Articoli di riviste sul tema "Church of England. Diocese of New Zealand"

It is a peculiarity of the European continent that there are four independent Anglican jurisdictions side by side: the Church of England with its Diocese in Europe, The Episcopal Church, based in the United States of America, with its Convocation of Episcopal Churches in Europe, and the Lusitanian and Spanish Reformed Episcopal Churches which are extra-provincial dioceses in the Anglican Communion. Alongside these, there are the Old Catholic Churches of the Union of Utrecht, with dioceses in the Netherlands, Germany, Austria and Switzerland. All of them are in full communion with each other, but they lack a comprehensive jurisdictional structure; consequently, there are cities where two or three bishops exercise jurisdiction canonically totally separately.

AbstractEven though the church law of the Anglican Church in New Zealand is based upon the consensus of the members of the Church, the laws of the State also have an important part to play. In particular, not only is the Church, as a juridical body, subject to the law of the land, it has also relied upon the State for the enactment of certain laws. This has been necessitated by the evolution of the Church in New Zealand, and is also a legacy of the pre-colonial Church of England. This is also affected by the lack of an indigenous method or style of approach in the exposition of ecclesiastical law.

This article examines the mindset and episcopal policy of George Ridding, first bishop of the new diocese of Southwell from 1884 until his death in 1904. Ridding's intellectual formation was rooted in Liberal Anglicanism, and is analysed here through his ‘Broad Church’ understanding of the Church of England as a comprehensive national Church. His commitment to this ideal is demonstrated through his episcopal charges and speeches, and through elements of the policy of diocesan management that he adopted. A brief evaluation of this policy identifies limitations, as well as continuity with the earlier movement of diocesan reform.

Abstract This article reports the findings of a practical Theological Action Research project in a Church of England diocese in the UK, using photo elicitation. This image-based approach resulted in findings that echoed existing diocesan strategies, but also highlighted other issues that may otherwise have remained implicit, specifically the mode of mission and concerns regarding growth and survival. The visual data itself is analysed, revealing that the images do not always function as direct signifiers, but instead were generating creative, intuited responses. From the data, four mirrors were developed to reflect back to the groups their responses. This approach enabled local strategies to emerge from within espoused theologies, but also to make explicit their coherence or departure from the normative missiologies of the diocese. Finally, the authors suggest that the exposure of church leaders within training to qualitative research methodologies is releasing a new kind of leadership to emerge.

Drawing on 16 months of ethnographic fieldwork with young, Anglican social justice activists in Aotearoa New Zealand, this article engages with Romand Coles’s theory of receptive generosity, and the theme of the western church as marginal, to explore why a particular Anglican Diocese was attracting new, millennial aged members, most of whom did not grow up Anglican. I consider how spaces of generous reciprocity were formed and enabled through living in intentional communities (ICs) and being able to engage with pluralistic ‘broad table’ spaces of discussion and dissent. These factors were part of what drew the research participants to this Diocese and to Anglicanism in general, as well as enhancing their social justice activism. My research shows the importance of intentionally making spaces of belonging for millennials and Gen Z aged people in a faith community, rather that hoping the status quo of the past will suffice.

In December 1994 the Revd Philip LS Barrett BD MA FRHistS FSA, Rector of Compton and Otterbourne in the Diocese of Winchester, successfully submitted a dissertation to the University of Wales College of Cardiff for the degree of LLM in Canon Law, entitled ‘Episcopal Visitation of Cathedrals in the Church of England’. Philip Barrett, best known for his magisterial study, Barchester: English Cathedral Life in the Nineteenth Century (SPCK1993), died in 1998. The subject matter of this dissertation is of enduring importance and interest to those engaged in the life and work of cathedrals, and the Editor invited Canon Peter Atkinson, Chancellor of Chichester Cathedral, to repare it for publication in this Journal, so that the author's work might receive a wider circulation, but at a manageable length. In 1999 a new Cathedrals Measure was enacted, following upon the recommendations of the Howe Commission, published in the report Heritage and Renewal (Church House Publishing 1994). The author was able to refer to the report, but not to the Measure, or to the revision of each set of cathedral Statutes consequent upon that Measure. While this limits the usefulness of the author's work as a point of reference for the present law of cathedral visitations, its value as an historical introduction remains.

The creation in North America of the first overseas diocese of the Church of England was undoubtedly one of the most remarkable and unlikely of the changes in British colonial policy which resulted from the American Revolution. Before the war, the Anglican campaign for the appointment of colonial bishops had been a major reason for the colonial fear of British tyranny; many Americans, particularly Nonconformists, vigorously protested against a scheme which they saw as a bid to recreate a Laudian ecclesiastical tyranny. But the post-war colonial policy envisaged the colonial bishop as a focus of political stability and loyalty. The new prestige and political responsibility accorded by the government to the Church was equally remarkable in view of the government's Erastian suppression of Convocation since 1715 and its politic responsiveness to Dissenting sensibilities. Despite occasional outbreaks of clerical frustration at the Church's inability to act independently, the Church of England had been unable to escape this political domination. This paper will attempt to explain why, given the government's prior hostility to the design, ministries in the 1780s should have decided to extend the church hierarchy to the colonies.

In April 2014, a new Church of England diocese was instituted, combining three smaller dioceses covering a large area of Yorkshire. To mark the development of this new ‘mega-diocese’, a group of motorcycling vicars began to meet regularly and undertake ‘rides out’ across the diocese and further afield. This paper explores research undertaken with these motorbiking priests and their companions. The study followed an ethnographic approach, as the researcher is an ordained clergyperson embedded within the ‘Biker Revs’ community, though not a biker. The research comprised semi-structured interviews and informal conversations with the Biker Revs over several years. This research investigates the Biker Revs’ experiences and motivations for undertaking pilgrimages together, by motorbike. On these performative journeys, the Biker Revs initially visited sacred sites across the United Kingdom. As a basis for comparison, this paper utilizes Michalowski and Dubisch’s 2001 iconic ethnographic research on an American motorcycle pilgrimage, to analyze the group’s activities. The ordained bikers identified the group as a safe space for clergy, outside their parishes, whilst their spouses recognized the benefits of spending time with ‘others like me who understand the pressures of clergy life’. For some participants these pilgrimages provide a religious retreat, as together, they explore sacred landscapes and learn the stories of their holy destinations.

Cathedrals are usually thought to have had little role in the English Reformation and the reasons for their very survival in the new Church of England have been questioned. Instead of being an irrelevant and closed-off institution, Durham Cathedral was intellectually close to its Reformation-era bishop, the conservative Cuthbert Tunstall, and was involved in diocesan matters throughout his episcopate. Tunstall's evangelical successors also appreciated its potential for reform and the need to use its staff and resources. Cathedrals thus could be a tool to be used in the reformation of the diocese on both sides of the emerging confessional divide.

Abstract Taking the life of Sarah Selwyn (1809-1907), wife of the first Anglican bishop to New Zealand, the article plots the dynamics of geographic movement and varying communities of connection through which the mid-19thC imperial world was constituted. Negotiating empire and religion, mission and church, high church and evangelical, European and indigenous Maori and Melanesian, Sarah’s life illuminates the intricate networks underpinning – and at times undermining – colonial governance and religious authority. Sarah embarked for New Zealand in late 1841 at a high point of English mission and humanitarian idealism, arriving into a hierarchical and substantially Christianised majority Maori society. By the time she departed, in 1868, the colonial church and society, now European-dominated, had largely taken a position of support for a settler-led government taking up arms against “rebellious” Maori in a battle for sovereignty. In later life Sarah Selwyn became a reluctant narrator of her earlier “colonial” life while witnessing the emergence of a more secular empire from the close of Lichfield cathedral. The personal networks of empire are traced within wider metropolitan and colonial communities, the shifting ground from the idealistic 1840s to the more punitive later 19thC. The discussion traces the larger contexts through which a life was marked by the shifting ambiguities of what it was to be Christian in the colonial world: an agent of empire at the same time as a fierce critic of imperial policy, an upper class high church believer in the midst of evangelical missionaries, someone for whom life in New Zealand was both a profound disjuncture and a defining narrative.

AbstractThe article surveys liturgical developments in the Anglican Church of Southern Africa from 1908 to 2010. The author uses numerous source documents from several Anglican archives to analyse the experimental and fully authorized liturgies, detailing the theological and sociological shifts which underpinned any significant changes. The author includes several sources which, until this point, have not been considered; particularly in relation to the reception of newer liturgies. These include letters, interviews and newspaper articles. Influences from the Roman Catholic Church, the Church of South India, the Church of England, the Episcopal Church in the USA and the Church of New Zealand all contributed to the authorized rites in the local church. Furthermore, the article shows that local, traditionally disenfranchised voices are now beginning to be included with liturgical transformation.

Introduction. The article is devoted to the consideration of the role of the metropolitan Anthony Bloom of Sourozh in the development of relations between the Russian Orthodox Church and the Church of England. The personality of the metropolitan Anthony is connected with the formation of the Surozh diocese of the Russian Orthodox Church. In addition, Father Anthony assisted in the functioning of the Commonwealth of Saint Albania and Reverend Sergius, an Orthodox Anglican organization. The organization began its work in 1928. In this organization, Father Antony Bloom began his service in England in the role of spiritual director. Materials and Methods. Important sources for this article were the writings of Antony Bloom himself, where he describes the pages of his biography, tells about his work in England. In addition, information from publicist literature was also used. An important source was information from the website of the Foundation for the Spiritual Heritage of the Metropolitan Anthony Surozhsky. It contains memoirs of contemporaries and Bloom's own articles. It is also important to note the works of N.M. Zernov, a Russian emigrant, one of the initiators of the Commonwealth of St Albans and Reverend Sergius. N.M. Zernov invited Fr Anthony to England to conduct the work of the Commonwealth. N.M. Zernov together with his wife in the journal "Sobornost" left a series of his memoirs about the activities of the organization. In these memoirs there is a reference to the role of Antony Bloom in the development of relations between the Russian Orthodox Church and the Church of England in the 20th century. Results. The author concludes that Father Anthony Bloom conducted active missionary work among English society. This allowed to increase the number of Orthodox believers in England. During the period of Antony Bloom's ministry, new parishes of the Russian Orthodox Church were opened in Great Britain. Father Anthony assisted in the activities of the Commonwealth of St Albans and Reverend Sergius. Conclusion. In the twentieth century there were a number of events that affected the decline in co-operation between the ROC and the Church of England. However, thanks to individual representatives of the Russian emigration, the relationship between the ROC and the Church of England not only survived, but continued to develop with greater vigour. To a greater extent this result is due to the personality of Metropolitan Anthony Surozhsky Bloom. He conducted work with believers and was engaged in explaining the fundamentals of the Orthodox faith on radio and television. This great work contributed to the development of dialogue between the Orthodox and Anglicans. Anthony Bloom was a participant in important events in the history of the dialogue between Orthodox and Anglicans in the second half of the 20th century.

In the early years of the twenty-first century, ecclesiastical discipline in an Anglican context has been very much a hot topic. Internationally, there has been intense debate over the decision by the Episcopal Church in the United States of America to ordain Gene Robinson, a continent yet avowedly homosexual priest, as one of its bishops, and over the decision of the diocese of New Westminster in Canada to authorize liturgical services of blessing for same-sex couples. The Windsor Report of 2004 was commissioned in order to formulate a Communion-wide response to these developments,1 and although ‘discipline’ is a word which is very seldom in its pages, it is, in effect, a study of the disciplinary framework which its authors believe necessary in order for the Anglican Communion to hold together. At a local level, the Church of England’s clerical discipline procedures are being thoroughly overhauled, following the General Synod of the Church of England’s 1996 report on clergy discipline and the ecclesiastical courts. This paper seeks to explore the themes of discipline and diversity in both an international and an English context. It attempts to shed a little more light on how the Anglican Communion, particularly in the former British Empire, got itself into its current position, as a loosely-federated assembly of provincial synods, without a central framework for handling disciplinary matters. Secondly, it examines how the Church of England has handled discipline in relation to its clergy since the mid-nineteenth century.

AbstractThis article identifies and compares two ecclesiological ‘streams’ that coalesced when the Anglican Communion was definitively formed in 1867: the traditional western catholic ecclesiology of England and Ireland and the more democratic, egalitarian ecclesiology of the American Episcopal Church. These streams had already mingled in George Augustus Selwyn’s constitution for the New Zealand Church. Incorporation of laypeople into the Church of England’s synods represented further convergence. Nonetheless, different understandings of the role of bishops in church government are still reflected in attitudes to the respective roles in the Communion’s affairs of bishops and primates on the one hand and the more recent Anglican Consultative Council on the other. Differences between the two streams were noticeable at the 1867 Lambeth Conference. The efforts of Archbishops Davidson and Fisher, rooted in the work of Selwyn, to hold together what Selwyn called ‘the two branches of our beloved Church’ are praised.

In December 1916 David Goldstein, Catholic convert and former Jewish socialist cigarmaker, approached Boston's Cardinal William Henry O'Connell with a novel plan. Goldstein wanted to deliver lectures on Catholicism from a custom-built Model-T Ford on Boston Common. A little over a year later, across the Atlantic, Vernon Redwood, a transplanted tenor from New Zealand, asked Francis Cardinal Bourne of Westminster for permission to speak on behalf of the church in Hyde Park. Both Goldstein and Redwood received episcopal approval and Boston's Catholic Truth Guild and London's Catholic Evidence Guild were born. The emergence of these two movements marked a new epoch in the history of the Roman Catholic laity in the English-speaking world. The fact that the lay evangelist appeared on the scene during the First World War and in the aftermath of the Vatican condemnations of Americanism (1899) and Modernism (1907), actions generally assumed to have dampened the spirit of individual initiative in the church, renders them all the more illuminating to scholars of modern Catholicism. Goldstein and Redwood both exemplified and encouraged the new assertiveness which began to characterize a growing number of the American and English laity by the First World War. They call our attention to a significant shift in the self-identity of the lay population which came to fruition during the period between the World Wars, a shift which prompted even tenors and cigarmakers to mount the public pulpit.

In his popular Romance of London (1867), John Timbs refers to Thomas Babington Macaulay's oft-repeated metaphor of a “New Zealander sitting, like a hundredth-century Marius, on the mouldering arches of London Bridge, contemplating the colossal ruins of St Paul's” (290). Originally intended as an illustration of the vigor and durability of the Roman Catholic Church despite the triumph of the Reformation, Macaulay's most famous evocation of this idea dates from 1840, the year of New Zealand's annexation; hence it is reasonable to suppose that this figure is a Maori (Bellich 297–98). For Timbs and subsequent generations, however, the image conveyed the sobering idea of the rise and fall of civilizations and in particular of England being invaded and overrun, if not by a horde of savages, then by a more robust class of Anglo-Saxons from the other side of the world.

‘From some modern perspectives’, wrote James Belich, a leading historian of New Zealand, in 1996, ‘the evangelicals are hard to like. They dressed like crows; seemed joyless, humourless and sometimes hypocritical; [and] they embalmed the evidence poor historians need to read in tedious preaching’. Similar views have often been expressed in the historiography of Evangelical Protestantism, the subject of this essay. It will cover such disapproving appraisals of the Evangelical past, but because a high proportion of the writing about the movement was by insiders it will have more to say about studies by Evangelicals of their own history. Evangelicals are taken to be those who have placed particular stress on the value of the Bible, the doctrine of the cross, an experience of conversion and a responsibility for activism. They were to be found in the Church of England and its sister provinces of the Anglican communion, forming an Evangelical party that rivalled the high church and broad church tendencies, and also in the denominations that stemmed from Nonconformity in England and Wales, as well as in the Protestant churches of Scotland. Evangelicals were strong, often overwhelmingly so, within Methodism and Congregationalism and among the Baptists and the Presbyterians. Some bodies that arose later on, including the (so-called Plymouth) Brethren, the Churches of Christ and the Pentecostals (the last two primarily American in origin), joined the Evangelical coalition.

For several decades now, Anglican churches around the world have been struggling with serious conflicts about gender relationships. Internal troubles have been most apparent in the United States, Canada, England, Scotland, and more recently in Aotearoa New Zealand. These conflicts between churches have occupied the attention of the institutions of the Anglican Communion, usually in terms of establishing some framework of unity between the churches. In this context, I wish to suggest a different way of approaching these issues. I want to draw on a renewed sense of catholicity in the church and of the eschatological framework in which all Christians are called to live. In the process, I hope to offer a picture of what might be a vocation for the Anglican Communion, specifically its institutions, that will better honor the narrative tradition of Anglicanism and provide a more effective way into engaging with the problems of our times.

Medieval Church Barns in DenmarkThe subject of this article is medieval church barns within the area of present-day Denmark. A church barn (or tithe barn) is a building erected near a parish church and used for storing the crops that local peasants paid as tithes or taxes to the church. Constructed as functional buildings for the church, these barns have both a clerical and a secular context. In 1912 M. Mackeprang gave an account of relevant written sources and made a provisional list of barns preserved at that time. In this work the list has been revised to describe the present day situation and it is established that there are 31 church barns preserved today. There are a few additional buildings of which the original function is uncertain that could be added to this list (fig. 1). Since Mackeprang’s article no total account of Danish church barns has been compiled, and relevant information therefore had to be sought from various sources. The most important written sources for medieval and post-medieval times are the letters from the Chancellery (Kancelliets brevbøger) and church laws from the early Protestant period. Although these documents are not medieval, in this article they are used to give a probable picture of the condition of the medieval church barns. Another important source is the notebook that the Funen bishop Jacob Madsen made during his visitation of every parish in his diocese in the late 16th century. The bishop often mentions the condition of church barns and sometime adds some more information. His work is very reliable and gives an idea of the status of the Funen church barns approximately 50 years after the Reformation.All of the preserved barns are situated in the churchyard of the church to which they belong. Some are built at the periphery of the churchyard so that one of the walls forms part of the churchyard wall. Some church barns are free-standing within the churchyard (fig. 2), while a few are built as an extension of the actual church. This is the case of the preserved church barn in Voldum (fig. 3) and also of the now lost barn in Brønshøj. Jacob Madsen’s notes tell us that if the church was situated far from the village the church barn could be placed centrally in the village instead. All of the preserved church barns are made of stone. On Zealand they are mainly built of bricks but on the southern part of the island local limestone is also used to a great extent. (fig. 11). On Funen barns are built with both bricks and granite boulders (fig. 4). The few preserved barns in Jutland have plinths of granite boulders while the walls are built of brick. The fact that church barns are brick-built is surprising because secular barns in medieval Denmark were always wooden constructions. Perhaps many of the lost church barns were timbered or half-timbered buildings. This was certainly the case of some of the Funen barns which Jacob Madsen described. This can also be deduced from a document from the year 1573 in which a special licence was given to tear down all church barns in the Århus diocese that were not brick-built. This suggests that the remaining brick-built church barns may not be representative of the majority of the medieval barns.Judging from the remaining barns and reliable measurements from ruined barns the dimensions of these buildings are typically 14-16 m x 7-9 m. The biggest barn is that in Tranebjerg on the island of Samsø (21.5 m x 9 m) while the barn in Mogenstrup, no longer in existence, was only 8.5 m by 4.23 m. Thus the dimensions of the medieval barns seem to have varied greatly. Some of the existing barns have been reduced (Melby, fig. 10) or expanded (Mesinge, fig. 5) in size. It is difficult to determine what was used for roofing the medieval barns. It is unlikely, however, that a barn with a stepped gable would also have a thatched roof, since such a roof would not fit tight against the gable but would have to overlap the top of it. The decorated gables of some of the barns are described in detail because these decorations can be used to date the barns (figs. 10-12). Caution has to be exercised, however, since these gables have often been restored freely, as for example in Strø (figs. 6 & 7). The church barn in Skårup has also been restored, but the reconstructed form of the gables is based on traces in the brickwork (figs. 8 & 9). In general the decorated gables of church barns seem to adopt local types of decoration that are also used in the churches. An example is the lost church barn in Ejby (fig. 20). It is not known whether church barns have existed in Denmark since the tithe regulations were introduced in the 12th century or if they are solely a late medieval phenomenon. Palle Lauring argues that Finderup Barn, in which King Erik Klipping was killed in 1289, was the village church barn. If this is true this would be the earliest mention of a Danish church barn. In Hjallese, Funen, remains of foundations have been interpreted as a church barn. This building is dated by two coins from the reign of Christoffer II (1320-1326). If this is correct it would be the oldest archaeologically dated church barn in Denmark. All of the preserved church barns are much later. These buildings date from 1450-1550, to judge from the decorated gables. The barn in Øster Egesborg is the only one to have been dendrochronologically dated. The trees used for its rafters were felled in approximately 1485-90. Even though church barns generally seem to be a medieval phenomenon it is apparent from written sources that church barns were also built in the second half of the 16th century and even as late as the beginning of the 17th century. However, in the attempt to make an account of the distribution of church barns in medieval Denmark it is often impossible to differentiate between barns built before 1536 and those built after. All references to church barns that could be found were therefore included for the purposes of the map (fig. 13). The main source of information about lost church barns on Zealand is Danmarks kirker, a series of descriptions of the Danish churches which now covers all of Zealand. Jacob Madsen is the main source for Funen , while information about church barns in Jutland is much more scarce and diffusely spread. The map of Jutland may not at the moment, therefore, give as true a picture of the medieval situation as the maps of Zealand and Funen. It is often claimed that church barns were a phenomenon concentrated in the eastern parts of Denmark (Zealand, Funen and Eastern Jutland) and generally this work supports this assumption. However, there have been church barns even in the northwest part of Jutland. On the other hand only one church barn is mentioned in the sources for the southern part of Jutland. In a church law from 1537 it is said that in every parish peasants should bring their crops to the church barns, but as the above shows there might not have been a church barn in every parish throughout the country. Possible explanations for the relatively few church barns in Jutland will be given later.Church barns also existed in the boroughs (fig. 15). The function of these buildings was to house the crops that came from the town’s fields, which were cultivated by the citizens. Furthermore the churches in the boroughs could function as parish churches for peasants in nearby villages.In theory tithe should be paid on all agricultural products, but in Denmark the crop tithe was by far the most important. In other European countries the tithe was divided into four portions: the vicar’s tithe, the bishop’s tithe, the tithe to keep the church well-maintained and equipped (the so-called fabrica), and finally one fourth of the tithe was given to the poor. In Denmark the tithe was only divided into three portions – leaving nothing to the poor. Even inside the Danish kingdom the practice of tithe varied greatly. A bishop’s tithe was introduced on Zealand, in Scania and in Slesvig in the late 12th century, but in the rest of Jutland and on Funen the bishop was paid a fixed amount of money (the “bishop’s gift”) that would often be much less than a third of the tithe. The dislike of the bishop’s tithe could among other things stem from the fact that this tithe should in theory be transported to the bishop’s town, which could be very far from the village. When the bishop’s tithe was introduced by law on Zealand is it said in the letter of the law that the tithe should only be brought to a place within the parish – probably to ease the acceptance of this new tax. Only in 1443 was the bishop’s tithe introduced in Jutland and on Funen, and it was much disliked. Which of the three parts of the tithe was stored in the church barns? In King Christian III’s church law from 1536 it is mentioned that the tithe should be brought to the church barn and then divided in three. On the other hand it is reasonable to assume that the vicar’s third of the tithe was brought directly to the vicarage, which was situated within the parish. One source indirectly points at this fact. In 1536 it is said that the peasants should be given two barrels of beer on the day they bring the tithe – and it is then added that this beer should not be consumed at the vicarage, as had often happened before. Maybe this is the reason a late 16th century barn beside the vicarage of Nimtofte in Eastern Jutland is called the church barn. So, did the church barns house the bishop’s tithe, the fabrica or both? As a result of the Reformation in 1536 the church’s property was confiscated by the king. The king now became head of the church and the bishop’s tithe was now called the king’s tithe. Apparently in the first years after the Reformation this change was only in name and therefore the practices concerning the king’s tithe in the early Protestant period probably reflect how the bishop’s tithe was handled in the late medieval period. In 1546 it is said in a letter from the Chancellery that the vicar and the churchwarden were responsible for hiring two men to thresh the tithe and then divide it into two parts: the fabrica and the king’s tithe (fig. 17). In a letter from 1542 it is said that the Scanian peasants were to bring one third of the tithe (the king’s tithe) to the church barn. In the Middle Ages the churchwardens were responsible for the fabrica and probably also for the church barns. The church barn in Vedtofte, Funen, was built by the churchwardens in 1554 using the fabrica. Jacob Madsen suggested in 1589 that the church barn in Turup, Funen, could be used as a house for the vicar, but the churchwarden had the final word, which was no. It is thus plausible that the fabrica was stored in the church barns, but of course this crop might also have been brought to the farm of one of the churchwardens who lived in the parish. It is most likely that the bishop’s tithe was stored in the church barn until it could be picked up by the bishop’s men. Some twenty years after the Reformation new rules were introduced that the peasants were to bring the king’s tithe (formerly the bishop’s tithe) to the respective castles and not just to the churchyard as previously. In 1577 a general law for Zealand was made that the peasants should bring the tithe in sheaves to whoever owned it. It was no longer enough to bring it to the churchyard.The conclusion is that the vicar’s tithe was probably brought to the vicarage, the fabrica could be stored in the church barn or at the churchwarden’s house and the bishop’s tithe was most likely always stored in the church barn.A few of the largest church barns may have been drive-through buildings, meaning that wagons entered through a gate in one end of the building, the sheaves were unloaded inside the building, and the wagon left via a gate at the opposite end of the building. The church barn in Kalundborg (fig. 18) and possibly also that in Tranebjerg had this function. In the smaller barns the sheaves were simply carried into the barn (fig. 16) or passed in through a hole in the wall. The interiors of the barns have been radically changed everywhere but some have been archaeologically examined. The church barn in Flemløse had been divided into three rooms, one of which seems to have had a cellar. The finding of charcoal in Skårup church barn suggests that the building was also used for purposes other than storage. In Skårup there were also remains of a hard clay floor that would have been ideal for threshing. Since we know nothing about church barns until the last century of the Middle Ages it has been claimed that originally the church lofts were used to store the crops. When vaults were introduced in many parish churches in late medieval times, leaving no storage room in the lofts, it became necessary to build church barns. This could explain the few church barns in Jutland since many churches in that part of the country never had vaults built on. From post-medieval times we know that in several churches in Southern and Northern Jutland the lofts were used for storing crops. In Egen church a winch used for this purpose still exists and one can suppose that this also reflects the medieval practice (fig. 19). However, this poses the question of where the threshing would then have taken place, because it seems that the tithe was normally handed over in sheaves and not in the form of grain. Furthermore there does not seem to be a clear connection between vaults and church barns. All of the vault-less churches mentioned by Jacob Madsen also had church barns. Probably the church barns must be considered as part of the massive construction works that were undertaken in connection with the Danish churches in the last 150 years of the Middle Ages. Vaults, towers, porches, etc. were built. This building activity was most intensive in the eastern part of the country, while the western part of Jutland tended to follow at a much slower pace, and in the year 1536 the Reformation put an abrupt end to it all. Another reason for the lack of church barns in many parts of Jutland could be that they were wooden constructions. Most of the church barns we know about are mentioned in the sources when they are torn down and the bricks or boulders sold. Wooden constructions are less valuable in this sense and might be underrepresented in the written sources for this reason.Immediately after the Reformation the use of the church barns probably did not change dramatically. But in the late 16th century more church barns fell out of use. This was encouraged by law in 1643. As more and more churches became private property the landlord owned both church buildings and tithe. For the church owner it was more convenient to have the tithe brought directly to his own barn and as the church barns lost their original function the materials of which they were built could be used for restoring the churches – another matter for which the church owner was responsible. Many church barns were lost on this account in the 1660s. The few church barns that remain today survived because they were used for a new purpose soon after the Reformation. In the boroughs they were often used as schools (fig. 14) and in the country parishes they could be converted into workhouses for poor people (fig. 21). The church barns have not drawn as much attention to themselves as an object of research as have the medieval churches, but they are a unique group of medieval buildings and together with the churches they form a unity that dates back almost 500 years. Mikael Manøe BjerregaardAfdeling for MiddelalderarkæologiAarhus UniversitetMoesgård

The study of ancient Greek and Latin in Australia and New Zealand, especially at Sydney Church of England Grammar School in New South Wales, produced this century a number of leading scholars who made a major contribution to the study of Old World archaeology in Europe and Australia this century. Among them were V. G. Childe, T. J. Dunbabin, J. R. Stewart and A. D. Trendall. In developing their respective fields of expertise, all spent some time in Greece, as students, excavators, research workers and soldiers, and had formative links with the British School at Athens. Australia's debt to the Classics is reflected not only in the life-long attachment to their legacy, and to Greece, by the former Prime Minister, the Hon. E. G. Whitlam, but in the perpetuation of their influence in such Colonial and modern structures as the monument of Lysicrates in Sydney's Botanic Gardens and the National Library and new Parliament House in Canberra, and in an official poster illustrating multiculturalism in Australia. Despite their role in shaping Australia's European history, the teaching of Classics is under threat as never before, and the late Enoch Powell, at one time Professor of Ancient Greek at the University of Sydney, has stigmatised the obscurantism which threatens to impoverish if not undermine Western civilisation by closing access to knowledge of our Classical past.

T. T. Reed’s pioneering book on the lives of Anglican clergymen in South Australia is still an important guide to the contribution made by these men to the expansion of educational opportunities for children. However, the development of Trove by the National Library of Australia has provided new ways of tracing the educational activities of Anglican clergymen in Australia. Researchers have frequently acknowledged the importance of the roles played by Protestant ministers of religion in the expansion of primary and secondary education during the nineteenth century. Much of the focus of this research work in religious history and educational history has been linked to the contribution of Protestant clergymen in educational administrations, either through leadership roles as headmasters or through participation in activities established by school boards or councils. Numerous Protestant ministers of religion developed high profile roles during the early growth of non-government as well as government-supported primary and secondary schools in colonial South Australia. This article will emphasise the ways that information searches using Trove can highlight forgotten aspects of educational activities undertaken by clergymen. It will focus on the activities of three ministers from the Church of England who combined their parish duties in the Diocese of Adelaide with attempts to run schools funded by private fees. Their willingness to undertake teaching work in this way thrust them into the secular world of an emerging Australian education market, where promotional activity through continuous newspaper advertising was part of the evolution of early models of educational entrepreneurship. These clergymen faced considerable competition from private venture schools as well as government-supported schools in the colonial capital. This article will also highlight gender issues associated with their promotional activities, as each minister used different definitions of gender in order to build supportive social networks for their schools and attract attention to their teaching activities.

The Variety of Culture is the current city branding concept for Semarang City. It depicts the various cultures and ethnicities that live together in Semarang. However, this city branding is considered insufficient to meet the tourism target. This research aims to develop a new branding for Semarang as a Cinematic City. This concept is derived from the success of several cities which famous as shooting locations, for example Oxford in England, Seoul in South Korea, and New Zealand as the filming sites of The Lord of the Rings. The main aim of this research is to map out the potential locations for Semarang’s new branding as a Cinematic City. This research is conducted for three popular movies: Gie, Ayat-Ayat Cinta and Soekarno which those movies used Semarang City as the major filming sites. The result found there are three separated areas in Semarang that can be built as the main points of the city branding. Specifically located in the Old Town District there are Srigunting Park, State Financial Building, Cockfighting site, Berok Bridge, Blenduk Church, Jakarta Lloyd Building, and Berok River. In total, there are nine locations that can be developed as a tourism hub which served as a brand attributes of the effort to construct a Semarang as a Cinematic City. In conclusion, some areas have the potential to be developed into the object of city branding Semarang those are Kota LamaDistrict, Imam Bardjo Auditorium University of Diponegoro and Lawang Sewu Building.

Landing at Te Whanganui a Tara in 1840, New Zealand Company settlers lost no time to construct the "England of the South" using familiar building materials of brick, stone, clay and mortar. Within months of settling at Pito-one (Petone), the newly arrived people not only experienced earthquakes, but also flooding of Te Awa kai Rangi (Hutt River). Consequently, the original plan to build the City of Britannia at Pito-one was transferred to Lambton Harbour at Pipitea and Te Aro. The construction of Wellington was severely disrupted by the first visitation occurring on 16 October 1848 when the Awatere fault ruptured releasing an earthquake of Mw 7.8. The earthquake sequence, lasting until October 1849, damaged nearly all masonry buildings in Wellington, including newly constructed Paremata Barracks. This event was soon followed by the 2nd visitation of 23 January 1855. This time it was a rupture of the Wairarapa fault and a huge 8.2 Mw earthquake lasting until 10 October 1855. Perceptions of buildings as "permanent" symbols of progress and English heritage were fundamentally challenged as a result of the earthquakes. Instead, the settlers looked to the survivors – small timber-framed buildings as markers of security and continued occupation. A small number of survivors will be explored in detail – Taylor-Stace Cottage, Porirua, and Homewood, Karori, both buildings of 1847 and both still in existence today. Also the ruins of Paremata Barracks as the only remnant of a masonry structure pre-dating 1848 in the Wellington region. There are also a few survivors of 1855 earthquake including Christ Church, Taita (1854) and St Joseph's Providence Porch, St Mary's College, Thorndon (1852). There are also the post-1855 timber-framed legacies of Old St Paul's Cathedral (1866), Government Buildings (1876) and St Peter's Church (1879). Improved knowledge about the historical evolution of perceptions of heritage in Wellington as a result of past earthquake visitations can help inform public education about heritage values, how to build today and strengthen existing buildings in readiness for future earthquake visitations.

How the Grundtvig Society was foundedA paper read by Henning Høirup to the Annual Conference of the GS on 15th January 1988This paper was given close to the fortieth anniversary of the date when the GS made itself known to the public with a press notice announcing its foundation at a meeting, held at Vartov on 13th January 1948 when the Society was formally constituted. The notice includes the names of the fifteen founder members. The reason why the GS has nevertheless insisted on 8th September 1947 as the date of its foundation is given by Bishop Høirup in this paper. The latter date is the correct one, and the place where the GS was founded is the episcopal residence at Ribe, but the six founders (who had come together at a meeting of Grundtvig scholars) agreed to widen the circle so as to include nine co-founders who were present at the meeting on 13th January 1948.Concurring with Albeck Høirup maintains that the renewed interest in Grundtvig began in the Thirties when the literary historian Georg Christensen had completed Svend Grundtvig’s edition of his father’s Poetiske Skrifter, which had come to a standstill after the Editor’s death in 1889. Approximately at the same time the Haandbog i N. F. S. Grundtvig’s Skrifier by Ernst J. Borup and Fr. Schrøder was published. It was also the time of appearance of Edvard Lehmann’s book on Grundtvig in Swedish with a Danish version following later on. All this occured about ten years earlier than the so-called Grundtvig Renaissance launched by Hal Kochs university lectures on Grundtvig in 1940.However, to Høirup the most important event in the Thirties was the appearance of the eleventh edition of the song-book of the folk high school with the scores for tunes by Carl Nielsen, Thomas Laub and Thorvald Aagaard, which gave new life to Grundtvig’s songs and hymns. Høirup’s pastor colleague of the adjacent parish in Funen, Kaj Thaning at Asperup, had started a card index on main concepts in Grundtvig’s work, and the two clerics got permission to take out Grundtvig mss. on loan pledging that they would keep the invaluable fascicles in the fire-proof safes of their vicarages. Bishop Hans .llgaard of Odense supported research on Grundtvig’s theology as when he convened a working synod of his diocese in 1946, where both Thaning and H.irup presented results of the research projects that led to their doctoral dissertations. At the Royal Library in Copenhagen Høirup met other Grundtvig scholars, Steen Johansen, William Michelsen and Helge Toldberg. In September 1947 those three and Høirup came to Ribe to meet Bishop C. I. Scharling and Villiam Grønbæk, the Diocesan Dean, both known as “High Church” men. But all misgivings about them were soon laid aside. Scharling was able to present his book on “Grundtvig and Romanticism”, that appeared in the same year. At this meeting the idea to set up a society for the advancement of cooperation in research and in the editing of documentary scholarly editions of Grundtvig’s writings was discussed along with a proposal from Bishop Øllgaard that a future yearbook be called Grundtvig-Studier. On the following day, Grundtvig’s birthday, regulations were drafted, just as it was agreed to widen the circle so as to include Bishop Øllgaard and Professor Poul Andersen and Hal Koch, as well as the literary historians Gustav Albeck, Georg Christensen and Magnus Stevns. Helge Toldberg was appointed Secretary and Høirup himself Editor of Grundtvig-Studier. The meeting at Ribe was not convened with the foundation of the GS as its aim. The resolve tofound it grew out of a feeling of the value that working together would entail. The proposed co-founders were all in favour and were joined by Pastor Balslev of Vartov. At the meeting at Vartov, where the Society was constituted, Bishop Scharling was elected President. When he died in 1951, Ernst J. Borup, the Warden of Vartov, rightly said that thanks to Scharling the Society “had been taken beyond the limitations of the partisan dominance to which it might otherwise have been confined.” The circle of co-founders were further augmented with Kaj Thaning and Holger Kjær, a folk high school teacher. An invitation to membership was issued, and at the first annual conference in 1948 the membership stood at 333. At the conference Magnus Stevns lectured on “The Kingo Hymn and Grundtvig”, though he was already hampered by the disease that was to bring him to his grave shortly afterwards.After some remarks about the activities of the Society over the past forty years Høirup pointed out that new scholars constantly have come forward including undergraduates, as those who wrote most of the chapters in the book “For the Sake of Continuity” (1977), which was published as a double-volume of Grundtvig Studier.The 1988 volume of Grundtvig Studier opens with an obituary on P. G. Lindhardt. He was a professor of ecclesiastical history in the University of Aarhus and a member of the Committee of the GS from 1956. He is the author of a biography of Grundtvig in English and contributed an article “Some Light Thrown on Grundtvig’s Trip to England in 1843” to Kirkehistoriske Samlinger 1972. He made an edition of Grundtvig’s sermons 1854-56 with a commentary (1974-1977). His monumental scholarly work was chiefly concerned with the rise of the revivalist movements in the 19th century. The obituarist is J. H . Schjørring, D.D ., who was elected a member of the Commitee of the GS in 1988.The Grundtvig Manuscript .Fragen aus Dänemark an die Universitäten Deutscher Zunge., an unpublished fragment lodged in the Grundtvig Archives of the Royal Library in Copenhagen (fasc. 168), dates from the period 1816-1820. It contains an appeal to the professors of German universities that they offer themselves to the German princes as intermediaries between these and their subjects in setting up constitutional rules of government after the Vienna Conference 1815-1816. As the situation changed, when the writer August von Kotzebue was murdered on 23. March 1819, the manuscript was probably written shortly before this date.

The Gothic Revival is arguably one of the most important and influential architectural movements before the advent of global culture in the twentieth century. Spreading throughout the British Empire in the nineteenth century, Gothic Revival architecture had the power to influence the culture of Britain’s newest and farthest colonies, particularly New Zealand, a colony that was viewed as a blank slate free for development. It is without surprise that Gothic Revival architecture became a prominent part of the young colony’s landscape in the opening decades of its development. One of the architects primarily responsible for the introduction of the Gothic style to the colony was Benjamin Woolfield Mountfort. His first design for the colony was a small church at the settlement of Hemingford in Canterbury. This modest design not only demonstrates Mountfort’s skill as an architect in his ability to adapt the complex and demanding Gothic style to a wooden church constructed with limited financial and material resources but also his ability to create a church that reflected the emerging cultural identity of the young colony. This paper will argue that, for New Zealand, the Gothic Revival and its adaptation on the islands became a symbolic style that represented the country New Zealand was to become: a younger, better England. It will also argue that Mountfort’s Hemingford Church was the ideal representation of everything the colony wished to achieved, neatly packaged in a humble architectural design.

Abstract In October 2022 the Church of England commissioned an examination of the impact of the debate on same-sex blessing and same-sex marriage within other Anglican Churches. The examination involved a literature search, an original survey among key informers and a general internet search. This paper draws on the general internet search to contrast the impacts in New Zealand and Australia. Drawing on Jungian psychological type theory, this analysis employs the contrasting decision-making functions of feeling (concerned with subjective interpersonal values) and thinking (concerned with objective logical analysis). The data suggest that the feeling approach dominant in New Zealand, which prioritized offering space and time for those of differing opinions to meet together, reported more positive outcomes than the thinking approach dominant in Australia, which gave greater priority to adversarial debate.

The use of the term authenticity in the social science literature can be rather eclectic at best and unscrupulous at worst. (Vanini, 74)We live in an age of authenticity, according to Charles Taylor, an era which prizes the finding of one’s life “against the demands of external conformity” (67–68). Taylor’s argument is that, correctly practiced, authenticity need not result in individualism or tribalism but rather a generation of people “made more self-responsible” (77).Philip Vanini has surveyed the turn toward authenticity in sociology. He has parsed the word authenticity, and argued that it has been used in three ways—factual, original, and sincere. A failure to attend to these distinctives, mixed with a “paucity of systematic empirical research” has resulted in abstract speculation (75). This article responds to Taylor’s analysis and Vanini’s challenge.My argument utilises Vanini’s theoretical frame—authenticity as factual, original, and sincere—to analyse empirical data gathered in the study of recent religious innovation occurring amongst a set of (“alternative worship”) Christian communities in the United Kingdom. I am drawing upon longitudinal research I have conducted, including participant observation in digital forums from 1997 to the present, along with semi-structured interviews conducted in the United Kingdom in 2001 and 2012.A study of “alternative worship” was deemed significant given such communities’s interaction with contemporary culture, including their use of dance music, multi-media, and social media (Baker, Taylor). Such approaches contrast with other contemporary religious approaches to culture, including a fundamentalist retreat from culture or the maintenance of a “high” culture, and thus inherited patterns of religious expression (Roberts).I argue that the discourse of “alternative worship” deploy authenticity-as-originality as essential to their identity creation. This notion of authenticity is used by these communities to locate themselves culturally (as authentically-original in contemporary cultures), and thus simultaneously to define themselves as marginal from mainstream religious expression.Intriguingly, a decade later, “alternative worship” was appropriated by the mainstream. A new organisation—Fresh Expressions—emerged from within the Church of England, and the Methodist Church in Britain that, as it developed, drew on “alternative worship” for legitimation. A focus on authenticity provides a lens by which to pay particular attention to the narratives offered by social organisations in the processes of innovation. How did the discourse deployed by Fresh Expressions in creating innovation engage “alternative worship” as an existing innovation? How did these “alternative worship” groups, who had found generative energy in their location as an alternative—authentically-original—expression, respond to this appropriation by mainstream religious life?A helpful conversation partner in teasing out the complexity of these moves within contemporary religious innovation is Sarah Thornton. She researched trends in dance clubs, and rave music in Britain, during a similar time period. Thornton highlighted the value of authenticity, which she argued was deployed in club cultures to create “subcultural capital” (98-105). She further explored how the discourses around authenticity were appropriated over time through the complex networks within which popular culture flows (Bennett; Collins; Featherstone; McRobbie; Willis).This article will demonstrate that a similar pattern—using authenticity-as-originality to create “subcultural capital”—was at work in “alternative worship.” Further, the notions of authenticity as factual, original, and sincere are helpful in parsing the complex networks that exist within the domains of religious cultures. This analysis will be two-fold, first as the mainstream appropriates, and second as the “alternative” responds.Thornton emerged “post-Birmingham.” She drew on the scholarship associated with the Centre for Contemporary Cultural Studies, glad of their turn toward popular culture. Nevertheless she considered her work to be distinct. Thornton posited the construction of “taste cultures” through distinctions created by those inside a particular set of signs and symbols. She argued for a networked view of society, one that recognised the complex roles of media and commerce in constructing distinctions and sought a more multi-dimensional frame by which to analyse the interplay between mainstream and marginal.In order to structure my investigation, I am suggesting three stages of development capture the priority, yet complexity, of authenticity in contemporary religious innovation: generation, appropriation, complexification.Generation of Authenticity-as-OriginalityThornton (26, italics original) writes:authenticity is arguably the most important value ascribed to popular music … Music is perceived as authentic when it rings true or feels real, when it has credibility and comes across as genuine. In an age of endless representations and global mediation, the experience of musical authenticity is perceived as a cure both for alienation … and dissimulation.Thornton is arguing that in this manifestation of youth culture, authenticity is valued. Further, authenticity is a perception, attached to phrases like “rings true” and “feels real.” Therefore, authenticity is hard to measure. Perhaps this move is deliberate, an attempt by those inside the “taste culture” to preserve their “subcultural capital,”—their particular sets of distinctions.Thornton’s use of authentic slides between authenticity-as-sincerity and authenticity-as-originality. For example, in the above quote, the language of “true” and “real” is a referencing of authenticity-as-sincerity. However, as Thornton analysed the appropriation of club culture by the mainstream, she is drawing, without stating it clearly, on both authenticity-as-sincerity and authenticity-as-originality.At around the time that Thornton was analysing club cultures, a number of Christian religious groups in the United Kingdom began to incorporate features of club culture into their worship services. Churches began to experiment with services beginning at club times (9.00 pm), the playing of dance music, and the use of “video-jockeying.” According to Roberts many of these worshipping communities “had close links to this movement in dance culture” (15).A discourse of authenticity was used to legitimise such innovation. Consider the description of one worship experience, located in Sheffield, England, known as Nine o’Clock Service (Fox 9-10, italics original).We enter a round, darkened room where there are forty-two television sets and twelve large video screens and projections around the walls—projections of dancing DNA, dancing planets and galaxies and atoms … this was a very friendly place for a generation raised on television and images … these people … are doing it themselves and in the center of the city and in the center of their society: at worship itself.This description makes a number of appeals to authenticity. The phrase “a generation raised on television and images” implies another generation not raised in digitally rich environments. A “subcultural” distinction has been created. The phrase “doing it themselves” suggests that this ‘digital generation’ creates something distinct, an authentic expression of their “taste culture.” The celebration of “doing it for themselves” resonates with Charles Taylor’s analysis of an age of authenticity in which self-discovery is connected with artistic creation (62).The Nine o’Clock Service gained nationwide attention, attracting attendances of over 600 young people. Rogerson described it as “a bold and imaginative attempt at contextual theology … people were attracted to it in the first instance for aesthetic and cultural reasons” (51). The priority on the aesthetic and the cultural, in contrast to the doctrinal, suggests a valuing of authenticity-as-originality.Reading Rogerson alongside Taylor teases out a further nuance in regard to the application of authenticity. Rogerson described the Nine o’Clock Service as offering “an alternative way of living in a materialist and acquisitive world” (50). This resonates with Charles Taylor’s argument that authenticity can be practiced in ways that make people “more self-responsible” (77). It suggests that the authenticity-as-originality expressed by the Nine o’Clock Service not only appealed culturally, but also offered an ethic of authenticity. We will return to this later in my argument.Inspired by the Nine o’Clock Service, other groups in the United Kingdom began to offer a similar experience. According to Adrian Riley (6):The Nine O’clock Service … was the first worshipping community to combine elements of club culture with passionate worship … It pioneered what is commonly known as “alternative worship” … Similar groups were established themselves albeit on a smaller scale.The very term “alternative worship” is significant. Sociologist of religion Abby Day argued that “boundary-marking [creates] an identity” (50). Applying Day, the term “alternative” is being used to create an identity in contrast to the existing, mainstream church. The “digitally rich” are indeed “doing it for themselves.” To be “alternative” is to be authentically-original: to be authentically-original means a participant cannot, by definition, be mainstream.Thornton argued that subcultures needed to define themselves against in order to maintain themselves as “hip” (119). This seems to describe the use of the term “alternative.” Ironically, the mainstream is needed, in order to define against, to create identity by being authentically-original (Kelly).Hence the following claim by an “alternative worship” organiser (Interview G, 2001):People were willing to play around and to say, well who knows what will happen if we run this video clip or commercial next to this sixteenth century religious painting and if we play, you know, Black Flag or some weird band underneath it … And what will it feel like? Well let’s try it and see.Note the link with music (Black Flag, an American hard core punk band formed in 1976), so central to Thornton’s understanding of authenticity in popular youth cultures. Note also the similarity between Thornton’s ascribing of value in words like “rings true” and “feels real,” with words like “feel like” and “try and see.” The word “weird” is also significant. It is deployed as a signifier of authenticity, a sign of “subcultural capital.” It positions them as “alternative,” defined in (musical) distinction from the mainstream.In sum, my argument is that authenticity-as-originality is present in “alternative worship”: in the name, in the ethos of “doing it themselves,” and in the deploying of “subcultural capital” in the legitimation of innovation. All of this has been clarified through conversation with Thornton’s empirical research regarding the value of authenticity in club culture. My analysis of “alternative worship” as a religious innovation is consistent with Taylor’s claim that we inhabit an age of authenticity, one that can be practiced by “people who are made more self-responsible” (77).Mainstream AppropriationIn 2004, the Church of England produced Mission Shaped Church (MSC), a report regarding its future. It included a chapter that described recent religious innovation in England, grouped under twelve headings (alternative worship and base ecclesial communities, café, cell, network and seeker church models, multiple and mid week congregations, new forms of traditional churches, school and community-based initiatives, traditional church plants, youth congregations). The first innovation listed is “alternative worship.”The incoming Archbishop, Rowan Williams, drew on MSC to launch a new organisation. Called Fresh Expressions, over five million pounds was provided by the Church of England to fund an organisation to support this religious innovation.Intriguingly, recognition of authenticity in these “alternative” innovations was evident in the institutional discourse being created. When I interviewed Williams, he spoke of his commitment as a Bishop (Interview 6, 2012):I decided to spend a certain amount of quality time with people on the edge. Consequently when I was asked initially what are my priorities [as Archbishop] I said, “Well, this is what I’ve been watching on the edge … I really want to see how that could impact on the Church of England as a whole.In other words, what was marginal, what had until then generated identity by being authentic in contrast to the mainstream, was now being appropriated by the mainstream “to impact on the Church of England as a whole.” MSC was aware of this complexity. “Alternative worship” was described as containing “a strong desire to be different and is most vocal in its repudiation of existing church” (45). Nevertheless, it was appropriated by the mainstream.My argument has been that “alternative worship” drew on a discourse of authenticity-as-originality. Yet when we turn to analyse mainstream appropriation, we find the definitions of authenticity begin to slide. Authenticity-as-originality is affirmed, while authenticity-as-sincerity is introduced. The MSC affirmed the “ways in which the Church of England has sought to engage with the diverse cultures and networks that are part of contemporary life” (80). It made explicit the connection between originality and authenticity. “Some pioneers and leaders have yearned for a more authentic way of living, being, doing church” (80). This can be read as an affirmation of authenticity-as-originality.Yet MSC also introduced authenticity-as-sincerity as a caution to authenticity-as-originality. “Fresh expressions should not be embraced simply because they are popular and new, but because they are a sign of the work of God and of the kingdom” (80). Thus Fresh Expressions introduced authenticity-as-sincerity (sign of the work of God) and placed it alongside authenticity-as-originality. In so doing, in the shift from “alternative worship” to Fresh Expressions, a space is both conflated (twelve expressions of church) and contested (two notions of authenticity). Conflated, because MSC places alternative worship as one innovation alongside eleven others. Contested because of the introduction of authenticity-as-sincerity alongside the affirming of authenticity-as-originality. What is intriguing is to return to Taylor’s argument for the possibility of an ethic of authenticity in which “people are made more self-responsible” (77). Perhaps the response in MSC arises from the concern described by Taylor, the risk in an age of authenticity of a society that is more individualised and tribal (55-6). To put it in distinctly ecclesiological terms, how can the church as one, holy, catholic and apostolic be carried forward if authenticity-as-originality is celebrated at, and by, the margins? Does innovation contribute to more atomised, self-absorbed and fragmented expressions of church?Yet Taylor is adamant that authenticity can be embraced without an inevitable slide in these directions. He argued that humans share a "horizon of significance" in common (52), in which one’s own "identity crucially depends on [one’s] dialogical relations with others" (48). We have already considered Rogerson’s claim that the Nine o’Clock Service offered “an alternative way of living in a materialist and acquisitive world” (50). It embraced a “strong political dimension, and a concern for justice at local and international level” (46). In other words, “alternative worship’s” authenticity-as-originality was surely already an expression of “the kingdom,” one in which “people [were] made more self-responsible” (77) in the sharing of (drawing on Taylor) a "horizon of significance" in the task of identity-formation-in-relationships (52).Yet the placing in MSC of authenticity-as-sincerity alongside authenticity-as-originality could easily have been read by those in “alternative worship” as a failure to recognise their existing practicing of the ethic of authenticity, their embodying of “the kingdom.”Consequent ComplexificationMy research into “alternative worship” is longitudinal. After the launch of Fresh Expressions, I included a new set of interview questions, which sought to clarify how these “alternative worship” communities were impacted upon by the appropriation of “alternative worship” by the mainstream. The responses can be grouped into three categories: minimal impact, a sense of affirmation and a contested complexity.With regard to minimal impact, some “alternative worship” communities perceived the arrival of Fresh Expressions had minimal impact on their shared expression of faith. The following quote was representative: “Has had no impact at all actually. Apart from to be slightly puzzled” (Interview 3, 2012).Others found the advent of Fresh Expressions provided a sense of affirmation. “Fresh expressions is … an enabling concept. It was very powerful” (Focus group 2, 2012). Respondents in this category felt that their innovations within alternative worship had contributed to, or been valued by, the innovation of Fresh Expressions. Interestingly, those whose comments could be grouped in this category had significant “subcultural capital” invested in this mainstream appropriation. Specifically, they now had a vocational role that in some way was connected to Fresh Expressions. In using the term “subcultural capital” I am again drawing on Thornton (98–105), who argued that in the complex networks through which culture flows, certain people, for example DJ’s, have more influence in the ascribing of authenticity. This suggests that “subcultural” capital is also present in religious innovation, with certain individuals finding ways to influence, from the “alternative worship” margin, the narratives of authenticity used in the complex interplay between alternative worship and Fresh Expressions.For others the arrival of Fresh Expressions had resulted in a contested complexity. The following quote was representative: “It’s a crap piece of establishment branding …but then we’re just snobs” (Focus group 3, 2012). This comment returns us to my initial framing of authenticity-as-originality. I would argue that “we’re just snobs” has a similar rhetorical effect as “Black Flag or some weird band.” It is an act of marginal self-location essential in the construction of innovation and identity.This argument is strengthened given the fact that the comment was coming from a community that itself had become perhaps the most recognizable “brand” among “alternative worship.” They have developed their own logo, website, and related online merchandising. This would suggest the concern is not the practice of marketing per se. Rather the concern is that it seems “crap” in relation to authenticity-as-originality, in a loss of aesthetic quality and a blurring of the values of innovation and identity as it related to bold, imaginative, aesthetic, and cultural attempts at contextual theology (Rogerson 51).Returning to Thornton, her research was also longitudinal in that she explored what happened when a song from a club, which had defined itself against the mainstream and as “hip,” suddenly experienced mainstream success (119). What is relevant to this investigation into religious innovation is her argument that in club culture, “selling out” is perceived to have happened only when the marginal community “loses its sense of possession, exclusive ownership and familiar belonging” (124–26).I would suggest that this is what is happening within “alternative worship” in response to the arrival of Fresh Expressions. Both “alternative worship” and Fresh Expressions are religious innovations. But Fresh Expressions defined itself in a way that conflated the space. It meant that the boundary marking so essential to “alternative worship” was lost. Some gained from this. Others struggled with a loss of imaginative and cultural creativity, a softening of authenticity-as-originality.More importantly, the discourse around Fresh Expressions also introduced authenticity-as-sincerity as a value that could be used to contest authenticity-as-originality. Whether intended or not, this also challenged the ethic of authenticity already created by these “alternative worship” communities. Their authenticity-as-originality was already a practicing of an ethic of authenticity. They were already sharing a "horizon of significance" with humanity, entering into “dialogical relations with others" that were a contemporary expression of the church as one, holy, catholic and apostolic (Taylor 52, 48). ConclusionIn this article I have analysed the discourse around authenticity as it is manifest within one strand of contemporary religious innovation. Drawing on Vanini, Taylor, and Thornton, I have explored the generative possibilities as media and culture are utilised in an “alternative worship” that is authentically-original. I have outlined the consequences when authenticity-as-originality is appropriated by the mainstream, specifically in the innovation known as Fresh Expressions and the complexity when authenticity-as-sincerity is introduced as a contested value.The value of authenticity has been found to exist in a complex relationship with the ethics of authenticity within one domain of contemporary religious innovation.ReferencesBaker, Jonny. “Alternative Worship and the Significance of Popular Culture.” Honours paper: U of London, 2000.Bennett, Andy. Popular Music and Youth Culture: Music, Identity, and Place. New York: Palgrave, 2000.Cronshaw, Darren, and Steve Taylor. “The Congregation in a Pluralist Society: Rereading Newbigin for Missional Churches Today.” Pacifica: Australasian Theological Studies 27.2 (2014): 1-24.Day, Abby. Believing in Belonging. Belief and Social Identity in the Modern World. Oxford: Oxford UP, 2011.Collins, Jim, ed. High-Pop. Making Culture into Popular Entertainment. Oxford: Blackwells, 2002.Cray, Graham. Mission-Shaped Church: Church Planting and Fresh Expressions of Church in a Changing Culture, London: Church House Publishing, 2004.Featherstone, Mike. Consumer Culture and Postmodernism. London: Sage, 1991.Fox, Matthew. Confessions: The Making of a Post-Denominational Priest. San Francisco: Harper San Francisco, 1996.Guest, Matthew, and Steve Taylor. “The Post-Evangelical Emerging Church: Innovations in New Zealand and the UK.” International Journal for the Study of the Christian Church 6.1 (2006): 49-64.Howard, Roland. The Rise and Fall of the Nine o’Clock Service. London: Continuum, 1996.Kelly, Gerard. Get a Grip on the Future without Losing Your Hold in the Past. Great Britain: Monarch, 1999.Kelly, Steven. “Book Review. Alt.Culture by Steven Daly and Nathaniel Wice.” 20 Aug. 2003. ‹http://www.richmondreview.co.uk/books/cult.html›.McRobbie, Angela. Postmodernism and Popular Culture. London: Routledge, 1994.Riley, Adrian. God in the House: UK Club Culture and Spirituality. 1999. 15 Oct. 2003 ‹http://www.btmc.org.auk/altworship/house/›.Roberts, Paul. Alternative Worship in the Church of England. Cambridge: Grove Books, 1999.Rogerson, J. W. “‘The Lord Is here’: The Nine o’Clock Service.” Why Liberal Churches Are Growing. Eds. Ian Markham and Martyn Percy. London: Bloomsbury T & T, 2006. 45-52.Taylor, Charles. The Ethics of Authenticity. Cambridge: Harvard UP, 1992.Taylor, Steve. “Baptist Worship and Contemporary Culture: A New Zealand Case Study.” Interfaces: Baptists and Others. Eds. David Bebbington and Martin Sutherland. Carlisle: Paternoster, 2013. 292-307.Thornton, Sarah. Club Cultures. Music, Media and Subcultural Capital. Hanover: UP New England, 1996.Vanini, Philip. “Authenticity.” Encyclopedia of Consumer Culture. Ed. Dale Southerton. Los Angeles: Sage, 2011. 74-76.Willis, Paul E., et al. Common Culture. Symbolic Work at Play in the Everyday Cultures of the Young. Milton Keynes: Open UP, 1990.

Introduction Throughout the early and mid-twentieth century, cadet training was a feature of many secondary schools and educational establishments across Australia, with countless young men between the ages of 14 and 18 years of age undergoing military training, ostensibly in preparation for service in Australia’s armed forces upon their coming of age. Unlike earlier in the century, when cadet training was mandatory for all males within the relevant age range, during the Second World War cadet detachments could only be formed and maintained by secondary schools for pupils attending those schools. Additionally, the Australian Army provided so little financial support to school cadet detachments during the conflict that schools had to rely on the parents of their pupils to purchase their sons’ not inexpensive cadet uniforms, with a result that only a limited number of schools could afford to maintain a cadet detachment, and almost every schools that could do so made enrolment in their detachments voluntary for their pupils. Counterbalancing these material obstacles, however, was the threat of the ongoing conflict and the demands for trained soldiers both overseas and within Australia, which resulted in school cadet training becoming increasingly popular between 1939 and 1945, with many schools across Australia either establishing new cadet detachments or expanding their existing cadet detachments in order to contribute to their nation’s war effort. Not only did the Second World War increase the number of cadet detachments among educational establishments, but cadet training became more diverse and varied both within and between schools. Owing to their preoccupation with maintaining both the Australian Imperial Force and a defence force against a potential invasion of Australia, the Australian Army’s supervision of and contribution to cadet training became more sporadic than it had been in peacetime. As a result, school headmasters became increasingly powerful in their discretion to direct the cadet training that went on at their schools, with the Australian Army providing little to no input to or supervision of the day-to-day training at the myriad of cadet detachments across the nation. This state of affairs allowed schools, and the educators who ran them, an unprecedented amount of freedom to enact their own idealised version of military training through their cadet detachments, resulting in a diverse range of training syllabi, organisational practices, and uniforms. Unlike in other nations such as New Zealand, Australian schools’ cadet uniforms were not issued by the Australian Army, but instead were designed and purchased by the individual cadet detachments, with the Australian Army only providing official recognition and partial funding for the designs. Under this system, Australian schools designed a diverse range of uniforms for their cadet detachments, tailoring them to suit their individual conceptions of what cadet training should contain and how a cadet detachment should appear. This resulted in cadet detachments clad in uniforms that reflected the ideals of the schools to which they were attached, with the training practices and identities of a school reflected in the design of its cadet uniform. This article will examine two prevalent influences behind the design of Australian school cadet uniforms during the Second World War – the competing prioritisation of smartness and practicality, and the range of identities and loyalties which schools attempted to inculcate in their pupils. In the process, it will be argued that these variations in cadet uniform designs reflect the diversity of practices and ideology within male secondary education in Australia during the 1940s. Uniforms for Purpose Despite the limitations imposed by wartime shortages, a school’s priorities for their cadet training could still be expressed through their design of uniforms. For many, the range of priorities can be summarised as a split between smartness and toughness. Some establishments designed their cadet uniforms on traditional ideals of rigid sartorial orderliness, tailoring them to be pleasing to the eye when paraded in public. Others disregarded smartness in favour of hard-wearing uniforms more suited to rigorous physical training under a variety of climactic conditions, emphasising comfort and durability above appearance. Schools did not openly state that their choice of uniform was motivated by a desire to have their cadets appear impressive on the parade ground. However, many voiced their praise for their cadet detachments’ appearances in public parades. One example of this can be found in the June 1940 edition of Terrace, the magazine of Christian Brothers’ College Gregory Terrace, in which the cadet training column finished by proudly declaring that “the appearance of the cadets and their military bearing called forth expressions of praise from all who saw them marching in the Corpus Christi procession at NC” (“G.T. Corps Jottings” 5). Similar evidence of a school’s prioritisation of smartness and presentability in their cadet training can also be found in numerous contemporary descriptions of cadet training by the cadets themselves. One anonymous pupil at Sydney Church of England Grammar School described the hardships that the school’s cadets faced in maintaining their uniforms – a khaki combination of woollen slouch hat, tunic with brass buttons, brown leather ‘Sam Browne’ belt and trousers with a blue stripe down each leg. In a lengthy poem describing many aspects of school life, the pupil’s ‘Song of Shore’ described how “of each cadet the heart is set on being clean and smart; A fleck of dust, a speck of rust, will break his sergeant's heart” (‘A Song of Shore’ 131). These demands for cleanliness and smartness weighed heavily on a cadet, with the author lamenting how “he cleans his boots, he cleans his belt, he cleans his bits of brass: his Brasso goes to chapel and his Kiwi into class; but still they say, ‘Put it away! To Friday drill you go!’ And button-sticks in period six are dangerous things to show” (‘A Song of Shore’ 131). Given that this context of uniform maintenance is the only description of cadet training in this poem, the emphasis placed on sartorial orderliness at schools such as Sydney Church of England Grammar School was clearly strong enough to eclipse all other aspects of training in the eyes of those subjected to it. Uniforms designed to visually impress, however, often wore out quite quickly under the harsh conditions of cadet training. One cadet at Geelong College noted how after an afternoon of instruction on the school oval in “a comfortable spot in the rain and wind … my well-tailored uniform is sopping with either sweat or rain according to the consistent weather of these parts. My chin-strap has lost all its flavour and generally I feel most inefficient” (“Chank” 31). The short life of stylistically-prioritised uniforms was often exacerbated by the difficulty of obtaining replacement items of clothing under wartime conditions. In 1941, the cadet uniforms of Hale School, Western Australia – presented in fig. 1 and consisting of slouch hat, woollen khaki tunic, Khaki drill breeches and tall leather gaiters – had been reduced in number and quality to such an extent that one boy described the process of selecting uniforms at the beginning of each year as “scramble day”, when, “after trying on various clothing you begin to wonder how many deformed people were in the corps before you” (“Lance-Corporal” 96). The cadet elaborated by lamented how “pick[ing] out the right hat is like winning the Charities, and all you can do is to hope for the best next year” (“Lance-Corporal” 96), and “on being issued with your hat badge you will say confidently, ‘Well, at least this must fit.’ But don't be optimistic; it is sure to have the clip missing” (“Lance-Corporal” 97). The shortage of serviceable uniforms became so acute that by 1943 the annual ‘Cadet Notes’ article in the school’s magazine The Cygnet announced that “it would be greatly appreciated if Old Boys who have any part of a uniform, would make it available” (“Cadets” Cygnet 20). This sentiment was echoed the following year by an anonymous cadet’s cartoon (fig. 2), highlighting the deplorable state of the school’s cadet uniforms after so many years of use, with frayed hems, baggy seams, and, most significantly, a severe shortage of sizes which fitted the average cadet (“Uniforms for ‘B’ Company” 74). This, when compared with the formal photographs of cadets published by the school in an earlier edition of the Cygnet, seen in fig. 1, gives a clear indication of the disparity between the image that schools intended to project and the and that which cadets perceived. Fig. 1: Hale School cadet uniforms as presented by the school in 1939 (“Officers and N.C.Os.” 55) Fig. 2: Hale School cadet uniforms as perceived by a cadet in 1944 (“Uniforms for ‘B’ Company” 74) For many schools, however, the ideal cadet uniform was simple, easily-maintained and durable, often drawing inspiration from contemporary, rather than traditional, military uniforms. When designing a uniform for their newly-established cadet detachment in 1939, Brisbane Boys’ College stated categorically that “the first consideration was smartness” and that “the preservation of that smartness will be the duty of every cadet” (“Cadet Corps” 41). However, while other schools chose stiff and heavy woollen cadet uniforms, the committee appointed by the College to decide on a uniform opted for a light combination of felt hat, khaki drill jacket, and shorts, “similar in design to that of the Darwin Mobile Force”, a new Australian Army formation created the previous year intended to defend Australia’s northern coastline from invasion, “which looked so smart when that force marched through the city early in the year” (“Cadet Corps” 41-42). When further explaining their choice, the College argued that “shorts, we consider, are more serviceable for the Queensland climate” (“Cadet Corps” 42). Brisbane Boys’ College was not the only establishment to be impressed by new military formations and their heralding of a new form of warfare. Newcastle Boys’ High School’s cadet uniform deviated from those of other schools’ cadet detachments by including a navy blue beret in place of the ubiquitous felt ‘slouch hat’. This choice of headwear, coupled with the School’s unusual decision to replace the normal khaki items of clothing with a field grey battledress-style jacket and slacks, was so similar to that worn by the armoured divisions both in Australia and Britain that when the Newcastle Sun published a picture of four Newcastle cadets wearing their new uniforms, they jocularly warned their readers that “these are not members of the Tank Corps” (“High School Cadet Corps” 7). Evidently, while some schools opted for a more traditionally smart design for their cadet uniforms, others chose to emulate more modern military uniform designs, even to the point where their uniforms lost all similarity to those traditionally worn by cadet detachments in Australia. It was not through the emulation of contemporary Australian Army uniforms that schools implemented practical uniform components in place of stylish ones. When several independent Roman Catholic schools in New South Wales applied to form cadet units and intended to adopt cadet uniforms in a variety of colours with brimless, forage cap headdress, Australia’s Military Board directed Captain McConnel, the Staff Officer Commanding Senior Cadets for New South Wales, “to invite schools again to reconsider the uniforms they have submitted with a view to their adoption of the Australian Hat and Khaki materials” (McConnel 1). McConnel acknowledged that “particular uniforms are not stipulated”, but claimed “khaki to be most suitable and economical for field training while the Australian Hat gives greater protection from the sun”, which was a factor of “considerable importance” as “work in the open is one of the main objects of cadet training” (McConnel 1). However, despite McConnel’s emphatic pleas to the institutions to reconsider their uniforms, only two of the eleven schools chose to alter their uniforms to suit the Military Board’s recommendations. The remainder either compromised by retaining their forage caps but adopting McConnel’s recommendation of using khaki material for their uniforms, or, as was the case with Marist Brothers’ High School, Darlinghurst, wrote in response to McConnel’s letter stating that they found “no reason for altering the design initially submitted”, and persisted with their application (Frederic 1). This case demonstrates that while dispassionate logic could motivate schools to design practical uniforms resistant to the wear and tear produced by strenuous outdoor cadet training in the Australian climate, these considerations were often outweighed by the subjective ideological motivations behind educators’ desires to adopt attractively smart cadet uniforms that were expensive and ill-suited to physical training. Evidently, educators’ personal desires to make their cadets, and as a result their schools, appear impressively smart and orderly were a powerful motivation behind not only their choice of uniform but also their support for cadet training in its entirety. These motivations could and frequently did outweigh practical considerations, to the point where the appearance of a cadet detachment, and thereby that of the cadet detachment’s school, was considered more important than the training it provided. Uniforms as Identity The division between concepts of cadet training held by the Australian Army and the highly diverse forms of training practiced by individual schools extended beyond differences of opinion over the relative merits of smartness and practicality expressed by cadet uniforms. A cadet uniform not only reflected educators’ intentions regarding the contents of their training, but also reflected the values of the group identity they wished to immerse their boys in, and the overarching group to which this identity owed its loyalty. The best example of uniforms reflecting a cadet detachment’s loyalty can be seen in the widespread adoption of uniforms that emulated Australian Army uniforms almost exactly. Although Australian cadet detachments were not issued with official Service Dress uniforms until 1945, many detachments’ uniforms emulated the Service Dress’s design and material down to the ubiquitous wide-brimmed ‘slouch hat’ or ‘Australian hat’ worn by the Australian Army in both the First and Second World Wars. Brother RJ McCartney, “the nominal C.O.” of the cadet detachment at Christian Brothers’ College Ipswich, specifically described his detachment’s uniform to the Queensland Times in 1944 as “similar to that issued to Army personnel” after declaring that “the training [cadets] receive will be most useful to them should they join one of the fighting forces later” (“95 Boys” 2). The popularity of this design cannot be attributed solely to the arguments made by the Military Board for its practicality, and the symbolic power of these uniforms raised the cadet detachments from insular, extra-curricular organisations to a unified whole, connected to the Commonwealth’s war effort through their uniforms and the martial identities they espoused. Fig. 3: A contemporary drawing of Brisbane Boys’ College cadet badge from 1939 (“Cadet Corps” 42) Not all Australian educational establishments, however, chose to emulate the Australian Army uniform in their cadet detachments’ uniforms, with many adopting uniforms that emphasised school or local identities above national identity. Most schools expressed their local identity through the implementation of school colours in their hat bands or ‘puggaree’ or designed insignia for their cadet uniforms based on school insignia. The cadet detachment at Brisbane Boys College adopted a badge that was nearly identical to the College badge, seen in fig. 3, albeit with a crown in place of the book (“Cadet Corps” 42). This alteration brought the design into alignment with common practice in military insignia, but it could also be viewed as symbolic representation of the difference between the College and the cadet detachment – whereas the College’s primary objective was to educate, the cadet detachment’s objective was to instil a sense of patriotism and duty. The most prominent examples of schools deviating in this manner can be found among Presbyterian schools, many of which chose to emphasise their Scottish ancestry instead of their Australian nationality. One such school was Scotch College in Claremont, Western Australia, where in August 1939, after “several unsuccessful attempts to secure a uniform dress for the cadets”, “the corps fitted out with uniforms which made the boys look like trained soldiers … which consisted of a Cameron kilt, with a kangaroo-skin sporran, a khaki tunic and glengarrie [sic]” (“Cadets” Scotch 16), which gave the detachment the appearance of a highland regiment of the British Army. After being issued with their new uniforms and instructed on their wearing, an event that was satirically recalled later that year by a cadet asking the headmaster what was worn beneath the kilt, the cadets were addressed by the school’s headmaster Mr Anderson, who “mention[ed] the fine example set by our predecessors, which example, he knew, we would endeavour to live up to” (“Cadets” Scotch 16). A similar uniform was worn by The Scots College, Sydney, prior to and during the Second World War. The College’s cadet uniform, shown in fig. 4, was just as rife with Scottish motifs as the uniform of Scotch College, including a kilt which one anonymous cadet described as “eleven yards of pleats, folds, buckles, buttons and straps all mixed up” (“C.S.R., IVa” 91). The Scots College’s uniform incorporated more colonial aspects than their West Australian contemporary’s uniform, however, with the glengarry and khaki tunic replaced by a Blancoed-white pith helmet and dark green standing-collared jacket with hooks and eyes that, according to the anonymous cadet, “were typically scotch”, in that “they would not give in” (“C.S.R., IVa” 91). Despite the free issue of Service Dress by the Australian Army in 1945, the College maintained its distinctly Scottish cadet uniform, albeit with the pith helmet replaced by a glengarry cap. So strong was the College’s prioritisation of its colonial ancestral identity above any contemporary Australian national identity that the Sun newspaper described them as “Black Watch juniors” when publishing a photograph of them parading “in support of the War Loan Campaign” in October 1941, seen in fig. 4 (“Black Watch Juniors” 3). Although these schools formed the minority in espousing divergent local identities above a centralised national identity, is these exceptions to the broad consensus which reflect the diverse nature of not only cadet training but secondary education within Australia in the first half of the twentieth century. Furthermore, this diversity was only revealed due to the refusal of the Australian Army to issue free uniforms to cadet detachments, with the resulting absence of a centralised identity leading to a vacuum in which schools decided upon an identity with which to imbue their pupils through the medium of cadet uniforms. Fig. 4: The Scots College cadets parading through Sydney, as presented by the Sun (“Black Watch Juniors” 3). Conclusion The Australian Army’s refusal to issue a free, standardised cadet uniform to secondary school cadet detachments prevented many educational establishments from establishing their own cadet detachment. However, this policy allowed those schools that did establish a detachment to clothe their members in a manner that they believed would align with the school’s unique conceptions of both what cadet training should consist of and how a cadet detachment should be presented to the world. As a result of this freedom, Australian secondary school cadet uniforms were influenced by a wide range of practical and ideological factors, with a diverse range of uniform designs reflecting an equally diverse range of thinking around cadet training. Some schools preferred a cadet uniform to be tough and suited to strenuous outdoor use under harsh climatic conditions, with Brisbane Boys’ College modelling their uniform after the recently-formed Darwin Mobile Force and incorporating shorts and a wide-brimmed Australian hat of the type recommended by the Australian Army for its value in shielding its wearer from the sun. Other cadet uniforms, such as those adopted by many Roman Catholic schools in Sydney, emphasised sartorial orderliness and visual splendour, incorporating unusual colours and forage caps to showcase their cadets and their school while emphasising their institutions’ individuality, against the Australian Army’s recommendations for durability and practicality. Similarly, a school’s cadet uniform could reflect its ideological objectives, revealing the identity it aimed to immerse its pupils in. The wide range of schools’ cadet uniform headdress alone, from ‘slouch hats’ to glengarry and forage caps to pith helmets, reveals the many split loyalties and ideals held by Australian schools during the Second World War between imperial, national, local, and religious identities and ethos. However, despite Australian Schools’ diverse and meticulously curated choices in cadet uniforms, cadets’ contemporary descriptions of their uniforms reveal that the intentions behind the uniforms’ designs were often entirely lost on those who wore them. Many cadets overlooked the lofty educational and ideological intentions behind their educators’ choices and instead only took note of their ridiculous, impractical, and uncomfortable aspects. This difference in perception, with educators praising and pupils decrying their cadet uniforms, reveals the performative nature of the entire uniform design process, with schools designing their cadet detachments’ uniforms not for those wearing them but for any third party who might view them. As such, schools’ overtures regarding the practicality, smartness and identity of their uniforms were not the result of the schools’ established practices, but the values with which the schools wished to be associated, with cadet uniforms acting as the medium through which these values would be communicated to the wider world. Images “Black Watch Juniors in City Parade.” The Sun 10 Oct. 1941: 3. “Officers and N.C.Os. of the Cadet Corps, 1939.” The Cygnet: Hale School Magazine 19.3 (June 1939): 55. “Uniforms for ‘B’ Company. Only Two Sizes 2 Large OR 2 Small.” The Cygnet: Hale School Magazine 14.4 (June 1944): 74. References “A Song of Shore” The Torch-Bearer: The Magazine of the Sydney Church of England Grammar School 43.2 (1 Sep. 1939): 130-131. “Cadets.” The Cygnet: Hale School Magazine 13.3 (June 1943): 19-20. “Cadets.” The Scotch College Reporter 32 (Dec. 1939): 16-17. “Cadet Corps.” The Portal: The Magazine of the Brisbane Boys’ College Dec. 1939: 41-43. “Chank”; “A Day in the Ranks.” The Pegasus: The Journal of The Geelong College 37.1 (June 1946): 30-31. “C.S.R., IVa”; “A Bonny Wee Scotsman.” The Scotsman: A Record of The Scots College, Bellevue Hill, Sydney 32.3 (May 1946): 91. “G.T. Corps Jottings.” Terrace: Quarterly Review, Published by Christian Brothers’ College Gregory Terrace, Brisbane, Queensland 3.2 (24 June 1940): 5. “High School Cadet Corps.” The Newcastle Sun 4 June 1940: 7. “Lance-Corporal”; “Scramble Day.” The Cygnet: Hale School Magazine 13 (5 June 1941): 96-97. “95 Boys Receive Training in School Cadet Corps.” The Queensland Times 21 Aug. 1944: 2. Memoranda Brother Frederic to Captain McConnel. “Cadets – Educational establishments – Approval to form senior cadet detachments – Roman Catholic schools.” 7 April 1941. Australian War Memorial, Ref. AWM61 426/2/176. Captain McConnel to Director CBC Waverley, CBC Lewisham, CBC Darlinghurst, MBC Darlinghurst, MBC Randwick, MBC Kogarah, MBC Parramatta, MBC Church Hill, DLSC Ashfield, DLSC Marrickville, HCC Ryde, SJC Hunter's Hill. “Cadets – Educational establishments – Approval to form senior cadet detachments – Roman Catholic schools.” 13 March 1941. Australian War Memorial, Ref. AWM61 426/2/176.