Church social media targeting

This week came across a social media post, on a country church’s page, that on first reading was cringeworthy. The author clearly intended the post to have a rawness about it yet their authority diminished through an early statement that indicated that they disliked Christians.

And then, I had a good draw of breath and tried to read it through a twenty-year old’s eyes. It was targeting twenty to thirty-year olds, right?

There were two subsequent edits of the post. Here I have pasted the original version. I have redacted certain data to ensure that the church is not identifiable:

“Can you go to church if you don’t ‘believe’? Or is that gaslighting? Answer: Yes and No.

You don’t have to ‘believe’ to go to a church, heck, you don’t even have to LIKE Christians to go to church. In fact, there was a period of time when I highly disliked most Christians, and I was in church every Sunday… because I was married to the pastor… but that’s a tale for another day lol.

Anyone and everyone can to go to church, ANY old time. It doesn’t matter if you’re 67, still believe in the tooth fairy and eat Vegemite toast with smashed banana on it for breakfast, there is a seat for you. Christians are usually friendly people and understand what it’s like to be thinking about the meaning of life, why on earth we’re here AND if there even is a God. Some Christians are just plain weird. Also, some gamers, tradies, some business owners, teachers, doctors, kids, influencers and Buddists are weird because, human. Top tip: don’t make a judgement call on God based on humans.

If you’re front-up to a church and straight out say to the people you meet (if you want to talk to people) “I don’t know anything about God or church but I’m just here to suss it out”, you’ll just about make their day. Hopefully, they’ll play it cool and won’t be all like ‘fresh meat’, but will show you around and introduce you to a few people who can help answer any questions or get you some barista grade coffee.

Truth be told, if you want to gaslight and sing “I’m a believer” from the roof top when you’re not yet, it doesn’t matter. It’s just great that you’ve chosen to go to church to get some answers about some pretty big questions.

Our church service is at X:YYam every Sunday morning at XX XX XXX, XXX.

Feel free to DM if you have any questions. Hope to see you there! @XXX

PS. We’re still married, he just isn’t pastoring a church anymore and I worked through my issues.”

Here is the verdict: It is an unconventional, slightly messy piece of communication. While it may alienate those looking for a traditional "pillar of the community," it likely resonates with people who have felt judged by churches in the past and are looking for a place where "weird" and "doubting" are allowed.

AI generated image, generated on prompt of seeking an image to suit this story.

 

The post essentially says: "We are a mess, I was a mess, but we’re here anyway." For someone who feels like a "failure" or an outsider, that might actually be more encouraging than a post showing a perfect, smiling family. The "discouraging" elements are meant to be the "hook" that proves they aren't hiding anything.

It is odd. It breaks the unspoken rule that those in leadership should be the "best" examples of the faith.

However, in the modern social media landscape—where people are increasingly cynical toward "polished" corporate or religious messaging—this post is a pivot toward vulnerability. The author is betting that people are more attracted to honesty than they are to piety.

And, maybe the authority was sound – perhaps the target audience could relate to someone who admitted a time of disliking Christians!

Shalom,

Ozhamada

P.S. When I am in that town I attend a church that happens to meet at the same time and yet it is closer to – let’s just say – the big public hospital.

A short story - Plastic Man - inspired on recognising that recycling compliance is vitally needed

Once upon a time, in a town filled with colourful houses and even more colourful characters, there was a very special recycling bin. It wasn't special because it was extra shiny or had a cool design, but because of what happened inside it.

One sunny morning, a whirlwind of plastic bottles—some squished, some tall and proud, some with the last drops of lemonade—tumbled into the bin. There were clear water bottles, vibrant soda bottles, and even milky shampoo bottles. They all jostled and settled, and as the sun peeked over the rim of the bin, something magical began to happen.

A tiny spark, like a forgotten fizz from a soda bottle, jumped from one bottle to another. It danced and zipped, connecting all the different plastics. Slowly, with a soft whoosh and a gentle clink, the bottles began to merge. They stretched and moulded, forming arms, legs, a round torso, and a friendly, smiling face.

"Hooray!" exclaimed a newly formed mouth. "I'm Plastic Man!"

Plastic Man was a marvel to behold. His skin was a mosaic of all the different plastics, shimmering with blues, greens, yellows, and clear patches. He had a sturdy bottle-cap nose and eyes that sparkled like polished plastic.

With a joyful leap, Plastic Man climbed out of the recycling bin and onto the bustling street. He took a deep breath, smelling the fresh air and the faint scent of… well, recycled plastic. "My mission," he declared in a voice that was both strong and surprisingly melodic, "is to teach everyone about the magic of sorting!"

His first stop was the local park. Children were playing, and parents were chatting. Plastic Man walked up to a group of kids who were about to toss a juice box into a bin marked "General Waste."

"Hold on, little friends!" Plastic Man boomed gently. "Did you know this juice box can become something new if we sort it properly?"

The children stared, wide-eyed, at the walking, talking collection of bottles. "Who are you?" one little girl whispered.

"I am Plastic Man, born from the very materials you throw away! And I'm here to show you that a little sorting can make a big difference!" He then explained how the juice box's paper, plastic lining, and even the straw could all be recycled into different things if separated.

Next, Plastic Man visited a school. He walked into a classroom where students were learning about the environment. "Good morning, future sorters!" he announced, causing the teacher to drop her chalk.

He held up a crumpled plastic bag that had been stuck in a glass bin. "Look closely," Plastic Man whispered, as the students leaned in. "When this soft bag gets mixed with heavy glass bottles, it becomes a tangled mess in the sorting machines at the factory. It’s like trying to knit a sweater with a bunch of rocks! The machines have to stop, and the magic of recycling hits a 'Pause' button. But," he said, his bottle-cap eyes twinkling, "when you put this bag in its own special bin, it travels to a place where it’s melted down into tiny, colorful pellets. Those pellets are then pressed together to become a brand-new playground slide or a sturdy park bench!"

He taught the children a fun song about sorting: "Plastic in the plastic, paper in the paper, Glass in the glass, make the world a bit gapper! Reduce, reuse, recycle, that's the way to be, Helping out our planet, for you and for me!"

Plastic Man spent his days walking the streets, attending festivals, and even popping into grocery stores. He’d gently redirect people who were about to toss a glass jar into the paper bin, or show them where to put their old electronics. He always had a cheerful smile and an encouraging word.

Thanks to Plastic Man, the town became a recycling superstar. Everyone learned that sorting wasn't a chore, but an adventure! They understood that every bottle, every can, and every piece of paper had the potential to be reborn into something wonderful.

And as for Plastic Man, he continued his mission, a shining example of how even discarded items can come together to create something truly extraordinary, reminding everyone that by sorting our waste, we help our planet shine just as brightly as he did.

Shalom,

Ozhamada

A short story - inspired by observations in the Port Stephens area

 The Guardians of the Lemon-Scented Gum

The silver-grey bark of the old Lemon-scented Gum was a masterpiece of camouflage. To the average student rushing toward the playground, the branch overhanging the service alley looked like nothing more than a jagged, broken limb. But if you looked closer—as Miranda always did—the "bark" had eyes.

The Masterpieces of Stillness

The family of four Tawny Frogmouths—Papa, Mama, and two fledglings who were rapidly outgrowing their downy fluff—sat in a perfect, vertical row. Throughout the sweltering school day, they were statues. With their beaks pointed skyward and their streaked feathers mimicking the dappled light, they barely seemed to breathe.

While the school bell clanged and children shrieked nearby, the Frogmouths remained in a state of deep, meditative calm. They loved the daylight hours for this very reason: the art of being invisible. To them, stillness wasn't just a defense; it was a dignified family tradition.

The Midnight Buffet

The real reason the family chose this specific gum tree, however, wasn't just the shade. Directly below them sat a large, olive-green garbage bin, often overflowing with the remnants of school lunches.

To a human, it was an eyesore. To the Frogmouths, it was the best restaurant in town. As the sun set, the bin became a stage for "The Rodent Show." Mice and rats, lured by discarded crusts and apple cores, would scurry across the lid. From their vantage point, the Frogmouths didn't even have to fly far. With a silent, ghostly glide, Papa would drop like a heavy shadow, snap up a "tasty fresh" mouse in his wide, frog-like beak, and return to the branch before the other rodents even realised a predator was among them.

---

Miranda’s Secret

Miranda was the only student who knew their secret. Every recess, while her friends played handball, she would drift toward the alleyway. She was an inquisitive girl with a habit of tilting her head at the same angle as the birds.

"I see you," she whispered today, standing just a few feet away.

Mama Frogmouth cracked one yellow eye just a fraction of a millimetre. She recognised the small human with the messy braids and the quiet voice. Miranda never threw stones or pointed loudly; she simply watched with a respectful curiosity. Miranda noticed a stray grey feather caught on a low twig. She picked it up, marvelling at its softness. "You caught a big one last night, didn't you?" she asked, glancing at the scuff marks on the bin lid.

The birds didn't move. They were back to being wood and shadow. But as Miranda turned to head back to class, the smallest fledgling let out a tiny, nearly silent oom-oom-oom—a soft vibration that Miranda felt more than heard. It was their version of a goodbye.

---

The Looming Threat

Miranda's quiet observations went beyond just admiring the Frogmouths. She was a natural-born protector. So when the whispers of "new classrooms" and "expanded facilities" started circulating around the school, a knot formed in Miranda's stomach.

One afternoon, she saw Mr. Henderson, the school principal, and a man in a hard hat studying a large blueprint rolled out on a folding table near the service alley. Her heart pounded. This was it. She overheard snippets of their conversation: "...optimal use of space... demolish the old shed... and that dead-looking gum tree, too."

"That tree isn't dead, Mr. Henderson!" Miranda gasped, stepping forward. Both men turned to her.

"Miranda, what are you doing here?" Mr. Henderson asked, a little flustered. He squinted up at the tree. "Are those... some kind of owls up there? I've seen them sometimes, roosting."

Miranda's eyes widened slightly. "No, Mr. Henderson, they're not owls," she corrected gently but firmly. "They're Tawny Frogmouths. They look a bit like owls, but they're actually more closely related to nightjars. They're masters of disguise."

The man in the hard hat chuckled. "Looks like a goner to me, kid. Probably hollow, just waiting to fall over."

AI generated image of Miranda and the birds

The Preservation Plan

Miranda knew she couldn't just tell them about the Frogmouths. They were so good at camouflage, the men might think she was making it up, or worse, decide to remove the "pests." She needed a different angle.

"It's a Lemon-scented Gum," she began, channelling everything her science teacher had ever said about local flora. "They're really important for native insects. And... and that one has a really special type of moss growing on it. It's part of the school's natural history."

Mr. Henderson, usually preoccupied with budgets, looked at the tree with slightly more attention. Miranda knew she had to seal the deal. "Plus," she added, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "I've seen so many different kinds of birds use it. It’s like their own little apartment building. If we destroy it, where will they go? And who will catch the mice around the bins?"

A Shared Silence

Mr. Henderson stroked his chin. "An interesting point, Miranda. We do want to maintain some green spaces." He turned to the contractor. "Perhaps we can adjust the plans slightly. Shift the new building footprint by a few meters. Is that feasible?"

The contractor sighed, pulling out a pencil. "It'll mean some minor revisions, but... I suppose it's possible."

Miranda offered a small, triumphant smile. She had bought her secret family more time. As the men walked away, she glanced up at the branch. Papa Frogmouth's eye was barely visible through the dappled leaves. For a fleeting moment, she imagined he gave her the faintest, almost imperceptible nod. The masters of stillness remained, and for now, their home was safe.

--

Shalom,

Ozhamada

Note: this was inspired by observations made during a visit to the Tiligerry Peninsula. I was a visitor on a school site and had chance to ponder why the family of Tawny Frogmouths had chosen a particular tree.

Chanukah by the Sea, Bondi Beach, 14 December 2025 - a brief reflection on Waverley Council’s response

Waverley Council’s response to the terrorist attack in Bondi on Sunday, 14 December 2025 was characterised by immediate frontline bravery and a massive rapid deployment of community support.

1. The Immediate "Blue Line" Response

While NSW Police led the tactical operation, Waverley Council staff were among the very first "community first responders" on the scene:

• Lifeguards & Venue Staff: Council lifeguards and staff at the Bondi Pavilion were credited with running toward danger to perform CPR and first aid on victims before paramedics could arrive.
• Bystander Shielding: Staff helped hundreds of people shelter inside the Bondi Pavilion and nearby council facilities while the active threat was neutralised.
• The "Bondi Hero": Council specifically recognised Ahmed Al Ahmed, a Sutherland shop owner, who selflessly put his life on the line to disarm one of the attackers, preventing further loss of life.

2. Emergency Council Session & Financial Support

On December 16, 2025, Waverley Council held an emergency session to approve a comprehensive 12-point support plan:

• Immediate Funding: A $100,000 commitment was carved out of the operating budget to provide direct financial aid to Jewish community organisations assisting victims.
• Community Space: The council dedicated a private gathering space for the Jewish community to seek comfort and connection, recognising that the attack occurred during a religious celebration.
• Solidarity Symbols: Flags were flown at half-mast for two weeks, and the Council launched a community initiative asking residents to light a candle at 6:47 PM each night of Chanukah.

The Bondi footbridge

3. Logistical Recovery & "The Hub"

Within 48 hours, the council transitioned from crisis management to logistics:

• The Bondi Pavilion Support Hub: A Community Support Hub was established in the Yalagang Room at the Pavilion. It housed representatives from the NSW Reconstruction Authority, NSW Health, Legal Aid, and Lifeline.
• Property Collection Centre: To manage the chaos of the evacuation, a property centre was set up at Waverley College for people to retrieve items left behind at the beach during the attack.
• Floral Tribute Protocol: Working with the Premier’s Department, the Council developed a respectful protocol for floral tributes.¹⁴ Cards and non-perishables were collected by the Jewish Museum, while flowers were composted to be used in future memorial gardens.

4. Controversies & Decisions

• The Footbridge: A debate emerged regarding the future of the Bondi footbridge where some of the violence occurred. The Council has placed "respectful signage" there as an interim measure while they consult on whether to rename or physically alter the site.
• Business Recovery: Mayor Will Nemesh launched a "Back Bondi" campaign in late December after the beach was closed for investigations, aiming to support local businesses that saw a 40-60% drop in trade following the incident.

Shalom,

Ozhamada

The Prospector of Granite Creek - part 4

The morning after Wally’s humiliating retreat from Boomerang, Silas was back at Granite Creek, dipping his pan with the weary motions of a man who knew futility well. He had barely found enough colour to dust a flea. Meanwhile, Kevin, perched high on a dead snow gum, was performing a particularly energetic and mocking laugh-a-thon, his head thrown back with theatrical glee, all pointed directly toward Wally’s hidden burrow entrance.

Silas, after months of bad luck, finally saw the pattern. Kevin was not laughing at the creek or the sky; he was laughing at something near the base of that tree—the same place where Silas had lost his nugget collection months ago. The old prospector’s eyes narrowed. He looked at the sturdy, unmarked ground, then back at the hysterically cackling bird. Silas did not believe in fairies, but he did believe in stubborn, clever animals.

He hiked back to Boomerang, not to pan, but to visit the General Store. Silas, operating on a hunch bordering on madness, purchased the gold sovereign coin from the display case—the very coin Wally had coveted. It cost him half his savings, but he had a theory to test.

Silas returned to Wally’s patch of creek. He waited until the sun dipped low, painting the granite pink. Kevin was already settled in the gum tree, silent now, but watching with intense, beady eyes. Silas approached the burrow entrance, knelt slowly, and held the gleaming coin out on his open palm, catching the last of the light.

“Alright, you stubborn little dust-eater,” Silas murmured to the earth. “I know you are in there. You have been panning my claims and stealing my finds, and you are better at it than I am. But I need a break. I want a tip. I want to know where to pan next. And you want this.”

Wally, already tense after his night out, slowly pushed the compacted clay from his escape tunnel. He peered out, his eyes fixing instantly on the magnificent, polished sovereign. It was perfect. It was everything he had dreamed of. He looked from the coin to Silas’s earnest, tired face, then up at Kevin, who, for the first time, was absolutely silent, watching the transaction unfold with uncanny focus.

The wombat gave a low grunt—a sound of supreme calculation. He cautiously shuffled forward, took the coin with a swift paw, and tucked it into his cheek pouch. He then turned and, using his nose, nudged a small, insignificant seam of milky quartz that ran down toward a shallow, overlooked bend in Granite Creek, far from his own chamber.

The tip was not the monster nugget, but it was honest.

pexels.com; free and unattributable

Silas smiled, a genuine, weary smile. He had paid his fee and gotten his tip from the world's most unlikely prospector. He stood up, gave a slight nod to the wombat, and walked away. Kevin, still perched above, finally let out a single, sharp, satisfied chuckle—a laugh of acceptance, perhaps, rather than mockery. From that day on, an unlikely, silent agreement settled over Granite Creek: Silas had his small, steady claim thanks to the wombat, Wally had his perfect coin, and Kevin was the silent, cackling keeper of the secret, ensuring the new, peculiar gold rush of the High Country remained strictly a three-party affair.

-The end-

An ABC Radio interview with Silas is linked

The book dust cover is linked

Reviews are linked.

Shalom,

Ozhamada

The Prospector of Granite Creek - part 3

Wally, for all his burrow-based arrogance, was not immune to temptation. His treasure chamber, already rich with purloined nuggets, felt somehow incomplete. The missing piece, he decided, was not a nugget, but a coin—a perfect, historical gold sovereign that he had seen glinting through the dusty window of the Boomerang General Store. It was secured in a display case of local relics, placed right next to a moth-eaten photograph of the original gold rush days. Wally viewed it as an insult: true High Country gold deserved a better guardian than dusty glass.

The decision to travel was fraught with risk. The journey down Granite Creek was long, requiring him to cross open sheep paddocks and patches of unforgiving, exposed asphalt—terrain utterly hostile to a creature built for defence in tight, rocky tunnels. Wally waited until the moon was just a sliver of white and the air was chilled with the night’s first frost. He marched, low and fast, his heart a nervous drum against his thick ribs, his senses overwhelmed by the smells of diesel and old timber.

He arrived in Boomerang shortly before midnight. The town was silent save for the rhythmic rattling of the wind against the corrugated iron roofs. Wally skirted the back of Silas’s cottage, pausing to listen to the slow, deep snoring within, before leveraging his massive shoulders under the low, rotting floorboards of the General Store porch. He pushed upward, creating a slight, grating scrape that sounded like thunder to his ears.

pexels.com; free and unattributable

He spotted the display case easily. It was tucked against the wall beneath the old post office window, bathed in the pale, eerie glow of a distant streetlamp. The coin was beautiful, stamped with the head of an ancient, human monarch and radiating an unnatural, polished shine—far superior to the rough surface of his own monster nugget.

Wally extended a muddy paw, calculating the leverage needed to topple the heavy wooden display stand. He began to grunt, pushing with the full might of his subterranean strength. The display creaked, the glass vibrating ominously. Success was inches away when the massive, rusty clock tower of the abandoned bank in the town centre suddenly began to stir.

The first chime of midnight was a deafening, metallic gong that echoed through the empty street, freezing Wally in place. Before the sound could fully die away, the noise was answered by a truly horrible, familiar sound: Kevin, the kookaburra. Kevin, who had been sleeping in the old gum tree by the Hotel, was startled by the clock and, spotting Wally silhouetted perfectly against the faint lamplight, let loose the most tremendous, mocking, screeching laugh of his life.

The sound shattered Wally’s nerves. He abandoned the coin, the display case, and all pretence of stealth. Forgetting the path he had come, he simply turned and bolted, scrambling over the asphalt road and into the nearest, darkest scrub. He did not stop until he was deep beneath his own patch of snow gum, safe, panting, and empty-pawed. He had learned a hard, cold lesson: the treasures of the High Country were best acquired beneath the ground, where the darkness was a comfortable blanket and the only judge was the patient earth, not a cackling bird with a cruel sense of timing.

Part 3 of the story is linked

An ABC Radio interview with Silas is linked

The book dust cover is linked

Reviews are linked.

Shalom,

Ozhamada

The Prospector of Granite Creek - part 2

Further down Granite Creek, where the flow broadened and the icy water finally had room to slow its pace, sat the township of Boomerang. It was less a town now and more an enduring collection of iron, timber, and stubborn hope, all etched into the harsh landscape of the NSW High Country.

Boomerang had earned its name not from the returning flight of the Aboriginal hunting tool, but from the fickle nature of the gold itself. Early prospectors, convinced the mother lode was just over the next ridge, would leave for weeks, only to find themselves circling back, drawn by the creek’s siren call and the occasional, glittering promise of a forgotten seam. The town, like the gold, always brought them back.

In its roaring prime, from 1860 to 1890, Boomerang was a chaotic hub. There were fifteen hotels, each with a reputation worse than the last, two banks that seemed to change hands monthly, and a single, perpetually overcrowded Post Office. The creek banks were scarred by sluices and tailings, and the air was thick with the scent of wet wool, cheap whiskey, and woodsmoke. Stories from that era, still faintly painted on the walls of the old general store, spoke of nuggets the size of walnuts, of claims staked by moonlight, and of fortunes lost in a single, drunken afternoon.

Now, only the solid bones of the old town remained. The main street, now paved with cracked asphalt, hosted just four active businesses: the Granite Creek Hotel (which mostly sold cold beer to tourists in summer), a tiny repair garage, the Post Office (which doubled as the local library), and the Boomerang General Store.

pexels.com; free and unattributable

Silas, the bearded man whose pan Wally had pilfered, lived in a small, corrugated iron cottage just outside the town’s main cluster. He was one of the ‘Keepers of the Hope’—a handful of old-timers who still carried a folding pan in their truck and could differentiate the sound of glacial quartz from promising slate with a single hammer tap. Silas represented the spirit of Boomerang’s past, a man perpetually searching for the wealth that had seemingly dried up generations ago, utterly unaware that the richest vein currently lay buried not in the creek bed, but in a hidden chamber under the root system of a nearby snow gum, guarded by a very wide, very grumpy wombat.

Boomerang was a ghost of its former self, yet it maintained a stoic dignity. The old mining dredge, abandoned on the river flats, rusted beautifully under the clear, high-altitude sun, a monument to a time when men, like the wombat Wally, were driven by the sheer, magnificent glitter of gold.

 

 

Part 3 of the story is linked

An ABC Radio interview with Silas is linked

The book dust cover is linked

Reviews are linked.

Shalom,

Ozhamada