Winston and John the Savage Get Religous
17th April 2008 | 5:07
Winston and John the Savage were pseudonyms used in a series of features featuring myself (Winston, text bolded) and a friend (John) where we did things that could potentially get us in trouble if identified. Only two were written before I became Design Editor, though ideas for future installments included Get Homeless and Get Rich. In this, the second of our articles, we lived each day as a different religion for a week.
Beep. Beep. Beep. 7 o’clock and I definitely don’t want to wake from my ignorance. “Oh my god,” I think, for the last blasphemous time this week, “What is it with religion and dawn?” Stumbling out of bed to light the incense, I burn my hand and know that I truly am suffering. Lotus, unfeasibly adopted, I imagine myself atop a mountainous precipice, my inner Buddhist sat cross-legged and Zen, my external Self, the blizzard blowing all around. Combining the two sides of my personality is impossible; the gale won’t be contained. I txt Wnstn, ‘Noble Truth Lvl 3. My suffering has ceased.’ As I sit cross-legged, meditating with Winston at lunch, I contemplate that thinking about nothing requires a lot of concentration. I find sitting on the floor of the chaplain’s office to be surprisingly comfortable, Winston less so.
What a glorious day to wake as a Buddhist! Self-improvement no longer a distant concept, inner peace begins now! The last two years a chemical assault, and now sex is something you do with yourself. Vrrhhmm, 1 New Msg. ‘Fuck how did you get the EXP? I’m haemorrhaging lvls today, Buddha would not be proud,’ I reply, prompting a reminder about swearing. Lunch, a heavenly bacon and sausage baguette sits in front of me, uneaten. “No meat,” John says. I hand it to Fran, the vegetarian, and sip on my pint of lemonade, hardly the beer I was longing for. I’d have felt embarrassed with it and jealous without, but Buddhism didn’t subscribe to such petty emotions. Perhaps meditation was the answer? Awkwardly becoming a lotus, breathing in time, humming and chanting; “Why are we here and where are we going? Why are we here and where are we going?” Not getting anything, I turned to distract John off his mountain Zen. Too late. “I was praying for a fart,” he grins. Buddha would be proud.
Even by Tuesday, somewhere in the midst of our meditative state, we were both finding solace. Today’s problem was that we couldn’t find any Sikhs and I guess that’s how the game started: “You go hide…and I’ll count to ten.” Last resort, we thought, ring them.
“Hi, my name’s John, I was wondering if…”
“This is Sikh temple.”
“Yes, yes I know. I was just wondering whether my friend and I could come to your gurdwara and learn some more about your religion…”
“No.” Dial tone…
A dawn breakfast of yoga and meditation finds me the epitome of Zen. The sand on the shore, the leaf in the wind and an evening of Hindu prayer. The musicality of the religion gives it a festival feel, the melodies as friendly and accepting as the participants. Practical life philosophies combined with strange metaphors dictates that the cow standing on one leg destabilises the fourth age. Winston and I manage to find ourselves at the front and the pressure is certainly on. Some clapping begins and I’m keen to get involved, but terrible timing keeps me on the back foot. I glance left and I can see the cogs of Winston’s mind working. “Should I join in? He’s doing it…” Five minutes and the first tentative clap later, followed by more out-of-time but rhythmical noises and suddenly we are doing it, we’re being Hindus and it’s great.
After taking off our shoes, we entered a room filled with incense and atmosphere. As we sat I immediately felt the awkwardness of a mass gaze burrowing into the back of my skull. “They shouldn’t be here.” “Why is he singing if he isn’t Hindu?” I was not singing, partly through lack of knowledge and partly out of a respect I didn’t realise I possessed. If Hinduism without Brahman is an open-minded philosophy, Abrahamic religion without God is borderline fascism; moral authoritarianism reveling in its own ignorance.
The next night, Shouldbe Ginger leant back in his chair with a slightly arrogant swagger. The fundamental logic of Christianity is that it’s consistently illogical – God is right, God is just, and all else follows from this; when questioned whether it’d be just for Him to send a murdered baby to hell, his answer was a straight-faced, unequivocal “Yes.” In an effort to unpicasso my bewildered expression, he continued, “I don’t believe that’s what he’d do, but if he did, then yes.” The Muslims explained that as every baby is born into Islam, a murdered one would be sent to heaven. Mid-discussion, Winky said, “I think of you two, who could be out there getting smashed, as truly blessed, because you’re in here, learning about these things.” I felt slightly guilty – he obviously hadn’t read our work. I later questioned the logic that Jesus could atone for all our sins via a tepidly brutal death, while if we wished to take responsibility for our own actions, eternity in the fiery pits of hell would be our only recourse. Islam conversely teaches that you atone for your own sins and God is a just figure who balances your good deeds with your bad. Taking responsibility for your own actions - active repentance over empty words - a school of thought that rests easy with me.
One of the great religious questions is, “If God loves us, why is there suffering in the world?” and I answer, “Because it is his means of control over “us”. If Earth was a utopia, there would be no desire to reach heaven.” “Erm…,” says Shouldbe, “I have no idea why he uses suffering, but he does.” As I thumb through the Qur’ân, I hope it has more answers.
Blindfolded and bound to secrecy, the Jew leads us to their Shabbat meeting place. “Just in case you’re terrorists,” he explains. “Winston,” I whisper, “Let’s not mess around with these guys, they’re renowned for using disproportionate force.” Short walk later and we’re at the safe house, blindfolds off. “Sorry guys,” apologises our host to the group, already waiting in the cold. “Jewish Mean Time!” Apparently GMT-1. The Reformist service begins with some prayers and I am handed a book, which I turn in my hands several times. I can’t seem to find the front or even turn the book the right way round. Dinner finds me amidst philosophical debate, sat next to a guy eating chicken bones and surrounded by people with names beginning with ‘J’. Coincidence? I begin to understand that Israel is their identity and giving it up is exactly that hard. And that world domination isn’t always on their minds. And that to pray properly you need at lest ten people. As we are leaving, a voice calls: “Are we still playing the Christians off against the Muslims on Sunday?” “Ssshhh,” insists another, “they’re still here.”
The Orthodox ringleader taps shoulders to rally a spinning circle of shouting, stamping and praying Jews. On second invitation, I join in. A moment late and a foot behind, my contribution to the forming dust cloud was still unhindered. “Asbestos!” came the cry, group laughter relieving my anxiety. Dinner time. HotJew argues with Bone Eater while I sinfully lust for my chicken soup. Reformist and Orthodox - fate predetermined; liberal v conservative, progressivism v traditionalism, the Old Argument. No intellectual institution escapes it. The arguement is over the fact women aren’t allowed to lead Orthodox prayer – a traditional sexism all too familiar in Abrahamic religions. Still, they knew how to make chicken soup, so I directed my judgement at that. Verdict: impeccable. As I went to leave, Ringleader relayed John’s fears that they would hold a secret meeting on our departure, illustrated by their map of world domination. Oh, how we laughed our paranoid laughs.
As we enter, the dirge of the organ music echoes through the church. Sober and sedate, we take a pew, waiting for the service to start. Hard-backed and un-cushioned, I remark that no one could fall asleep here. The service begins promptly with the ring of a bell and I stand only to look down at the prone form of Winston, asleep. As the sermon drones, I think: “I don’t believe in your religion, why am I a sinner? That’s your measurement. Temperature isn’t measured in metres, why should I be judged by your stick?”
The body of Christ left a foul taste in my mouth, and the Holy Water stung my forehead. Saturday Mass, our presence the result of being asked not to attend Alpha Course. They wanted to ensure a ‘comfortable’ environment for those more willing to leave their opinion at the door. Listening to the elderly pray, I noticed a distinctive tone. “Glory be to the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. We are the Borg. You will be assimilated. Resistance is futile.” Oh, my. I couldn’t believe these mechanical beings had ever really questioned their own faith, so called “tests” just the facts of life, ignored in the name of God. Losing a friend might hurt them, but losing Him will break them. I spend every day trying to disprove my own beliefs, but the saddest observation made during this week was that everyone we talked to already knew the Truth. They can’t all be right. Taking a seat in the confession box, I divulged my darkest transgressions. “All is forgiven my son,” came John’s voice through the screen, washing away my sins.
First published in the November 2006 edition of Impact
