The Spatial Production of a Country Church

ARSR 23.1 (2010): 29-45 ARSR (print) ISSN 1031-2943 doi: 10.1558/arsr.v23i1.29 ARSR (online) ISSN 1744-9014

Dungog: The Spatial Production of a Country Church

Roland Boer

University of Newcastle

Abstract

This article makes use of Henri Lefebvre’s highly inuential threefold distinction of space to interpret the spatial dynamics of the Uniting (formerly Wesleyan Methodist) church of Dungog in the Hunter Valley foothills. Lefebvre distinguished between spatial practice (perceived space), representations of space (overtly conceived space) and spaces of representation (covertly lived space). The study proceeds to analyse the Dungog church in terms of spatial practice and then explores the interactions between the other two types of space in the relations between, on the one hand, the Uniting and Presbyterian churches and, on the other hand, within the former Wesleyan Church itself. Apart from noting how the relations of space change when the item of analysis shifts (as one would expect with Lefebvre’s dialectical approach), the study also presents a neglected way of analysing the religious dynamics of a country town.

I have set myself the task of interpreting a rural parish in Dungog at the edge of the Hunter Valley (Australia) in light of Henri Lefebvre’s inuential theory of space. Building on earlier work of mine with Lefebvre (Boer 1999, 2007), I offer a cultural studies analysis focused on spatial issues of the former Methodist and now Uniting church in Dungog. For this article, I distinguish between ‘church’ and ‘Church’. The former refers to the specic parish church(es) in Dungog, while the latter refers to the whole body of a particular denomination. Let me be perfectly clear: although I make use of archival sources, empirical data, interviews and bodily experience, the primary methodo- logical framework used here is that of cultural studies informed by Lefebvre. For those not familiar with cultural studies, it should be said that while cultural studies draws from disciplines such as sociology, literature,

© Equinox Publishing Ltd 2010, 1 Chelsea Manor Studios, Flood Street, London SW3 5SR. 30 ARSR 23.1 (2010) history and philosophy, it is not identical to any one of them. What distinguishes cultural studies is a far greater sensitivity to matters of theory (hence Lefebvre), the crucial role of the interpreter and attention to subject matter often disregarded by other disciplines, especially those which deal with everyday life of which Lefebvre is also one of the founding theorists (see Lefebvre 1991a; for an excellent introduction to cultural studies, see Milner and Browitt 2003). In what follows, I provide the main points of Lefebvre’s theory of the production of space, outlining its features and how one goes about spatial analysis. From there, the discussion moves on to use Lefebvre’s main categories as a grid with which to interpret the spatial production of Dungog’s Uniting church. So, I explore the spatial practice of the town, the ways in which space is represented, especially in the tensions between the Uniting and Presbyterian Churches, and then I seek the more hidden and covert spatial patterns known as spaces of representation. Through- out, I am interested in how issues of space are illuminated by the practices of everyday life.

The Production of Space

Out of the relatively few of his 66 books that have been translated into English, Henri Lefebvre’s The Production of Space (1991b) has been one of the most inuential. There is renewed interest in his work, reected by the translation of more of his works. An extraordinarily brilliant thinker, Marxist philosopher and activist, social scientist, forerunner of cultural studies and inspiration for the widespread student protests and unrest in May 1968 and the Greens as a political force, Lefebvre’s full effect is yet to be felt. I would like to activate an earlier engagement of mine with Lefebvre, seeking to explore further the implications of his theory of space for the study of religion (see Boer 2003, 2007). At the heart of Lefebvre’s book is a threefold dialectic of space (Lefebvre 1974; 1991b: 33, 245; see also Shields 1999: 160-70): 1. Spatial practice, or what is known as space perceived (perçu) in a common-sense fashion. Lefebvre brings under this term the specic spatial features of each social formation, understood in terms of production, reproduction, continuity and cohesion. In terms of social space, and of each member of a given society’s relationship to that space, this cohesion implies a guaranteed level of competence and a specic level of performance. 2. Representations of space (représentations de l’espace) refer to how space is conceived (l’espace conçu). It concerns the overt and ‘frontal’ matters of space—maps, designs, planning, analysis, seen

architecture, as well as discourses on space and the specic signs and codes of those discourses. One may study such spaces in conventional ways, by surveys, identication and analysis of the obvious and overt manifestations of space. 3. Spaces of representation (espaces de la représentation) is also known as lived space (l’espace vécu). These are the hidden elements of space, whether the deeper presuppositions behind plans and denitions, or the underground and clandestine uses of space. It provides partially concealed criticism of social orders and the categories of social thought, criticisms that may take place through bodies, aesthetics, gender and religion. Here Lefebvre identies political possibilities for new and utopian spaces. Analy- sis of these spaces requires greater sensitivity to what goes on behind the scenes, what is not spoken, seen and mapped in the usual fashions. It also entails exploration into imagined spaces, those of hope and possibility.

In a nutshell (and geared for my own purposes), we have common-sense space, the overt space of maps and towns and plans and the clandestine space of criticism, opposition and possibilities for new space. In order to simplify, or at least make it a little easier to memorise these three types of space, the geographer Edward Soja (1989, 1996) translates Lefebvre’s terms into rst, second and third space. For Soja, the ‘third space’ (Lefebvre’s spaces of representation) is both real and imagined, opening up utopian possibilities. Rather than hard-and-fast categories, they operate in a dialectical relation to each other. As we shall see with Dungog, the relation between them shifts depending upon the perspective one takes—how wide the view, what data one takes into account, what one seeks. Before going on to explore how these distinctions assist us in interpreting the interaction of religion and space in a country town, I would like to make a few points concerning how one goes about spatial analysis of the type proposed by Lefebvre. To begin with, this threefold distinction is what may be called a syn- chronic map of spatial production. However, Lefebvre is too good a Marxist not to be aware of historical change, so he develops a history of different types of space that characterise varying socio-economic formations over time. These include natural space, sacred space, abstract space and contradictory space, the last one being the form of space under capitalism with its class tensions and stresses between different levels of the socio-economic system (usually put in terms of the contradiction between the forces and relations of production). My analysis falls within this last type, contradictory space, within which Lefebvre’s threefold dialectic sets to work.

Further, spatial practice is produced in response to what Lefebvre calls natural space. The former is then social space, the space created by humans in their interaction with nature, each other and earlier social formations. Social space appears in relation to natural space, the space of nature in which human beings increasingly have the upper hand. Since capitalism is now rampant, Lefebvre (1991a: 30-31), while admitting that natural space remains the point of departure for considerations of space and the social process, argues that social space under capitalism now has nature at its mercy: everyone wants to preserve nature, yet everything now seeks to undermine such a desire. As I delve into the history of the Dungog Methodist Circuit, this interaction of spatial practice and natural space will make an appearance or two. Third, and following on from the previous point, a crucial feature of Lefebvre’s analysis involves bodily encounter and the bodily negotiation of space. Although he made use of extensive empirical data, he also ensured that any spatial analysis included the immediate, sensed experience of his own body. It may have been his old village church, or the skyscrapers of Los Angeles, or the celtic crosses and hills of his home, or the ows of city spaces and dwellings. On this matter, Lefebvre is one of the founders of cultural studies, for the immediacy of the body, how it reacts, responds and perceives is an inescapable feature of analysis. I seek to follow Lefebvre’s lead in the following analysis. Fourth, Lefebvre insisted that space is not xed and static, as we so often assume. It is uid, constantly in motion. One moves bodily through space, thereby producing a new spatial arrangement. And that space itself is constantly in motion, changing slowly or more rapidly over time, full of ows and movement. In my discussion of Dungog, I take this uidity of space as an important factor. Finally, the difference between frontal and hidden space is the key to Lefebvre’s seemingly strange distinction between the representations of space and spaces of representation. The former, overt type appears in the forms of monuments, public art and buildings, especially those of state and business: this is the realm of the representation of space, the frontal, obvious node of the relations of production. The more covert and clandestine version, the shadowy realm of spaces of representation, is interested in what is hidden, closed over, and cannot be mapped in conventional ways, spaces that represent in wayward, diverse and imagi- native fashions. I am particularly interested in this opposition, since I seek out in the town of Dungog the way the overt and covert interact, how what is ‘out there’ in the streets and plans of the town runs up against the oppositions, criticisms and hidden elements of that same space. How does all of this apply to Dungog, especially its Uniting church? I am interested in the way Lefebvre’s theory can provide a different

© Equinox Publishing Ltd 2010. Boer Dungog 33 perspective on a country parish like Dungog. In such a spatial analysis, we can approach items such as church, town and gender from an angle other than the ones to which we are accustomed. Lefebvre’s outline of spatial types becomes a grid for seeing how the church’s spatial relations work. In particular, I am interested in the dialectical interplay between these spatial types, in bodily negotiations and the uidity of space, especially how this church in a small rural dairy town with its Methodist roots hovers between the overt and clandestine forms of space. The discussion which follows is divided into three sections: the rst concerns bodily encounter with the perceived space (type 1) of the town, especially as it greets one on arrival; the second concerns spaces of representation (type 2), exploring in particular the tensions between the Methodist-cum-Unit- ing church and the wealthier Presbyterians who did not join the Method- ists and Congregationalists of this town when those Churches united; and the third section traces the more enigmatic and covert spaces (type 3) within the Uniting church itself, with a particular focus on tensions in the intersections between gender and space. This last section requires different, more intuitive sensitivities to the other two types of space. A word on research material is in order. In researching this article, I have made use of a number of types of archival materials. One group of materials is strictly ‘archival’ in the traditional sense. It comes from both the Archives of the Uniting Church in Australia (NSW) and the records of the church itself in Dungog. Here we nd the daily, weekly and monthly documents which deal with the day-to-day operation of the circuit without any explicit historical consciousness: the quarterly editions of The (Gospel) Messenger with the relevant news, circuit roster and back-page advertisements; weekly newsletters (The Link); the various registers and nancial records; annual reports (sometimes undated) for annual meet- ings; and orders of service for special occasions. Second, there is an amorphous collection of leaets, booklets and church newspaper items from the church itself. These were produced at auspicious moments (25, 50 or 100 year anniversaries) and tend to recycle the same story about the circuit from its inception in 1843, noting the key ministers and building projects. Third is a crucial feature of cultural analysis: a mix of bodily experience, existential tours of the built spaces, the accumulated absorption of material over intermittent visits, occasional ‘gossip’ trans- mitted in various ways (understood here in John Berger’s [1979: 8-11] positive sense where gossip is a fundamental part of the social and linguistic structures of communities such as that at Dungog), a collection of photographs and taped interviews. From these always-incomplete frag- ments of Dungog Uniting church’s past, I weave a narrative of my own.

Spatial Practice: Bodily Perceptions

In order to explore the spatial practice of Dungog, I begin with the bodily experience of arrival by the interpreter (Morris 1993a; Van den Abbeele 1992). As the brief age of the motorcar as a relatively cheap form of travel begins to wane in the face of Peak Oil, it is worth recalling that the way one arrives in a place has a profound effect on one’s perception and practice of space (Lefebvre’s rst type of space). On my way to Dungog—in the foothills on the northern side of the Hunter Valley—from Sydney, I covered the distance in three evenly divided stages of bicycle, train and car, each about 90 kilometres. While the train still has an archaic feel to it (with mostly elderly on board) despite its increasing need, and while the motorcar is the default mode for most people even now, a bicycle over a longer distance allows the details of the land to emerge, whether dogs or landforms or the steepness of hills—in short, one is far more conscious of the way spatial practice takes place through interaction with natural space, of the uidity of space (often it seems as though the space around me moves rather than my own body) and of bodily impact of space. Indeed, it was not that long ago that people travelled such distances by foot, horse and, if you had a little more money, coach. In Dungog, one or two of the older people whom I interviewed still remember getting to church by horse-and-buggy, and when the rst cars appeared. Even earlier, at the time of the rst Methodist services in 1843 up to the 1920s, the Minister travelled the circuit on horseback, rst from Maitland (from which Dungog is two days by horse) and then in Dungog’s own local circuit, making regular journeys of up to 80 kilometres and some longer journeys east to the coast and north. In a wonderful text such as the following, such a way of passing through the country highlights the interaction of natural space and social space, as well as the bodily negotiation of that space:

Of an old-time circuit it was said that the sustenance of the preacher therein consisted of ‘pumpkins and the affections of the people’. Whatever else may be lacking, provisions for the larder ought always to be plentiful in a district watered by so many brooks and rivers as those that beautify and enrich the Dungog and Stroud Circuit. Hemmed in by hills and mountains, abounding in fruitful river ats, with appointments involving long and arduous rides, amid scenery that in various forms was ever pleasing to the eye, the circuit was one to interest a young man free from the grind of probation exams, and with an awakening sense of what has since been described by a leading writer of the day as the ‘historic imagination’ (The Methodist, October 26 [1901]: 4).

The natural space is hard to avoid in such a picture, but note also the overt presence of the body in space. The young man’s body (assuming he is single, but is he?) is nurtured by ‘pumpkins’, or more generally provisions for the larder. The description of the land—brooks, rivers, hills, mountains, fruitful river ats—marks the direct encounter of one passing through on horseback or foot. And the negotiation of that space takes place through the ‘long and arduous rides’—a sore bum and the constant smell of a horse—as well as the pleasing effect of the land on the rider. The description may be slightly different, but it is the type of existential and even passionate bodily narrative one encounters all-too-often in Lefebvre, although not without the necessary theoretical questions: Whose body is it, male or female? What are the pre-codings that determine the way in which such a body encounters the land? Is there resistance regis- tered in the body’s own response? Soon enough I will pursue precisely these types of questions when we come to spaces of representation. The uidity of space appears in this narrative as well. It is, after all, a ‘circuit’—the old Methodist name for a parish, a name that indicated the reality of almost constant motion from one place to another. In the old circuit, there was a bewildering number of such places—the records indicate Dungog, Bandon Grove, Chichester River, Williams River, Clareval, Telegherry (also Telegery or Telegaree), Monkherai, Thalaba, Bendollia, Stroud, Myall River, Salisbury, Underbank, Copeland, Clarence Town, Munni and Johnson’s Creek. Even the ‘scenery’ rolls by, its various items folding into one another. Hill, brook and river at (with their pumpkins) become uid and overlapping spaces seen from horseback or bicycle seat. Back to the present: one does not normally travel through Dungog en route to elsewhere, for it is more of a terminus than a transit town, at least by car. By railway, it is a little more ambivalent: for the northern line trains (freight and passenger), Dungog is still a major stop on the way north, but on the rail motor run from Newcastle (twice a day) it is once again a terminus. In contrast to the northern roads (partly dirt and very winding), the main southern road pushes uphill, the most notable feature being the dual water pipeline, one decaying and rusted, the other new and glossy (a signicant proportion of the lower Hunter water supply originates in the Barrington Tops to the north of town). A nal rise and turn, a few bro, weatherboard and brick-veneer houses, and you are suddenly con- fused about which way to go, for there is no clear way through town. This is still very much a country town, although it is beginning a slow change into what Dorst (1989) has appropriately termed the ‘deep suburb’: a country location accessible from the city which has become suburban through an inux of city people who still commute to the city, who

© Equinox Publishing Ltd 2010. 36 ARSR 23.1 (2010) attempt to preserve the rustic nature of the town and who develop a heightened and simulated sense of the place’s historicity (nearby Stroud is a good example). The town lies in a small valley on the higher reaches of the Williams River, the main street wide but only for a couple of blocks before it becomes a narrow road that soon turns to dirt. The shops have those false fronts that remind one of depictions of the ‘wild west’ in Hollywood westerns—one clothing shop, one butcher, two bakers, a general store, an IGA supermarket and no less than three hardware shops and four pubs. Looking up from the railway station, the streets stretch in a rough grid up the slopes of the hills that surround the town. The keen observer notes that there is almost more space available than uses for it. Mostly modest houses stand on vast blocks, vacant lots are liberally sprinkled throughout and the park in the middle of town stretches into virtual eternity. At the top of the hill is the hospital—hospital hill. The primary spatial practice of the town is rural service. The main vehicles on the streets are farm trucks with the obligatory dog or two, muddy clothes, rough boots. Those who do live in town are retired farmers, mostly dairy and cattle. They are usually older people, since the kids have to leave town at 16 to nd work. But there are also a few signals of change taking place. A café or two, newly decked out, advertise themselves with fresh city coffee. The real-estate ofces do a reasonably brisk trade as people from Newcastle seek a weekend retreat. Indeed, the main buyers in recent years (as I write) are from outside town. A perusal of statistics in council ofces and real-estate records shows that the prices have gone steadily up, so much so that locals complain that properties have become out-of- reach. Those who do move into town are composed evenly of long- distance commuters (they tend not to last and sell up within a couple of years) and weekend retreaters (they hold on to property much longer). But there are now enough people to make the cinema a going concern. In the last four years it has reopened, staging the annual Dungog Film Festival and Art Show with the advertising slogan, ‘Done Cannes, Done Sundance, Dungog’.

Representations of Space: Two Churches

When we come to the second and third categories of Lefebvre’s spatial analysis, a more dialectical element opens up. Here perspective is crucial: seen from one angle, the contrast between two churches in town falls into an opposition between representations of space (Presbyterian church) and spaces of representation (Wesleyan Uniting church); from another angle—within the Wesleyan church—the interaction between these two

© Equinox Publishing Ltd 2010. Boer Dungog 37 categories of space begins to shift, for now overt and covert forms take on new shapes. I begin with the rst opposition. Passing through town, a contrast between two churches begins to emerge. To an outside observer, the Uniting and Presbyterian churches have very little that distinguishes them in terms of theology or indeed ecclesiastical history. Yet in terms of space they are far apart. Dungog Uniting church lacks a striking visibility. Among the shops and occasional homes that line the two blocks of the town’s commercial strip, the church sits back, a narrow front that retires from the market place. The building lies towards the lower end of the slope of the main street. Its structure is relatively low, with a functional tower that does not announce itself to the town as a beacon or landmark. Although the church itself is made of red brick, the windows have simple panes of coloured glass (no elaborate and expensive stained-glass pictures). The hall attached to the back is of the more common weatherboard. The church sign is functional, the name of the minister carved into wood in a way that ensures one needs to come close to study it—no announcement that can be read with ease from a passing car. The formerly Wesleyan Methodist church offers, I would suggest, an implicit critique of and challenge to the more dominant Presbyterian building. In doing so, the Wesleyans slip into the category of spaces of representation. By contrast, the Presbyterian church site is much more overt. At the other end of the commercial strip, the Presbyterian church buildings are much more concerned to announce their presence and display the relative wealth of their larger land-holders and more ‘important’ townspeople. Not only does the church luxuriously spread itself out on a large corner at the high end of the main street, but the Presbyterian Manse (minister’s residence) is one of the dozen or so private residences in a block characterised by age, expense and size. The church tower points high, drawing the gaze of anyone looking over town. And the church sign announces in black on white the name of the church, the minister and service at a glance. As Fredric Jameson (1991: 2) has pointed out, architectural space is one of the clearest and direct markers of ideology and economic issues such as class. I would suggest the same applies in the contrast between the Wesleyan Uniting church and the Presbyterian church. Given the Methodist origins of the Uniting church in Dungog, some attention to ecclesiastical history and theology reveals the ideological connections to spatial representation. John Wesley’s eighteenth-century revivalism is long past, but the Armenianism remains along with the focus on personal holi- ness as a sign of one’s salvation. It was a theology suited much more to those from the working class, both urban and rural, than those in the

© Equinox Publishing Ltd 2010. 38 ARSR 23.1 (2010) upper echelons of society. Although much has changed since the eighteenth century, Methodism’s appeal lay with those in lower socio- economic strata (see Thompson 1968; Wright and Clancy 1993; Dreyer 1999; Kent 2002; Tomkins 2003; Thorsen 2005; Wood 2007; Boer in press). The Wesleyan chapel tended to draw its members from the rural working class and small holders, such as dairy farmers and small shop- keepers, as the church records soon make clear. In country towns such as Dungog, they simply did not have the means to dominate and control space like the Presbyterians. Theirs was a more covert space of representation, sliding off into the half-expressed criticisms of the Presbyterian claim to the obvious high ground. However, the more modest architectural presence also indicates the moveability of early Methodism in areas such as Dungog. Rather than operate with highly educated clergy focused on a central location, the Methodists developed their circuits—exibility and uidity rather than xation on stationary places was their mode of operating. This feature gave them an early advantage over other churches in remote and far-ung places. But it also meant that one did not need to make ostentatious statements announcing one’s presence. By contrast, the Presbyterians tended to focus on a signicant presence in a town such as Dungog. They drew more members from the small ruling upper-middle-class—the doctor, a lawyer or two, the banker, large landholders, the descendants of the squattocracy; in short, many of the owners of capital in town (see Ward 1989). On the scale of uidity and xation, the Presbyterians tended much more towards rmly placing themselves in town and letting everyone know it. On this matter, Reformed theology provides the ideological background to architectural space. In the tension between what I have elsewhere called a democracy of depravity (we are all sinners and can do no good works on our own) and the aristocracy of salvation (those to be saved have been predestined to be so), Presbyterians preferred the latter (see Boer 2009). If you belong to the propertied and professional elite in town, it is much more reassuring to be reminded that you are one of the elect rather than one of those poor and lthy sinners. In Dungog, the spatial prominence of the Presbyterian church gives voice to this theology. I would suggest that the different approaches to space comprised a major factor in the church union debates in the 1970s and 1980s. After decades of discussions, on-again-off-again negotiations and two referenda, the Presbyterian, Methodist and Congregationalist Churches became the Uniting Church of Australia in 1979 and thereby the third largest Christian denomination in terms of numbers after the Roman Catholic and Anglican Churches of Australia (see Emilsen and Emilsen 2003). The Methodist church became a Uniting church, but, apart from

© Equinox Publishing Ltd 2010. Boer Dungog 39 one or two Congregationalists, most of its members were the same as before, since the Presbyterians did not join them. To an outsider that decision was almost incomprehensible: two churches with small congre- gations who for all practical purposes should have united but did not. It was not merely an issue of class, with the higher-class Presbyterians staying on their own, but also one of space: to link with the Methodists would have meant that the Presbyterians would have had to change the way they negotiated space. This would have required both an implicit admission of the criticism the Methodists embodied and an effort to learn a very different way of relating to space in a country town. For the Pres- byterians the explicit reason for not joining was doctrine; for the Method- ists it seemed as though property was the main reason—the Presbyterians simply did not want to share their considerable properties with anyone else. Both are partly true, but property comes far closer to questions of space: if property is one marker of class, and if class conict has crucial spatial dimensions, then space itself was a crucial factor in the non-union of the two churches in Dungog.

Ambiguity: Spaces and Representations

The relations of space change when we shift our perspective. I have been tracing the spatial tension between the Presbyterians and Methodist-cum- Uniting church in terms of Lefebvre’s representations of space and the spaces of representation. However, when we zoom in on the Uniting church itself, this tension takes on a different shape. So, after arrival and a survey of the spatial practice of the town along with an assessment of the two churches, let us follow Lefebvre’s own example and enter that slightly hidden church and see what goes on inside. He offers a fascinat- ing tour of the inner spaces of his old village church in Navarrenx, returning there after many years (see Lefebvre 1991a: 201-27; see also my detailed discussion of this passage in Boer 2007: 163-214). I focus on two issues—interior space and gendered space. What we nd is that the representations of space spill into spaces of representation, from overt to covert. The bodily impression of entering is a slight confusion, for not one door but two lead into the church. The visitor enters from either side of the vestibule (they do not call it a narthex), as it were; there is no heavy wooden double door and grand archway, no immediate gaze down a central aisle to a communion table and pulpit. The two doors face one another at right angles to the front of the church, and so, upon entry, one looks at the other door or perhaps a person entering from that side. If it is a Sunday, a modest table with hymn books greets you, or perhaps an usher who is usually a woman.

Only then does one turn 90 degrees and enter the sanctuary itself. Once again, the overall impression is not deigned to impress; in fact, there is an almost willed desire to counter any ostentatious entry. The pews themselves are solid, old and made of quality timber. Although many churches of this age have similar pews, these are notable for their simplicity and functionality—no woodworking ourish on these seats. At the business end of the sanctuary, one sees a simple crucix behind the timber communion table and a pulpit to the left side. No grand stained-glass window with a striking resurrection scene behind the communion table; no dis- tractions from the worship of God. Since the campaign to include banners made by the congregation in Uniting Churches, one may see a banner hung where such a window might have been in a more expensive church building. On the right of the communion table a door leads to the timber church hall with its fold-out tables, the kitchen for preparing tea and biscuits after church and the small vestry for the minister. I would suggest that even though the interior layout of the church falls into Lefebvre’s category of representations of space (it is, after all, an observable layout), that interior also hints at the covert dimension of Lefebvre’s spaces of representation. The layout unconsciously undermines ostentatiousness and declarations of presence. Not merely modest, it points to the deeper presuppositions, even the underground and clandestine uses of space. It offers an implicit critique of anyone who would be puffed up through their own righteousness or indeed election through predestination. Overt space slips into covert space with its unstated assumptions. How does this hidden space manifest itself? One could answer that question in terms of sexuality, race or class, but let me focus on the question of gender, for here we nd the tensions and overlaps between those inverse terms—between representations of space and spaces of representation, between overt and covert space. I am particularly interested in the question whether the church replicates and reinforces community assumptions and practices concerning gender or whether it also offers an implicit critique and points to an alternative. For example, in her study of an Australian Anglican parish, Manville (1997) concludes that the church merely reinforces wider assumptions concerning men and women. Men are decision-makers while women are nurturers, carers and servers. Only those women who exhibit ‘masculine’ character- istics are permitted into roles of management. Dempsey’s (1983) rather bleak study argues in a similar fashion, albeit in a wider context than gender—the church is a bulwark of ingrained and conservative country- town values (see also Dempsey 1991). Although the subject matter is late nineteenth-century revivalist evangelism in Australia, Swain’s study (2002)

© Equinox Publishing Ltd 2010. Boer Dungog 41 is much more attentive to the underhand resistance of women to domination. On any Sunday at worship the older women and men (in that order of numerical presence) form the majority of those attending. Many have painful memories and have had major setbacks in their lives, whether war, recession, accident or drought. In this context, the church has provided and continues to provide a location for the necessary balance and relief (to borrow some ideas from Alexis de Tocqueville [1945]) in hope, consolation, celebration and rest. Within the church, however, the spatial tension begins to appear in the form of gender. The life of the men was usually hard work and occasional warfare that was strictly outside the home. They dealt with the obvious, public matters such as money, property and spiritual oversight—in other words, the representations of space. Most of the women have lived in a radical trade-off between a home- bound, subordinate and mostly protected existence, one that is partially hidden from view, dipping into the clandestine realms of the spaces of representation. They will often carry on extensions of domestic roles, serving morning refreshments after the service, catering at meals, clean- ing, arranging owers and so on. The tell-tale exhibit of this partially hidden role is the extraordinary foundation stone of the present parsonage. It reads: ‘This stone was laid by Mrs. J.H. Tickle, 12th Nov. 1921’. The stone refers to Mrs Charlotte Tickle—although she has here the name of her husband, John Henry Tickle. Naming conventions aside, Charlotte makes it onto the stone by a mere letter ‘s’ (added to Mr). Acceptable on the parsonage foundation stone but not the church building, this inscrip- tion really sums up the crucial role of women in the church. Almost effaced, mostly working covertly, they are yet foundational for the church’s very existence. Meaghan Morris’s comment is highly relevant: any religious site but especially the local and/or country parish church, is a space ‘produced primarily, though not exclusively, by women’s work and the practices of women’s everyday lives’ (Morris 1992: 3; see also Morris 1993b: 176). A clearer example of Lefebvre’s spaces of representation can hardly be found. Yet, just when we seem to have arrived at the unremarkable conclusion that the church replicates wider assumptions and practices concerning gender in the town, that we can divide the men and women along the lines of our representations of space and spaces of representation, the distinction begins to blur. It is a commonplace that the contributions of women have traditionally been grossly underestimated, that the records simply keep them hidden. Yet, there are enough pieces of evidence that refused to remain completely hidden. In Dungog, women have for quite some time participated in and led worship. For example, the church

© Equinox Publishing Ltd 2010. 42 ARSR 23.1 (2010) register of 1998 showed that three out of the ve lay preachers were women. A look back through the lists of ofce-bearers indicates that women have not always been the silent carers and servers in the church. The reality is that in a small country town like Dungog there tended to be a shortage of men to carry out all the necessary tasks, such as lay preaching and church administration. Even though the ideas concerning what men and women could and could not do seemed rigid on the surface, when it came down to practice these norms were often waived. In the modest church interiors where representations of space tended to be low-key and where the covert spaces of representation always hinted at other, less-structured practices, women found a place more often than one would expect. The silent majority of female worshippers were not always so silent. The argument that churches such as the Wesleyan Uniting church in Dungog have reinforced wider community assumptions also faces another catch: it assumes the church was once a central institution of the town, a major drawcard and bulwark of its wider moral code. But that may not be the case, at least if attendance records are anything to go by. A little further research reveals that attendance and membership have never been extremely high in comparison to the town’s population: 20 rst subscribed to the Methodist cause in 1843 (the town was established in 1841) and the Dungog–Stroud Circuit register from 1872 to 1905 lists from one to 28 members in Dungog, Bandon Grove, Chichester River, Williams River, Clareval, Telegherry (also Telegery or Telegaree), Monk- herai, Thalaba, Bendollia, Stroud, Myall River, Salisbury, Underbank, Copeland, Clarence Town, Munni and Johnson’s Creek. The census statistics show 436 at the 1881 census to over 1000 in 1891, and then a gradual growth over the next century to a little over 2000 (see Strachan and Henderson 2005). Until 1900, Monkherai had the ascendancy with 25 members at the highest, while Dungog moves ahead only after 1900, having only 7 members in 1872. As the list of names suggests, the circuit- parish has always been dispersed. The church at Dungog has always been absorbed in a larger circuit. Between 1843 and 1859, it was part of the Maitland Circuit. Later, it belonged to the Dungog–Stroud Circuit (until 1977), while at present it is a preaching centre of the Dungog–Myall River parish of the Uniting church. While the population has never been very high, these numbers indicate the church has always been a smallish concern. But were the gender assumptions of the town always so xed? In an important study of business activities in Dungog in the late nineteenth century, Strachan and Henderson show that the distinctions were much more uid than is assumed or revealed in statistics (which tended to

© Equinox Publishing Ltd 2010. Boer Dungog 43 record only male activities). For practical reasons in a rural area with a small white population, women tended to be involved in business activities such as retail, hospitality and farm management. In many cases, the nancial survival of such businesses depended on the central roles of women. Strachan and Henderson conclude that on top of the signicant tasks of bearing and raising children and domestic concerns, women on occasion took a leading role in commercial activities in order to support their families. I would suggest that the church in Dungog neither reinforces nor challenges the gender assumptions of a town like Dungog. It provides a window to a situation in which the covert spaces of representation were far more pervasive throughout the town than might have been expected.

Conclusion

In offering a cultural studies analysis based on Henri Lefebvre’s inuential theories concerning space, I followed his example and explored the bodily impressions of spatial practice (type 1) of Dungog, with emphasis on the uidity of space and the uses of space within the town. Once in town, the tensions between different churches (here the Uniting and Presbyterian) is not merely due to history, theology or even class. Or rather, the representations of space (type 2) provided a direct signal of these differences. What I found was a deeply spatial tension, with one the more dominant representation of space and the other slipping into the spaces of representation. But when I crossed the threshold of the Wesleyan-cum-Uniting church, I entered a different opposition between overt and covert space. Here, the spaces of representation (type 3) hinted at their presence through the interior of the church building and the role of gender. It initially seemed to be the case that the church merely reinforced gender assumptions and practices in the wider community: the men tending towards frontal representations of space and the women clearly towards hidden spaces of representation. However, a closer look indicated that this conclusion did not hold on two counts: gender bounda- ries turn out to be far more uid both within the church and without. So I am led to a paradoxical conclusion, for at one level the church offers an implicit critique (spaces of representation) of the social and moral structure of the town (representations of space), but on another level the church reveals that in the town, too, these assumptions and practices were often undermined and overturned. The church has offered a window to the wider marginal, clandestine and critical elements of spaces of representation.

References

Berger, John 1979 Pig Earth. Pantheon, London. Boer, Roland 1999 Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door: The Bible and Popular Culture. Routledge, London. 2003 Marxist Criticism of the Bible. Continuum, London. 2007 Criticism of Heaven. Brill, Leiden. doi:10.1163/ej.9789004161115.i-472. 2009 Political Grace: The Revolutionary Theology of John Calvin. Westminster John Knox, Louisville, KY. in press E.P. Thompson and the ‘Psychic Terror’ of Methodism. Thesis Eleven. De Tocqueville, Alexis 1945 Democracy in America, translated by Phillips Bradley from the 12th French edn of 1848. Alfred Knopf, New York. Dempsey, Ken 1983 Conict and Decline: Ministers and Laymen in an Australian Country Town. Methuen, Sydney. 1991 Inequality, Belonging and Religion in a Rural Community. In Religion in Australia, edited by Alan W. Black, 63-77. Allen & Unwin, Sydney. Dorst, John D. 1989 The Written Suburb: An American Site, an Ethnographic Dilemma. University of Pennsylvania Press, Philadelphia. Dreyer, Frederick 1999 The Genesis of Methodism. Lehigh University Press, Bethlehem, PA. Emilsen, William, and Susan Emilsen 2003 The Uniting Church of Australia: The First 25 Years. Melbourne Publishing Group, Melbourne. Jameson, Fredric 1991 Postmodernism, or, the Cultural Logic of Late Capitalism. Duke University Press, Durham, NC. Kent, John 2002 Wesley and the Wesleyans: Religion in Eighteenth-Century Britain. Cambridge University Press, Cambridge. Lefebvre, Henri 1974 La production de l’espace. L’Homme et la société 31/32: 15-32. 1991a Critique of Everyday Life, translated by John Moore. Verso, London. 1991b The Production of Space, translated by Donald Nicolson-Smith. Oxford University Press, Oxford. Manville, Julie 1997 The Gendered Organization of an Australian Anglican Parish. Sociology of Religion 58(1): 25-38. doi:10.2307/3712104. Milner, Andrew, and Jeff Browitt 2003 Contemporary Cultural Theory: An Introduction, 3rd ed. Routledge, London.

Morris, Meaghan 1992 Great Moments in Social Climbing: King Kong and the Human Fly. In Sexuality and Space, edited by Beatriz Colomina, 1-51. Princeton Architectural Press, New York. 1993a At Henry Parkes Motel. In Australian Cultural Studies: A Reader, edited by John Frow and Meaghan Morris, 241-75. Allen & Unwin, Sydney. 1993b Things to Do with Shopping Centres. In The Cultural Studies Reader, edited by Simon During, 168-81. Routledge, London. Shields, Rob 1999 Lefebvre, Love and Struggle: Spatial Dialectics. Routledge, London. Soja, Edward 1989 Postmodern Geographies: The Reassertion of Space in Critical Social Theory. Verso, London. 1996 Thirdspace: Journeys to Los Angeles and Other Real-and-Imagined Places. Blackwell, Oxford. Strachan, Glenda, and Lindy Henderson 2005 Assumed but Rarely Documented: Women’s Entrepreneurial Activities in Late Nineteenth Century Australia. The History Cooperative Conference Proceedings, Australian Society for the Study of Labour History. Online: http://www.historycooperative.org/proceedings/asslh/ strachan.html (accessed June 4, 2009). Swain, Shurlee 2002 In These Days of Female Evangelists and Hallelujah Lasses: Women Preachers and the Redenition of Gender Roles in the Churches in Late Nineteenth-Century Australia. Journal of Religious History 26(1): 65- 77. doi:10.1111/1467-9809.00142. Thompson, Edward P. 1968 The Making of the English Working Class. Vintage, New York. Thorsen, Don 2005 The Wesleyan Quadrilateral: Scripture, Tradition, Reason, & Experience as a Model of Evangelical Theology. Emeth Press, Lexington, KY. Tomkins, Stephen 2003 John Wesley: A Biography. Eerdmans, Grand Rapids. Van den Abbeele, Georges 1992 Travel as Metaphor: From Montaigne to Rousseau. University of Minnesota Press, Minneapolis. Ward, Roland S. 1989 The Bush Still Burns: The Presbyterian and Reformed Faith in Australia 1788–1988. Presbyterian Church of Eastern Australia, St Kilda, VIC. Wood, A. Skevington 2007 The Burning Heart: John Wesley, Evangelist. Emeth Press, Lexington, KY. Wright, Don, and Eric G. Clancy 1993 The Methodists: A History of Methodism in New South Wales. Allen & Unwin, Sydney.