SHANE​ WARREN

Every so often, history taps us on the shoulder and says, “You may want to look at this again.” Not because history repeats itself neatly. It rarely does. The past is not a photocopier. It is more like a family pattern: recognisable, recurring, shaped by different people and different circumstances, but carrying a familiar emotional logic.

So, when Australian politicians import the American posture - the swagger, the suspicion, the “strongman realism” - we should be asking: which America are you importing? The one that sells freedom like a brand? Or the one that lives with the consequences of a fractured social contract and a heavily armed civic culture?

On Anzac Day, we gather around a story. It is a story of courage, of mateship, of sacrifice. It is told in dawn services and echoed in silence. It lives in old photographs, in medals carefully kept, in names carved into stone. It is a story we have learned well and one we return to each year with reverence.

There are some public figures people describe as brilliant communicators, and I have often found myself standing a little to the side of that praise, wondering if we are even watching the same performance.

Landmarks do not culture make. Culture is made by the people who live there long enough to build rituals. Culture is made by the weird and the broke and the brave. Culture is made by communities that have room to be messy, not just presentable.

Personal growth and emotional resilience are journeys we all embark on at some point. Sometimes, the path feels clear and smooth. Other times, it’s more like navigating a maze in the dark. That’s where coaching steps in, lighting the way and helping us find our true potential. Shane Warren’s coaching techniques in Surfers Paradise offer a warm, practical, and effective approach to personal development. I’m excited to share how his methods can empower you to grow, thrive, and

I have been thinking a great deal lately about the strange, sad little theatre of modern Christianity, especially the version that somehow wants to present itself as both endlessly persecuted and permanently entitled. You know the tone…

Every few years, a new word enters the cultural bloodstream and starts doing two jobs at once: it describes something real, and it becomes a proxy battle for every anxiety we’ve been carrying. “The manosphere” is one of those words.

For Christians around the world, it is holy. Sacred. Weighty. A day of reverence, grief, silence, and awe. It is wrapped in theology and symbol, prophecy and fulfilment, redemption and hope. It sits at the very centre of Christian memory.

In these messy days of noise, posturing, insecurity, and performance, I find myself thinking about Saint Joseph. Not as a plaster statue. Not as a silent extra in the nativity. Not as the soft-focus old religious figure we place near the manger and then forget. I mean Joseph the man.