Readers of the blog might recall Dom Fay’s post from last year sharing about the retreats he organises at his school, Coomera Anglican College. Archbishop Jeremy Greaves joined the most recent retreat and wrote a reflection on his experiences that was published in ‘Anglican Focus’. The editor thanks the Archbishop for his generosity in allowing his reflection to be reproduced here.
It had been nearly 20 years since I last visited central Australia, and as I arrived in Alice Springs with a group of Year 11 Coomera Anglican College students for their “Desert Retreat”, I found myself wondering…”Would the desert feel the same?” and “Would it still speak in the way I remembered?”
In some ways it did, of course — the vast skies, the red earth, the deep, unsettling silence. But in other ways it was entirely different because I am not the same person I was 20 years ago. And perhaps that is one of the great truths the desert reveals — it does not change nearly as much as we do.
The early Christian desert fathers and mothers understood something profound about places like this. They did not go into the desert to escape the world, but to encounter it more truthfully — to encounter themselves and God without distraction or illusion. The desert strips things back. It has a way of exposing what is essential and letting the rest fall away. It can feel confronting at first, even uncomfortable, but it is also deeply clarifying.
Over the week we were together we sought to make that ancient wisdom a lived experience. Our time in Alice Springs and at Uluru was shaped by a simple invitation to the students and to the rest of us along for the journey — to practise paying attention.
It sounds straightforward, but it is anything but easy. We are so accustomed to noise, to movement, to constant stimulation that stillness can feel like a challenge. Yet it is precisely in that stillness that something begins to shift.
We paid attention to the land itself — its beauty, its resilience, its ancient story. We sat in silence at Angkerle Atwatye — meaning “Gap of Water” — which is sacred to the Arrernte people, and also known as Standley Chasm. We sat at sunset on a hilltop and at sunrise near Uluru. We listened to artists reflect on how they see and paint the land. We walked at night amongst bilbies and echidnas.
There is something about that landscape that resists being rushed or reduced. It asks something of you. It invites you to slow down, to look more closely, to listen more deeply. In doing so, it gently reminds you that you are part of something much larger than yourself.
We paid attention to one another as well. Removed from the usual rhythms and distractions of school life, there was space for different kinds of conversations: more reflective, more honest. There was also space for silence, which can be its own kind of communion. It was a privilege to witness the openness and thoughtfulness of these young people as they engaged with the experience.
And we paid attention inwardly — to the movements of our own hearts and minds. What surfaces when the noise recedes? What do we notice about ourselves when we are not constantly occupied? These are not always easy questions, but they are important ones. The desert, in its quiet way, holds them before us without judgement.
Above all, we sought to pay attention to God not as something distant or abstract, but as a presence that is already there, waiting to be noticed. The desert fathers often spoke about this kind of attentiveness as the beginning of prayer: not so much speaking, but listening. Not striving, but becoming aware.
Standing before Uluru, that sense of attentiveness felt especially tangible. There is a reason people speak of “thin places” — locations where the boundary between heaven and earth seems somehow more permeable. Uluru, for me, is such a place. Its stillness carries a kind of weight, a dignity that commands both respect and humility. It is difficult to stand there and not feel that you are on holy ground.
As I reflect on the retreat now, I find myself deeply grateful, not only for the opportunity to return to central Australia after so long, but for the chance to share that experience with such a remarkable group of students. The desert does not offer quick answers or easy conclusions. Instead, it offers space to listen, to notice, to become more attentive to what is real and what matters.
And perhaps that is its greatest gift. In a world that so often pulls us in a thousand directions, the desert gently calls us back to simplicity, to presence, to God. It invites us, patiently, but persistently, to pay attention.
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