WHOA! As a result of announcing to my friends and family that I have survived the Big C, I have received an email from a very dear, very lovely friend telling me I’m about to Find Religion (her caps). Thank God she was being ironic. But it set me thinking.
It took a long time to slough off my Catholicism, as a snake does its old, unwanted skin, and I’m not about to slide it back on again.
From a personal perspective, I, like my fellow generation of 50s/60s Catholic kids, was indoctrinated from birth in my faith. In my cot, before I could talk, I’d been taught how to make the sign of the cross. (I know this because I watched my younger siblings get taken through the same procedure.)
When I was much older, watching the evening news on TV, there might be scenes of some protest rally. It was Vietnam War time. Some women might have young children with them. Mum would say, “How awful, indoctrinating kiddies who aren’t old enough to understand.” Hello?
Then came adolescence. As if it weren’t enough to cope with being a closet queen, every time I had a wank I was condemned straight to Hell, mortal sin blotted my soul from the sight of God and if the bus was on target I was doomed for all eternity. Quick, get to confession – and start all over again. What a way to grow up. Nowadays we would call it child abuse, not self-abuse.
Despite this, I was a devout Catholic into my early 20s, thoroughly believing my God was the true God. It was as my homosexual urges grew stronger and mild experiments with girls were getting me nowhere, that I began to see there was no place for me in the church. But I still believed I was the one at fault. Gradually as I moved out of home and spent more time in gay bars, I stopped going to church and didn’t feel too bad about it.
By the time I got to England, aged 25, I was happily agnostic and religion had dropped out of my life – perhaps by a process of reverse osmosis.
Then one wonderful night I watched a debate on BBC TV on the existence of God. The opponents were Oxford philosopher Prof. A. J. (later Sir Albert) Ayer and a Jesuit bishop. The bishop kept starting with, “Let’s just suppose there is a God”. “No,” Ayer would reply, “you must prove to me that there is a God. I am under no obligation to prove otherwise.” Indeed, as we know, it is impossible to prove the non-existence of something. He wiped the floor with the bishop and I had my Road to Damascus moment – yet again in reverse, I guess.
This cathartic moment cleared all doubts from my mind. I became quite comfortable with my sexuality and my lack of religion and began to build some self-respect and personal confidence. I realised the world didn’t need a creator, no more that the creator needed a creator of his/her own. The years of Catholic guilt fell away like that snakeskin.
LESSON ONE.
FOR today’s lesson I’d like to address the concept of the Sin of Arrogance…
Science tells us that there are more stars in the Universe than there are grains of sand on all the beaches of the world (or grains in the Sahara, if you prefer). Even the Vatican accepts this truth. Note, I said stars, not planets. The Sun is our star. In this analogy the Solar System is less than one grain of sand. The Earth, its third planet, is infinitesimal in size compared to the Sun.
The highest life form on Earth, we may assume, is Man (oops, Humankind – is that better?). Yet there are educated, otherwise intelligent grown-ups who sincerely believe that they have been created in God’s image (Arrogance alert) and that this Old Grey Guy in the Sky (OK, OK…) listens to the prayers and supplications of one individual and can answer and direct him/her to a better life.
Hey, this is one human being out of several billion, on this infinitesimal planet in a Solar System that is less than a grain of sand in the scheme of things. If this isn’t arrogance, what is? (For less intelligent beings this might understandably be sheer desperation, but I’m talking about the so-called brainy ones.)
LESSON TWO.
CHILDREN open your catechisms at Question One.
Q. 1 Who made the world?
A. 1 God made the world.
Q. 2 Who is God?
A. 2 God is the Supreme Being, omnipotent and omniscient, who always was and always will be – eternal in being and infinite in wisdom. (Hey, I made all that up, but it’s not bad is it?)
Now hang on here. The Christians and Jews can’t believe in a Universe that has always existed –in one form or another – but a Supreme Being, that’s OK? It’s OK for one thing to have always existed, but not the other?
I’m looking out the window at solid forms in the universe – birds, trees, etc – and I accept that they exist. But I see no evidence of the existence our friend the S.B. (Some would say I’m looking at His/Her handiwork, but that’s something else altogether). Bring on the Tooth Fairy and the Easter Bunny. I can’t tell how the birds and trees came into being, so for an answer I turn to Science. The wonderful thing about scientists is that they never say, “This is a fact, this is true, this is what happened.” They come up with a theory, they test it, then they say, “We think this is the situation so far.” Think of Galileo, think of Newton, think of Einstein. Each of these geniuses took his field of science to a higher level, but scientists know there’s more where that came from, folks, and little-by-little we’re getting a clearer and better picture. Surely that’s Humility, not Arrogance. (Cue irony button here.)
ENOUGH of my preaching awready (yes, I’m confining my remarks to the Judeo/Christian faith, I don’t know much of the others).
To return to the personal, I don’t have to prove there is no God – you can’t prove a negative, reasoning teaches us. But I firmly believe there’s no God, no Heaven, no Hell, no afterlife. It’s up to someone else to prove otherwise to me.
(Digression here: religious friends talk of an afterlife in Heaven and most assume we’ll all meet up there. But if there’s a Heaven, there must be a Hell. If not, Hitler’s in Heaven, along with Mussolini, Stalin, your ex-husband and that guy in menswear who diddled my doodle when I was 13 years old – God (sic) forbid!)
So is it more arrogance to assume you’re on your way to Heaven? Will you arrive there Alzheimitic and crippled, as on the day you died, or mewling and puking at a much earlier age, or a little later, covered in pimples?
So are my convictions set in stone, like those of many I criticise? Do I have a closed mind? Absolutely not. Whilst I cannot respect the blind faith of others, I accept it. If you tell me you can’t do work on a Saturday, can’t eat certain unclean foods, or firmly believe that if you consume a wafer of bread and a glass of wine you are consuming the body and blood of Christ (touch of cannibalism there?) because of your religion, I think you are crazy, or at the best misinformed. Nevertheless, I am totally open to someone, some day, somewhere convincing me that God exists. Then I’ll believe.
But here’s what I call the Catholic Catch-22. Belief in a God, as I understand, requires an act of faith not dependant on concrete evidence – i.e., blind faith. If someone convinces me, I’ll have evidence which negates blind faith, destroying the very thing necessary for my belief in the first place.
I need a drink. You need a drink.
CODA: Just twenty years ago, the Berlin Wall came down – a thrilling event. A few weeks later, David Barenboim and the Berlin Philharmonic played a free concert to celebrate its fall, specifically for the East Berliners who had never heard their orchestra live, if at all. They played Beethoven’s Seventh Symphony, which just happens to be my favourite piece of classical music. I heard a recording of this performance recently on ABC Classic FM. I have two recordings of it already, but listening to this performance, I could feel excitement and enthusiasm coming out of my speakers. When they got to the final movement it felt as if Barenboim had said, “Right, fellers, every man for himself and I’ll meet you at the end.” I was almost in tears, sitting alone in my room, as Sally Bowles said.
And my point is? I do believe in the spirit – I see it in a garden of flowers, I see it in a great work of art, I hear it when Ella sings “Ev’ry Time We Say Goodbye”. I can be moved to tears, I can find myself lost in the universe. I can’t explain it and nor, so far, can science. Maybe they will one day – the brain is the great unexplored inner space – maybe they won’t. But it doesn’t need a God.
Here endeth the lesson.
Monday, November 9, 2009
Sunday, November 1, 2009
JURY DUTY
Early in 2006 I received a letter summonsing me for jury duty. As I was unemployed I had no excuse to avoid it. What’s more, it pays reasonably well if you’re out of work. I reported to the Downing Centre District Court on the appointed morning and found myself waiting with over a hundred other prospective jurors. As names were called, some submitted reasons for being exempted, sometimes successfully, sometimes not.
Finally about twenty of us were led into a courtroom and seated in the visitors’ chairs. The judge, a dear old duck, the Crown Prosecutor and two barristers (one for each of the accused) were present, but not the accused. The prosecutor explained the facts of the case in some detail. The case involved two brothers and was in effect, two parallel trials as they were each charged with the same offence – hence the two barristers. We were read a list of names of people who might or might not be called as witnesses and told that if we knew any of these people we could be excused. This was not an escape from duty, as you merely returned to the main pool and would be selected for some other trial.
Finally we entered the jury box and in turn stood up. The barristers could reject up to three potential jurors each, merely by looking us over. This they did, until we were reduced to twelve in number, including myself. We never spoke a word in court, except for the foreman who delivered the verdict. We remained totally anonymous.
I found myself empanelled with eleven others on a case of intent to murder. Two brothers in their early twenties were accused of luring a friend into the bush south of Sydney (supposedly to harvest some cannabis) where they shot him in the back of the head and cut his throat. Strangely, he lived! The .22 bullet didn't even pierce his skull. The motive was revenge, as the victim had broken into the brothers' house and stolen money and pot.
Day One is spooky when twelve of you sit down in the jury room, never having met before. First you have to choose a foreman. We introduced ourselves by first name and Paul offered to be foreman. No one else wanted to do it, and he turned out to be an excellent choice. Amazing how we all got along - 7 men, 5 women, me the oldest, then ranging all the way down to a bright young 19 or 20 year old lad named Rhys. We didn't have any smart arse or show off and all maintained our sense of humour right to the end. Thank God, as it went on for seven weeks (minus Easter, Anzac Day and a few hitches caused by legal matters).
The accused were very handsome in a second-row scrum sort of way - boxing, footy, weights, etc - but we got an eyeful into their background. They were from housing commission (that is, Government provided) families from around Beverley Hills, a suburb in Sydney’s south, and my first experience of second generation druggies - all the parents were divorced, remarried or having children all over the place and no doubt sharing a joint or five - very sad.
Each day started at ten o’clock. Sometimes we had to leave the courtroom whilst the heavies discussed some legal point. Our court clerk was a most pleasant man. He would lead us in and out like schoolkids and deliver our notes to the judge when we raised some question. Before we entered the court from our own special corridor (we were always last to enter, first to leave) he would rap three times on the door. Later in the trial he handed this duty over to a very excited Rhys.
Lunch time was an hour. At first we got sandwiches, fruit and soft drinks, as the trial went into week three we graduated to a hot meal (and the daily allowance went up). We could get out at lunch time and I was grateful for this – otherwise it was somewhat claustrophobic. I would take my crossword to the Crown Hotel and have one glass of white wine. One afternoon Louise, a twenty-something juror with hopes of becoming a policewoman announced that she was sure the fat barrister was a drinker as she had a very sensitive nose for alcohol and regularly smelt it after lunch. I bought some breath mints.
As the trial dragged on, witness after witness, including the victim, was taken through the same story, over and over again until we knew it backwards. Two stories actually: the crown’s allegations and the accused boys’ alibi. Some professional experts and police were called.
The funniest witness of all was a teenage boy from New Zealand, a mate of the accused. When he was dismissed from the stand he thanked the Judge, shook hands with the startled Crown Prosecutor (a female), gave a thumbs-up to the barristers and profusely thanked the jury. We all held our breath until he had left the court and then the whole place went into uproar, judge and all.
The accused brothers sat silently in the dock each day, wearing suits and ties that they had obviously never worn before in their lives. They were never called to the stand and never spoke, though we did hear one of them on a police video on the day of arrest. At least one of their parents was there every day – we knew, because they looked like peas in a pod, even the Mum and Dad. (Incest? – it’s possible.)
One obviously under-age girl, a one-time girlfriend of one brother, gave evidence via a live video link-up. It was abruptly terminated when she told us we could all “fuck off”. Of course in the court you get actual, uncensored transcripts and it’s odd at first to hear the very pretty female prosecutor reading the “c-word” so matter-of-factly.
Oh, I almost forgot. On the first morning of the trial I could feel that this prosecutor was staring intently at me. I put it down to imagination, but she continued each day. It was a “Do you really think you should be here?” look. But in about the second week young Louise remarked, “That prosecutor spends half her time staring at you”, so it wasn’t just me. Magnetic charm? We’ll never know.
With the evidence over, we deliberated for two days and were by no means in agreement at the start. The two South Africans, the Bangladeshi woman and the New Guinea housewife (all Australian citizens, of course,) were all for guilty straight off, but we Anglos held out for quite a while. (The accused and witnesses were all Anglo, with some New Zealanders thrown in.) The trouble was that there was absolutely no collaborative evidence - no weapons, fingerprints, DNA, gunpowder residue, etc - and some pretty sloppy police work. But some rather dodgy alibis. It boiled down to one word against another –which story did we think more likely? Well, finally, I was the only one holding out, until the Bangladeshi woman beside me (we always sat in the same seats) reminded me, “Hugh, you only need reasonable grounds, not one hundred percent.” So we all agreed finally on guilty of intent to murder for both of them, and I'm convinced that was right. We probably won't know the sentence, which is handed down at a later date. Her Honour dismissed us after telling us that the barristers and herself agreed we had been most conscientious and that they were impressed with the way we had responded to the job. Some jurors had made copious notes. I just sat and listened. But it was quite stressful, and I took it very seriously, as did we all.
But at $100 or so a day, free hot lunch and travel allowance, it's just the ticket for the unemployed. (We could get out at lunchtime and went home each night - promising not to talk about the case to anyone, of course). And we can't be called for duty again for three years. The twelve of us left the court and went our separate ways and haven’t seen each other since. I’m extremely proud of having done my civic duty and put great faith in our jury system.
PS: I have a friend who is a judge and via him was able to discover that Her Honour had sent both the boys up the river for eight years. I feel that vindicated our verdict.
Finally about twenty of us were led into a courtroom and seated in the visitors’ chairs. The judge, a dear old duck, the Crown Prosecutor and two barristers (one for each of the accused) were present, but not the accused. The prosecutor explained the facts of the case in some detail. The case involved two brothers and was in effect, two parallel trials as they were each charged with the same offence – hence the two barristers. We were read a list of names of people who might or might not be called as witnesses and told that if we knew any of these people we could be excused. This was not an escape from duty, as you merely returned to the main pool and would be selected for some other trial.
Finally we entered the jury box and in turn stood up. The barristers could reject up to three potential jurors each, merely by looking us over. This they did, until we were reduced to twelve in number, including myself. We never spoke a word in court, except for the foreman who delivered the verdict. We remained totally anonymous.
I found myself empanelled with eleven others on a case of intent to murder. Two brothers in their early twenties were accused of luring a friend into the bush south of Sydney (supposedly to harvest some cannabis) where they shot him in the back of the head and cut his throat. Strangely, he lived! The .22 bullet didn't even pierce his skull. The motive was revenge, as the victim had broken into the brothers' house and stolen money and pot.
Day One is spooky when twelve of you sit down in the jury room, never having met before. First you have to choose a foreman. We introduced ourselves by first name and Paul offered to be foreman. No one else wanted to do it, and he turned out to be an excellent choice. Amazing how we all got along - 7 men, 5 women, me the oldest, then ranging all the way down to a bright young 19 or 20 year old lad named Rhys. We didn't have any smart arse or show off and all maintained our sense of humour right to the end. Thank God, as it went on for seven weeks (minus Easter, Anzac Day and a few hitches caused by legal matters).
The accused were very handsome in a second-row scrum sort of way - boxing, footy, weights, etc - but we got an eyeful into their background. They were from housing commission (that is, Government provided) families from around Beverley Hills, a suburb in Sydney’s south, and my first experience of second generation druggies - all the parents were divorced, remarried or having children all over the place and no doubt sharing a joint or five - very sad.
Each day started at ten o’clock. Sometimes we had to leave the courtroom whilst the heavies discussed some legal point. Our court clerk was a most pleasant man. He would lead us in and out like schoolkids and deliver our notes to the judge when we raised some question. Before we entered the court from our own special corridor (we were always last to enter, first to leave) he would rap three times on the door. Later in the trial he handed this duty over to a very excited Rhys.
Lunch time was an hour. At first we got sandwiches, fruit and soft drinks, as the trial went into week three we graduated to a hot meal (and the daily allowance went up). We could get out at lunch time and I was grateful for this – otherwise it was somewhat claustrophobic. I would take my crossword to the Crown Hotel and have one glass of white wine. One afternoon Louise, a twenty-something juror with hopes of becoming a policewoman announced that she was sure the fat barrister was a drinker as she had a very sensitive nose for alcohol and regularly smelt it after lunch. I bought some breath mints.
As the trial dragged on, witness after witness, including the victim, was taken through the same story, over and over again until we knew it backwards. Two stories actually: the crown’s allegations and the accused boys’ alibi. Some professional experts and police were called.
The funniest witness of all was a teenage boy from New Zealand, a mate of the accused. When he was dismissed from the stand he thanked the Judge, shook hands with the startled Crown Prosecutor (a female), gave a thumbs-up to the barristers and profusely thanked the jury. We all held our breath until he had left the court and then the whole place went into uproar, judge and all.
The accused brothers sat silently in the dock each day, wearing suits and ties that they had obviously never worn before in their lives. They were never called to the stand and never spoke, though we did hear one of them on a police video on the day of arrest. At least one of their parents was there every day – we knew, because they looked like peas in a pod, even the Mum and Dad. (Incest? – it’s possible.)
One obviously under-age girl, a one-time girlfriend of one brother, gave evidence via a live video link-up. It was abruptly terminated when she told us we could all “fuck off”. Of course in the court you get actual, uncensored transcripts and it’s odd at first to hear the very pretty female prosecutor reading the “c-word” so matter-of-factly.
Oh, I almost forgot. On the first morning of the trial I could feel that this prosecutor was staring intently at me. I put it down to imagination, but she continued each day. It was a “Do you really think you should be here?” look. But in about the second week young Louise remarked, “That prosecutor spends half her time staring at you”, so it wasn’t just me. Magnetic charm? We’ll never know.
With the evidence over, we deliberated for two days and were by no means in agreement at the start. The two South Africans, the Bangladeshi woman and the New Guinea housewife (all Australian citizens, of course,) were all for guilty straight off, but we Anglos held out for quite a while. (The accused and witnesses were all Anglo, with some New Zealanders thrown in.) The trouble was that there was absolutely no collaborative evidence - no weapons, fingerprints, DNA, gunpowder residue, etc - and some pretty sloppy police work. But some rather dodgy alibis. It boiled down to one word against another –which story did we think more likely? Well, finally, I was the only one holding out, until the Bangladeshi woman beside me (we always sat in the same seats) reminded me, “Hugh, you only need reasonable grounds, not one hundred percent.” So we all agreed finally on guilty of intent to murder for both of them, and I'm convinced that was right. We probably won't know the sentence, which is handed down at a later date. Her Honour dismissed us after telling us that the barristers and herself agreed we had been most conscientious and that they were impressed with the way we had responded to the job. Some jurors had made copious notes. I just sat and listened. But it was quite stressful, and I took it very seriously, as did we all.
But at $100 or so a day, free hot lunch and travel allowance, it's just the ticket for the unemployed. (We could get out at lunchtime and went home each night - promising not to talk about the case to anyone, of course). And we can't be called for duty again for three years. The twelve of us left the court and went our separate ways and haven’t seen each other since. I’m extremely proud of having done my civic duty and put great faith in our jury system.
PS: I have a friend who is a judge and via him was able to discover that Her Honour had sent both the boys up the river for eight years. I feel that vindicated our verdict.
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