Edition 86
Leaps of Faith
- Published 5th November, 2024
- ISBN: 978-1-923213-01-2
- Extent: 196 pp
- Paperback, ebook, PDF
To take a leap of faith is to bet your belief on an unknown future. But belief is central to the human experience. Whether it’s religious, political, societal, philosophical or spiritual, the act of believing can be a lodestar, a comfort, a ritual, a guiding principle, a reason for living. We place our faith in everything from gods and mortals to medicine and magic, and while the bet doesn’t always pay off, it can usually tell us something about our desires, our values and our selves.
In this edition, we leave planet Earth behind via NASA’s Exoplanet Travel Bureau in search of a connection with alien worlds.
We unpack the intricate intersections between the traditional belief systems of Indigenous Torres Strait Islanders and those of the Bible to illustrate the ways in which they nourish one another.
We explore the struggle to come to terms with the in/out dilemma of post-faith spirituality, unpick the contradictions and consistencies of Italy’s very own gay saint, and investigate the connection between powerlessness and magical thinking.
We dive into the world of doomsday preppers, consider the complex relationship of faith and feminism and meditate on the ebb and flow of grief.
Griffith Review 86: Leaps of Faith explores the things we believe in – from science and superstition to politics and preppers – and why.
Cover image: Michael Zavros, The Swan (2015), oil on board
In this Edition
Staying faithful to Earth
It is a startlingly new discovery that there are more planets than stars in our galaxy. Even if early astronomers (like Kepler) intuited that other suns must have planets, we didn’t have definitive proof until very recently that our solar system is not unique in consisting of planets orbiting a star. The first exoplanet was confirmed in 1992; the first exoplanet around a star similar to our sun was discovered in 1995. The latest count is over 5,000 and growing. Discoveries have stacked up so fast that astronomers and astrophysicists who used to know each individual exoplanet by name now say it’s impossible to keep track of those that exist in just one small part of the Milky Way, with thousands more expected to be found in the coming years.
The power of a curse
My father was mercurial, difficult to please and often critical of his children: but he would have killed anyone who laid a hand on us. And so, knowing I was upset, he showed me what to do.
‘Lick your thumb,’ he said, ‘and place it on the review…’
An effective curse, he went on to explain, should be proportionate. So, for instance, declaring to the author of that book review I hope you die would be ineffective – all it would do was prove that I did not have the power of life and death. ‘Think about it for a bit if you have to.’
I licked my thumb and placed it on the review. I closed my eyes and thought of the journalist who wrote it, and I said to myself, may you never publish a first novel as successful as Crazy Paving.
Adventures in the apocalyptic style
It’s easy to laugh at preppers, dismissing their ideas in the process. It’s also easy to adopt the prepper worldview wholesale, and make fun of everyone else – all those sheeple – for not seeing what a mess we’re really in. It’s harder, but ultimately more productive, to see prepping as a complex, contradictory response to the multiple crises the world is facing. Prepping is more than just a freakshow, although it is that. And prepping is more than a useful instructional manual, although it is that, too. Neither wholly reasonable nor wholly ridiculous, prepping culture is a vivid and alarming reflection of a contemporary Anglophone culture that exists in a state of perma-crisis and can find only simple answers to wicked problems.
Religion as resistance
In their youth, my parents participated in the anti-apartheid movement, attending meetings and outlawed protests. From birth their lives had been prescribed by the apartheid regime, from the suburbs they could live in to the beaches they could swim at to the benches they could sit on; there was little it saw fit to leave unregulated. Both of their families had been forcibly relocated from District Six when it had been reclassified as a whites-only area. They attended Coloured schools, where they were taught by both white and Coloured teachers. At one of these schools, my teenaged mother challenged a teacher for making a racist comment and subsequently chose to leave the school when they backed the teacher instead. My father’s father was a Shaykh, his uncle an eminent Islamic scholar known across both the Cape and wider South Africa.
Theirs was a small, tight-knit community in which everyone knew everyone else. They had in-jokes and made darkly humorous attempts to cope with the difficulties of life… They married exclusively within the community or sometimes to those classified as Asian; to have relationships with a white person would have contravened a piece of legislation called the Immorality Act. In many homes people gathered regularly, particularly on Thursday nights ahead of the holy day of Friday, to make dhikr, melodic remembrances of Allah. These Thursday night gatherings were known as gadats and were typically accompanied by a cardamom-spiced milk drink known as gadatmelk (translated literally as ‘gadat milk’). It is said that the melodies of gadats were born from slavery, disguising religious practice as mere singing to the ears of their masters.
Land, sea and sky
Foreigners who tried to anchor at Erub Island generally risked being beheaded. But Dabad told his warriors not to touch these men. ‘He’s telling them not to touch these people or he will have their head and no one wanted that so they just stopped there,’ says Pastor Gebadi. ‘Finally, the peace came about and they accepted the Bible and put their weapons aside.’
This was Zulai Wan, the Coming of the Light, or the coming of Christianity to the Torres Strait.
A cynic’s guide to unbelief
When I was a little girl, my parents would scold me with scripture. ‘Sita,’ my mother would say, ‘where there is love, nothing is too much trouble and there is always time,’ which was her way of telling me to stop whining. If my brother and I would fight, she would say: ‘So powerful is the light of unity, that it can illuminate the whole Earth,’ as though our altercation over the TV remote was the reason for ethnic tensions in Kosovo. My father was the same, always on about justice and mercy and truth. The Most Great Sin in our house was backbiting and gossip. ‘Thou shalt see with thine own eyes and not through the eyes of others,’ he would say, ‘and shalt know of thine own knowledge and not through the knowledge of thy neighbour.’ Needless to say, my breaking news – that Jessie Stevens told me Marjory Klimt was pregnant to Scotty Graft and her parents were making her drop out of school – was not welcome at our dinner table.
Feeling our way to utopia
Today democracies around the world are being voted down by electorates looking for right-wing authoritarian leaders who will fire up their grievances, insecurities and disappointments – who will gladly target the ‘elites’ and enact something like the ‘general will’ instead of prosecuting the greater good.
But it’s not only right-wing extremists who have embraced the politics of feeling, sensibility and blame. Increasingly those who consider themselves left, progressive and tolerant spend a great deal of time assigning culpability to ‘the privileged’, a conveniently vague catch-all category, when they would be better off considering pragmatic class issues and promoting practical reforms that will work for the whole of society. When the sensibility-rich slogan of ‘who’s to blame?’ outguns ‘how do we fix this together?’, society is in big trouble.
I am reminded here of the moment in Saul Bellow’s novel Herzog when the eponymous hero, surveying the wreckage of twentieth-century dictatorships, remarks: ‘Sentiment and brutality, never one without the other, like fossils and oil.’
It’s certainly hard work finding leaders who are prepared to lead by sense and not sensibility these days. In fact a quivering alertness to sensibility is very much in the minds and hearts of the men and women who run Australia. Politicians, business leaders, vice-chancellors, political parties and publishers are all too eager not only to listen to the feelings of their most emotion-led constituents but also to appease and placate whoever complains loudest.
Gay saints
Frescoes are cinema avant la lettre, or at least the tech. Wall spanning, the Renaissance frescoes anticipate not only the magnitude and dynamism of cinema but the possibilities of the camera to manipulate the eye. For Pasolini, cinema is essentially oneiric; key narrative developments hinge on dreams, as in Accattone, not because they are shortcuts to the interiority that cinema otherwise denies but because films themselves are dreamwork, beholden to dream logic. In the written Gospel According to Matthew dreams are especially prominent, the otherwise gnomic character of Joseph receiving no fewer than four nocturnal communiques from God. To dream, then, is to be most open to communion with the supernatural, the sacred and the divine.
The streetwalking sequences in Pasolini’s second film, Mamma Roma (1962), typify both his understanding of films as dreams and his conflation of the sacred with the profane. Striding through an open-air brothel, Anna Magnani’s Mamma Roma is trailed by a procession of johns, imperiously indifferent to their presence as she soliloquises divergent scraps of autobiography. The transition from realism to dream logic is seamless – her separate accounts of her erstwhile marriage explicitly contradict one another, leaving the mystery of her son Ettore’s father unresolved.
Girls to the front
If there are no women in leadership in a synagogue, many of us don’t bother to come. Or if we do come, we know there’s no real point joining a board or committee – our opinions count for less. And this means that Orthodox Judaism risks losing a new generation of Orthodox women – women like me, who would never accept equivalent lack of opportunity and education in our professional and personal lives.
Mustard seed
There are others like me, those who have, in faintly euphemistic terms, left the church, what we might otherwise call the spiritually unmoored, though we’ve invented specific words for them: lapsed – adjective, mildly noncommittal, perhaps only temporary; apostate – noun, sharper, less impassive. But whatever you call us, no matter the nomenclature, we’re now foreigners, I believe, in one place or another, still too much of this to be that, betrayed by something like a subtle accent, a vowel bent out of shape, if you watch or listen for it closely enough.
Dominion
My disquiet over the influence of the religious right in Australian politics is entirely a product of my upbringing. My parents, for reasons of circumstance and naivety mostly, found themselves enmeshed in a religio-political group called Logos Foundation in the 1980s. Logos has the dubious honour of trying, but failing, to bring Christian reconstructionism into mainstream politics. The Foundation was ‘the political arm’ of the Covenant Evangelical Church (CEC) – ‘the spiritual arm’ that subsumed the Pentecostal church my parents attended on Sydney’s upper north shore.
Under a spell
We’re in Creswell to see the anti-witch marks. Known more formally as apotropaic marks, they are shapes, symbols and letters carved into caverns and stables and homes and churches. It is widely accepted that they were believed to protect against not only witches but anything supernatural and nefarious. The marks date most often from the sixteenth to eighteenth centuries, coinciding with the height of the witch-hunts that saw thousands of people, mostly women, executed throughout Europe.
Apotropaic marks consist of curving lines known as daisy wheels and hexafoils. Their mechanism of protection works to trap demons in the stone by tricking them into following the lines, around and around, for eternity. Sometimes they are Marian symbols, made up of ‘M’ or ‘V’ or ‘A’, to invoke the Virgin Mary. Other apotropaic marks are even more basic. They can be in the form of a burn mark to prevent a fire taking hold. They can be found above the stall of a prized horse, in cellars, on lintels, mantels, doorways, windows.
Apotropaic marks are a sort of magic that lingers. Entwined so closely with domestic spaces, they are frequently overlooked.
Auburn Falls
Auburn Falls is important; it hums a harmony that resonates within your body. Being here today, feeling the vibration of the racing water up through the rock into my body, feels like a pilgrimage. My eyes track my five niblings and I wince. A whisper inside me: it should be six. Another first. First Christmas without Akel. First New Year. First time at Auburn Falls. Wait, did he ever get to see this place? His sick little body may not have made the walk. Surely someone carried him here just once? Or is it one more thing our baby will never get to do?
On the contrary
I think it’s just [about] really trying to put yourself in the pain of the person you disagree with most. I think that’s the trick. If you put yourself in that place where you really understand why they think the way they think and why they behave the way they behave, that it comes from this pain they have – once you put yourself there and you start writing jokes, you have a different kind of freedom, and I think that comes from compassion.
Through the looking glass
My research and practice centres on the home as an ideological, political and economic contradiction. Images and screens and consumer, decorative and utilitarian objects all function in the home with a level of deceitfulness. Aside from their utility or aesthetic pleasure, these images and objects enter the home with ulterior motives, as they are key to the dissemination of the neoliberal agenda…
Up for debate
Debate emphasises different ideals. You are forced to argue for positions you don’t believe and, regardless of your stance, you learn always to consider the opposing perspective. That is quite literal: after preparing your case, you turn to a different sheet and write the four best arguments for the other side or mark up your argument for its flaws and inconsistencies. Paper and pen. That is countercultural at a time when we expect a tight nexus between speech and identity, and I think there is something to be gained from such role-play.
The work
The contours of Abe’s move were becoming apparent, though I still wasn’t too concerned. ‘We,’ I said, evenly. Abe had never parented in his life. He wasn’t going to start now. He’d sacrificed six children on the altar of his art – and unlike the mothers of those children, I understood why: a self couldn’t be divided. It couldn’t be poured into anything but the work.
Abe watched me with greedy expectation. I was surprised that he’d chosen this tactic to wound me. The guilt of refusing a needy four-year-old would hurt a little: I wasn’t heartless. It would probably feel much the same as witnessing Isabelle’s pain. But it wasn’t going to hurt a lot.
Tawny child
Carefully, Morgan loosened the fabric. The crying increased in volume. Eventually, the small dark head of a bawling, tawny child emerged into the clear light. Morgan looked at the child with her eyes narrowed and her lips pursed, as if she were considering an heirloom of unknown value.
Hans took the envelope from the fingers of the man in the blue suit and tore the gold seal. Inside were five crisp, dry banknotes.
The man in the blue suit told them that such payments would be forthcoming every month, and that the child’s name was Many-gift in the local dialect, but they were to refer to him as Albert and raise him as their own.
The window
One dinner, in the midst of playing with Seb in the reflection, Rudi laughing and squealing away, there came the distinct burst of a sob. We stopped in our tracks, looking around at each other in confusion until we located the downturned whimpering in Tim’s eyes and mouth.
What is it? I asked, putting my hand on his shoulder. He turned and buried his face into my neck. What is it? I repeated.
I don’t like them, he moaned, his hand pointing towards the window.
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