It’s amazing how a fragment of story can glitter when it’s brought into the light of day. The other day a friend sent me a coffee table book celebrating some amazing characters who’d been quietly serving the remote areas of Australia for a hundred years. Its title gives the game away, ‘Never Too Far, Never Too Few’ – it’s the story of a group humbly calling themselves ‘Bush Church Aid.’
 
It was launched at a time of crisis in Sydney in 1918 - the Spanish influenza pandemic was gripping the post-war world. Everywhere Australians were withdrawing into self-protection mode while some in the Anglican Church took this initiative to reach out to the forgotten people of the Bush.
 
The photo of a strong-featured face grabbed my attention. It was the image of a confident woman, upright and looking straight into the lens, full of conviction.  And the bones of her story say she was. With her good looks and a noble name like Madaline Rose Delacour de Labilliere, she could easily be the heroine of a Mills and Boon romance.
 
She was in fact a romantic, but a lady of a much more robust stamp than a paperback hero.

Around 1880, the back-breaking labour of the heroic John Gribble carved ‘The Camp of Mercy’ out of the bush on the edge Murrumbidgee River near Darlington Point.  For several decades, Aboriginal people, fugitives from ill-treatment, fled to the camp he named Warangesda, a blending of the Wiradjuri word for ‘camp’ and the Hebrew word for ‘mercy.’ It’s been described as the only sanctuary available for them in NSW at the time.
 
Last weekend, former residents and friends gathered to mark the centenary of its closure. Among them was Reverend Cannon Shannon Smith, a sixth generation Wiradjuri and fifth generation Worimi descendant whose great-great-grandfather, James Murray, arrived with Reverend John Gribble. In an ABC interview she explained that a lot of the returning original Warangesda folk remained strong Christians. When once she was asked, ‘Who evangelised you?’ her unexpected reply was, ‘I was evangelised by the Rev J B Gribble in 1880, because he was the one who brought Christianity to my people … And here I am today, still going!’

 In 1940, out on the edge of the NSW Outback, Labour Party Whip Mark Davidson, the member for Bourke and Cobar, was almost a lone voice speaking up for the Aboriginal people in Parliament.
 
 “The aboriginal population of New South Wales has been dying out since the advent of the white man. They are in the minority, and it seems they are being treated as Hitler treats minorities on the other side of the world, although perhaps not so forcibly. They are being treated in a manner that will bring about their extinction.”
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Given the times, the Catholic member’s speech was strikingly brave and may have been prompted by an event 2 years previously in Melbourne.
 
On the night of November 8th 1938, Nazi paramilitary forces, members of Hitler Youth along with ordinary citizens, had spilled into city streets for a night of violence that launched the slaughter of 6 million European Jews.
 
The eerie sounds of shattering glass from 7000 Jewish owned businesses, the roar of flames consuming 200 synagogues, the cries of anguish from 30,000 throats as men women and children were herded into trucks destined for concentration camps, carried 16000 kms half-way round the world.

This ‘Kristallnacht’ became a word of infamy across the globe. But who cared? One Australian living in Melbourne knew more than just glass had been broken.

This is the unique story of two radical experiments on the same piece of ground on the red soil plains 20kms West of Bourke.
 
It’s 1887. Picture a cluster of burly, sunburnt men watching anxiously day after day as the bit of their American oil drill wound deeper and deeper into the red soil at the back of Bourke. Then, hats were thrown high with an exuberant shout as water from 300 metres below gushed fifty meters into the air. The American boring team had struck the Great Artesian Basin – 1.7 million square kms of life-giving liquid lying untapped beneath a fifth of the continent.
 
Ninety years later in 1978, I arrived at Pera Bore with my family – about 70 kms South of Kerribree Station where that dramatic first deep artesian well had gifted entrepreneur William Walter Davis ‘liquid gold’ to prosper his sheep station. Ahead of us lay an experiment that we hoped would prosper Australia. 

 The bronze sculpture of Private John Simpson and his donkey carrying a wounded Digger to safety, stands sentinel at the entrance to the Australian War Memorial in Canberra. It’s probably Gallipoli’s most poignant symbol of heroism and mateship. That image of Simpson laying down his life for a friend, has been a vital part of the mythology told to Australian school children every ANZAC Day. It makes self-sacrifice larger than the story of war itself.
 
Many may not know it echoes the story of the Good Samaritan that Jesus devised to illustrate the heart of true humanity. He took it a step beyond mateship. His hero was a Samaritan – not a mate, but a despised cultural enemy. Jesus deliberately chose to picture a foreigner using his donkey to rescue the victim of a gang-bashing, left lying on a lonely stretch of road. It was the man’s need he saw, not his creed. It’s been such a potent story, the phrase ‘good Samaritan’ has become a common way to describe anyone doing a good deed.

​John Ridley launched himself at life. He was a flour miller at 15, a self-taught scientist and inventor, and a preacher at 18. At 34 he arrived in South Australia and inside three years he had installed the colony’s first steam engine, bought shares in the Burra mine and invented a machine for stripping wheat that revolutionised grain harvesting across the country. He refused to take any money from his invention, seeing it as a gift to aid the growth of the new colony. More than anything, he understood the priority of promoting its spiritual life and was an energetic lay preacher with an eye for a larger harvest. He used his prosperity to make gifts to evangelical churches and missions in Australia and overseas.
(To learn more watch the video and  click Read More below.  )

​Just before the turn of the twentieth century, a young Australian and a young English immigrant landed in the South Island of New Zealand, both destined to become remarkable storytellers. At thirty, Henry Lawson had already carved his name into the minds of Australians hungry for a storyteller who could speak to them about themselves with an authentic, native voice.
 
Tragically, his stay in ‘Maoriland’ as he called it, was a disaster and his personal life spiralled down into alcoholism from this point on. He was bitterly disappointed with the critics’ reception of his torrent of writing. Just the same, a century or more later, his poems and short stories are still being studied by school children across Australia.
 
Twenty-five-year-old Frank Boreham arrived in Dunedin, an unknown English clergyman with a sharp eye for characters and an untried gift for crafting the humblest event into a tale of cosmic significance. The pulpit of his tiny congregation of craggy Scots in Mosgeil on the Southern-most tip of ‘The Land of the Long White Cloud’, became the springboard which launched him as ‘the greatest Christian essayist of all time.’ (Gordon Moyes)
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Yet, today he remains mostly unknown. 

​I was recently writing a piece for The Western Herald in Bourke when I stumbled onto a century-old Christmas postcard that whispered a remarkable story. Unlikely as it may seem, the card links Australia’s most famous naval engagement to its most inland port. I’ll try to piece a narrative together from the fragments that remain.
 
When war was declared in 1914, the 33,000 people of German origin living in Australia were forbidden to leave the country without a permit and ordered to report to police. Many of them were Lutheran Christians who had originally migrated seeking religious freedom and created hard-working farming communities in South Australia’s Barossa Valley.
 
 As the casualty lists from Gallipoli lengthened during 1915 and anti-German feelings grew more intense, the Great War came home to remote outback Bourke. German civilian prisoners of war were shipped to Australia from Singapore, Ceylon, Borneo, New Caledonia, Fiji, New Guinea and the Solomon Islands. A hundred or so were deposited in empty houses in the town.