particular he matches the country. The new “Father Christmas” is a product of the climate. A new Christmas Day has also dawned. The dear old Christmas “at home” is—or was—a time of reunion. It was essentially a domestic festival. In Australia it is a holiday, pure and simple. Thousands of people take their annual vacation at Christmas, and thousands more leave home for mountain and seaside. The coastal steamers are crowded with passengers. At Christmastide the churches in the city are thinly attended; most of the regular worshippers are away on holiday. Again the climate has triumphed. Turkey and plum-pudding still garnish the tables, but they are doomed. It is only a question of time, and there will be celebrated underneath the Southern Cross at Christmas festival as different from that which is known “at home” as the poles are apart from each other.

A new “Watch Night” service has been created. Through dismal streets, with snow or sleet, and in the teeth of a biting wind, the old folk in the Old Country trudged to the warmed church on the last night of the year. When the clock sounded the hour of midnight everybody felt relieved. The tension was over. The corner had been turned. From that moment the days would lengthen until the height of summer. But in Australia there is nothing to suggest solemnity. The last night of the old year is a warm, delightful summer night, redolent with the perfume of a hundred balms and the stifling scent of a thousand flowers. Do what one will, it is impossible, in these conditions, to impart reality into a hymn which speaks of “Days and moments quickly flying.” It is the fault of the climate. The Puritan spirit is departing—yea! has well-nigh departed. A handful of folk are left who would in no wise travel on the Sabbath nor permit the piano to be used for secular purposes. The pioneers were severe, austere, rigid in their Puritanism. The original “Scots’ Church” resembled a barn. The present “Scots’ Church” in the city is a cathedral, containing one of the finest organs in Victoria—or anywhere else. The contrast between the two buildings marks the difference between the Puritanical spirit of seventy years ago and the light, gay spirit of to-day. Fathers who would on no account pay visits on the Sabbath have begotten sons who go to church when they please—which is not often—and who spend the majority of their Sundays on the golf course or on the bay. The temper of the people has entirely changed. And the climate has done it.

The climate—behold the enemy! Shall we say that, varying the phrase of Gambetta? Or shall we condemn the people for yielding to its seductions? We have amongst us a great number of people who would be irreligious in any climate and under any conditions. The climate aids and abets them, but they themselves are the chief offenders, the guilty people upon whom the chief responsibility falls. We must leave them out of our consideration. The grave question remaining is, how the Church will adapt itself to the new conditions. The climate, unquestionably, is destroying many of the English religious traditions. A new tradition—or, rather, a new set of traditions—will have to be created. It is inevitable. A number of the Anglican clergy are realising this so far as their own Church is concerned. They openly express their conviction that the archaisms of the Prayer-book are a distinct hindrance to their work. The older people cling for dear life to the service they love. The younger generation is becoming impatient. The Anglican Church in Australia will have to follow the example of the Episcopal Church in America, and work out its own salvation. The day will come when a Governor-General from England will not be required. With his passing will also pass the Governor’s pew in the Cathedral. The native Governor, like the American President, may be a Presbyterian or a Congregationalist or a Baptist, and he will worship at his own church. The Church of England in Australia will then be the Episcopal Church of Australia, and, like other Churches, it will have to stand upon its own merits. Many of the clergy see this, and desire to be ready against the new time. The same is true of other Churches. The English type will gradually pass, and give place to an Australian type of religious life. And the climate will largely determine the form that the new type must take. The danger is that it may be superficial. The hope for Australia, religiously, lies in a united Evangelical Church, the life of which will create its own form. To use the simile of our Lord, the new wine must be put into new bottles.