Making a saint out of Newman

I have to say, I have watched the recent scenes of the visit of Benedict the 16th to the United Kingdom, with some amazement. Besides the screams, the adulation, the mumbled apologies and exchange of pleasantries, the highlight was the beatification of John Henry Cardinal Newman. Personally, I have not a single doubt in my mind that he should be recognised. If sainthood provides the context for that to be done – then so be it, and jolly good luck to it. At university, I read his works and they inspired me. I changed my perspective fairly fundamentally because of him. As a student, I read his “Apologia pro vita sua”. And found it both moving and profound.

But until very recently, I had missed something fairly essential about the man. He had a long term relationship with another priest, by the name of Fr Ambrose St John. They lived together for a considerable period of time and it was Newman’s express wish to be buried with him.

His desire was very clear and unambiguous. On no less than three occasions, he indicated it, in writing. The last time, a few months before his death in 1890.

“I wish with all my heart to be buried in the grave of Fr Ambrose St John. I give this as my last, my imperative will.”

On the death or Fr Ambrose, Newman wrote the following:

"I have ever thought no bereavement was equal to that of a husband's or a wife's, but I feel it difficult to believe that any can be greater, or any one's sorrow greater, than mine”.

He had waited some 15 years to be buried with his beloved. This was no will-o’-the-wisp. It was obviously something very clearly thought out. It was something he wanted very passionately.

Two years ago, in preparation for making him a saint – the Vatican gave the order for him to be disinterred and to leave any remains of Fr Ambrose in situ, and to remove Newman’s remains to the Birmingham Oratory.

On opening the grave, very little was found. Some hair, apparently, and a brass plaque with his name. The coffin was a wooden one and the ground wet.

Since discovering this, I have to say my mind has played on it a lot. I am left aghast at the sheer arrogance of it all. Newman had expressed his will in the clearest terms imaginable. Yet the Vatican decided that his body should be elsewhere. I understand that moving the bodies of saints – or people soon to be saints – is “traditional” (whatever that might mean!).

Now, obviously, I think it is at this stage impossible to prove conclusively that Cardinal (now “Blessed”) John Henry Newman and Ambrose St John were lovers. But it certainly looks likely. And one would not need to be a member of the “homosexual lobby” to come to such a likely conclusion, based on the evidence which is already at hand. Whether or not they remained celibate is another matter entirely and, from my perspective anyway, has little bearing on the substance of the enquiry.

But for the church to simply extract elements of his life which they like – and make a big hullabaloo about them and sanctify him because of them, while ignoring other equally significant elements, is sheer cynical manipulation of the facts. Indeed, the same could be said for the way that the church generally does its theology. It parades the easy bits and ignores the more difficult, as a matter of course.

But there is a problem with doing this, because eventually common sense (or science, or history) will catch up with it and expose it as fraud, as it has already, on so many other issues. The secularism of the United Kingdom, which the Pope seems to find so problematic, is in fact not only a consequence of the church’s continued fraudulent theological thinking, but represents a triumph of progress and rational thinking over idiocy and ignorance.

The only way in which this could be seen to be problematic is if one had some kind of vested interest in keeping people stupid, by denying the facts. Such as the facts about HIV/Aids; contraception; women; abortions etc etc. Oh, and did I neglect to mention the historical prevalence of gay and lesbian people within the ranks and hierarchy of the church itself?

On the tombstone where John Henry Newman and Ambrose St John lay buried for just shy of one hundred years, was written the following:

“Out of the shadows and phantasms, into the truth”.

Maybe one day, a long time from now, society will write the same on the grave of the church itself.

Questioning my own position

So, it is now holidays. This means that the child-minder has gone off to enjoy three weeks of holiday in Limpopo – well over 1000 kms from where we are; it means that Leon and I are also on holiday; and it means that the children are not at school. It is a recipe for stress, believe me.

We have done Ratanga Junction. How can I describe Ratanga Junction? “Hell”, would be too easy. In fact, “hell” would be too kind. It is more like taking your brain out, putting it through a shredder and then putting it back in your head, while at the same time using a set of pliers to tear pieces of flesh from your body. And, lest I forget the particular form of torture they seem to have perfected at Ratanga Junction – they force you to listen to indescribable music, which is broadcast from hidden speakers in the foliage, so there is no escape.

Most of the experience is standing in very long snaking queues, full of large parents stuffing themselves on hot-dogs together with fractious, over-excited children – in the baking sun. Then what you do is, you get to go on a ride. Now let me say, right away, that nothing on Gods Earth would make me go on one of these rides. They seemed either to be so tame as to be mind-numbing, even for the 3 – 6 year-olds for whom they were intended. Or, so utterly vicious that I felt my stomach heave just watching them!

There were log boats that got dragged up what looked like mountains to me, and then left to plummet down into a water filled gorge below. (A sign warned, helpfully, that you would get wet on this ride. Indeed, said the sign, you may get soaked). There were twisting things, which seemed designed to make you throw up. There were plastic bubbles in a pond, which you got into, and into which via a kind of reverse vacuum machine, they blew in air and then zipped you up, so that you fell about trying to stand up (An extra R20, that one was). On the other hand, there were silly aeroplanes which went round and round in a circle, at different levels, depending on what you did with the joy-stick; and stupid looking miniature game viewing trucks, which were on a mono-rail.

Needless to say, my children had a ball. More than a ball. Two balls! They want to go back! Oh, woe is me!

And then today, worn out by yesterday’s fairly extreme experience, we decided to let them choose any DVD they wanted to from the DVD loan shop. The youngest boy (6) chooses something about Dinosaurs. Well and good. The eldest (8) chooses Barbie.

Now, I suddenly find myself thrown into a quandary. Why a quandary, I ask myself? If he wants to choose Barbie, then let him choose Barbie! He chose it, I noticed, in a somewhat surreptitious way. The system in this particular DVD loan shop is that you choose your DVD. Then you take whatever box is behind your chosen DVD to the counter, for them to insert the actual DVD. The box you take to the counter is anonymous, in that you can’t tell what the DVD is by looking at it. It was this box which he brought to me. Not wanting to have him watch the axe murderer, because of a lack of supervision on my part, I did my parental duty and demanded to see the actual DVD he had chosen. He pointed out Barbie.

Now there was a millisecond – I have to confess – when my instinct said “Barbie! For crying out aloud! Why would you want to see Barbie?!” But I didn’t. I said, so quickly that he would not have noticed the millisecond’s hesitation, “OK, that’s fine”.

Later, ruminating on the matter, I said to my partner – “Should I have shown disapproval?” He looked horrified! “No!” he said, “that’s exactly the way you would open the closet door!”

Of course, he is completely right. The moment my child detects disapproval, on my part, he will hide it. And that I would not want. So, as it is as the moment, he likes Beyoncé and dresses up like her. He likes Ballet and did it last year at school. He wears a long-haired wig a friend of ours gave the kids as part of a range of dress-up outfits. He is happy when he does these things and he does them in front of us. We have taken the carefully thought through position, that we will neither encourage, nor disallow the behaviour. That, it seems, is who this child is.

But it was my own reaction to his wanting Barbie, which was so intriguing. I am a gay man. I know about gender and stereotypes and about gender roles etc. I know about prejudice. I know about homophobia. But I want to tell you, in spite of all of that, the homophobe in me, is pretty close to the surface. It springs out and confronts me when I least expect it. I may not like it. I may not want it. I may thoroughly disapprove of it and intellectually disavow it, but it is there. And like racism, the thing I need to do, is to keep it in very firm check, so that it does not affect my children.

Tranny Jesus and Fur Coat Jesus

TOP: Bill Burch - Fur Coat Jesus - 2009

BOTTOM: Bill Burch - Transvestite Jesus, 2009

I have just found these amazing pix on a blog I follow – JesusInLove. The one is of a transvestite Jesus, while the other is a rather strange one, I think, if I understand it correctly, cocking a snoot in the direction of some feminists, as well as the more general swathe of patriarchists .

One of the readers of the blog describes them as “disturbing”. Personally, I am way past being disturbed by this kind of imagery – but I suppose I am probably fairly far out on a limb in this regard anyway. I suppose many, if not most religious people would find them “disturbing”, because they are certainly not the norm!

But the point is a relatively simple one – any and all pictures of Jesus are necessarily interpretive. What mainstream orthodox, so-called “Bible believing” Christians may see as the “right” kind of picture of Jesus, others will find offensive.

The really interesting point, though, is this: would a transvestite see this picture as appropriate. Is it remotely possible that he (in this instance) would have such a good and such a positive self-image, that Jesus himself could be represented in this way?

Similarly, would a feminist who resists and resents everything that high heels and fur coats represents, be able to see the trauma of being woman in this representation? Would the kind of woman who wears furs and high heels, but still considers herself to be a feminist be able to discern herself in this picture? Would a woman who is neither feminist, nor dressed in this way see herself there?

Or, is Jesus so fully and so comprehensively defined in patriarchal, hetero-normative terms, that nothing else is even remotely or conceptually (or even artistically possible? I fear that might be the truth.

Caster Semenya and the intersex row

Pic: Sally Gross from Intersex South Africa

As I said when I commented before, Caster Semenya has unwittingly raised the debate about intersex in a way which we have never before experienced in this country. Because now we have the possible anomaly of an intersex person, who is a national hero (I use the word generically), who is black and who has been unbelievably badly treated by the media, the IAAF, and by every bigot in and out of town, the world over.

Winnie Madikizela-Mandela, as she usually manages to do, was in the right place, saying the right things. It is extraordinary to me how she manages to do this - and I say this with the utmost respect and admiration. Because few others of her ilk do the same. If there are flood victims, she is there. If some white shoots black kids on a farm somewhere, she is there. If someone like Caster Semenya is abused by the media after a stunning world championship, she is at the airport to greet her. I have always admired Madikizela-Mandela, despite her many flaws.

But South Africa as a whole, for the first time in history, has had to face the issue of intersex. The radio stations have been jammed with people expressing their opinions on the matter. You will hear it discussed in the lift. I just saw a long interview on the television with Sally Gross, who heads Intersex South Africa talking about the difficulties which intersex people have, the challenges they are faced with, the prevalence of the thing (she said that in South Africa it is as high as 1/500 – as opposed to a world average of 1/2000, which is still pretty high!)

I remember years ago, when I was a priest in rural Lesotho, having to trek for miles into the mountain to a really rural village to bury an extremely old woman. When we got to the village, we found it in trauma. The old lady had been someone everyone in the village had grown up with. Everyone knew her, and loved her. But when the body was washed before burial, it was discovered that she had male genitalia. The discovery traumatised the entire village.

And the same sort of thing is what has happened with Caster Semenya. The official report is still to be released, but bigots should take no comfort in that at all – because the findings seem to have been leaked. She is, in all likelihood, intersex. And sport, like religion, it would appear, does not have a category for anything other than the binary male/female formula. And the people are traumatised because of it.

One wonders why? If this is a condition which is as prevalent as it appears to be, then why is this all so much of a surprise? I note, in the newspapers, at the same time as this story is breaking, that there is another – saying that conservative churches in South Africa, with apparent close ties to the ruling African National Congress, are starting to lobby hard on getting rights guaranteed to Gay and Lesbian people, removed from the statute books, and presumably also, the Constitution.

I would ask them (but of course, they will not hear and nor will they answer intelligibly) just to pause for a moment or two before they rush headlong over the Gadarene cliff, to consider Caster Semenya. Who made her the way she is? Is it her parents fault perhaps? Is it God’s? Or is it just a feature of as yet uncelebrated human diversity?

The salutary point is that often, things are not quite what they might seem. And books should not be judged by covers. And the human species is hugely diverse.

Riversdal: The Beauty and the Beast

Riversdal was named for the Civil Commissioner of Swellendam, Sir Harry Rivers, in 1838. It is a tiny little town, with a population of some 7000, on the N2 between Albertina and Mossel Bay. There seems to be some confusion amongst the locals about whether it is Riversdale (which would be the English version) or Riversdal, which would be the Afrikaans. I suppose it is either. But it is not "Riviersdal" - which would refer, not to a man going by the name of 'Rivers', but rather to the Afrikaans word for 'rivers'.

The houses in the centre of the town are really beautiful. The pictures I took are from just one of the streets I and a colleague walked down. "Couldn't you imagine bringing up you kids here?" she asked. I thought for a minute.

On the one hand, yes, of course I could. The houses all have low walls, if they have any walls at all. The gardens are huge. The town is picturesque and framed with mountains on either side. The fields lush and green. It is tranquil and idyllic.

But then I remembered that this is the town where one of the first Gay couples to legally marry in South Africa lives - (their names are Vernon Gibbs and Tony Halls), and I also remembered reading some time ago just how much stigmatization and ostracising they had to go through, living here. I hear that they have become more accepted over the years, but it must have been hard. Would I want my black adopted children with two male fathers to grow up here? No, I would not. Cape Town is tough enough.

Back to school

In Cape Town, in a way I had never understood it to be in Johannesburg (or even, for that matter Pietermaritzburg), access to resources depends pretty much entirely on where you live. So, when we decided to move to Cape Town, a friend implored me to only consider buying in the Southern Suburbs. Her reason was straightforward. “That is where the best schools are”, she said.

So, being the compliant type that I am, I obeyed. And subsequently, we spent a few months of laast year looking for an appropriate school for our oldest child. Now, yes, it is true, our circumstances are not the usual. We are a same-sexed, white couple, with two adopted black children. And most of the time, life is just as ordinary and as straightforward as anyone could want it to be. But sometimes, one is taken aback by how different, apparently, other people’s reality is. Our first interview with a prospective school principal was a case in point.

She is a homely looking, somewhat pleased with herself white woman, with very clear understandings of what a teacher is and what a parent is. Things have changed somewhat from our first encounter, but I could not help feeling vaguely patronised, then. Perhaps it was the unfamiliarity of the situation. It was difficult to tell.

Now understand, this interview process is, by its very nature, a lopsided one. She is in a position of some considerable power. And you, the parent, are trying to put your best face forward, because you want your child to have access to the school, which, from all accounts, is one of the “good” ones.

So, when she sits you down, folds her arms and says “Look, I’m a very straightforward person. How long have you two been together?” you might be pardoned for wondering whether she would ask a heterosexual couple the same question. You may be pardoned, too, if you bit a large hole in your tongue and refrained from asking her that question, which would certainly be what she deserved. The problem is, she is in a position of some considerable power in this situation, and you are not. So you sit there like a deer in the headlights and meekly say you have been together nine years, for what it is worth.

Then you are then told that your child would not be allowed dreadlocks, if he were to be accepted at her school. You are given a bogus anthropology lesson on the “meanings” of various styles of black hair. They were so preposterous and bizarre, that I can’t even remember them, but what they pointed to was a mindset which remained, shall we say, underexposed?

This was followed, some time afterwards, by an orientation session with all the parents and children, she started by addressing the children. “Let me tell you”, she said, “this is a safe place. And the teachers are going to be just like your mummies. You will get to love them, and they will get to love you, just like your mummies love you”.

Now there is nothing essentially wrong with this. The sentiment is obviously well intended. But she hasn’t thought a centimetre beyond what is usual. Our child doesn’t have a “mummie”. (And, I bet sitting in the audience, our child wasn’t the only one without a “mummie”. ) Furthermore, “Mummies” sometimes don’t love their children. “Mummies” sometimes run off with others and leave their children with someone else. That isn’t something gay, or straight, it is just the way the world sometimes works.

In our search, we also went to another school – a much more “free-spirited” school – where the same-sex thing was seemingly of no consequence. But the prospective teacher, with both parents and the child in the room starts saying “Oh, but he doesn’t have parents, does he?”

I don’t despair. I have no doubt that they are all good and kind people. But isn’t it weird that in this day and age, that this kind of thinking is probably the norm?

It is, essentially, about the dominance of one particular world view over everything else. It is there when whites do it to blacks. It is there when blacks do it to whites. It is there when straights do it to gays and when gays do it to straights.

The problem is, it is mostly unchallenged and unchecked. It is insidious. It gets passed on down the generational line. And it is reinforced, fed and nurtured in the school environment, unless something is actively done to challenge it.

Talking of which - the school my child now goes to has a "diversity group". Very nice. My partner sent them an email, enthusiastic and willing. We never got any reply.

Bruno - Iconoclasm writ large

Sacha Baron Cohen's latest swipe at the universe as we know it, is through the medium of his alter ego - Bruno, a gay Austrian who wants to be the most famous person in the world. The film, using a methodology similar to Borat - that of a travelogue - takes in a very wide range of situational moments: fashion shows; auditions for movies; attempted talk show hostings; charity work; advice with gay conversion specialists; peace-making in Palestine; hunting expeditions; appearances on chat shows in the Deep South aimed at African American audiences, with a black baby that he claimed he exchanged for an iPod. The list of standard, but manipulated situations turned on their heads, goes on. The scenes which work the best are those where he places himself in the firing line - with Hasidic Jews; coming on to three desperately straight backwoods hunters; meeting with a leader of the Al-Aqsa Martyr's Brigade. These are life-threatening situations. I don't know what one feels at the end of them. And the laughter the scene evokes is certainly tinged with alarm, verging on hysteria.

What makes him such a genius, in my estimation, is neither the plot (which is palpable bullshit) nor the acting (which is scrupulously obvious). What makes his genius is his un-erring eye for the uncomfortable issue and the uncomfortable situation. This is a man who understands, more than rest of us, the basis of prejudice and the kind of illogical and incomprehensible violence which prejudice can (and almost always does) bring about.

It is not a film for the under-exposed. If you have any issues - any issues at all - about penises, or sex toys, or race, or queens, or gay people, or gay sex, or porn, or religion - don't go an see this movie. Buy some pop-corn and get a nice DVD. Or choose another one. Any other one, but not this one. Because this one will offend you. It will offend you so much that you will walk out. So trust me, skip it. But if you don't have any issues about things like that, then go and see it and be prepared to have your mettle tested. There is a scene towards the end of the movie, involving cage fighting in Fort Smith, Arkansas, for instance, where the potential for violence is so palpable, with the audience so worked up and enraged, that the effect is completely unnerving.

The audience tonight was fairly young, and some of the in-house responses to the multitude of situations were fairly predictable. Responses, for instance, to some of the really outlandish and utterly explicit gay stuff, from a mostly young audience, was mostly one of astonishment and disbelief. But I would estimate that for your ordinary everyday straight thrill-seeking kewl teenager, the experience must have been fairly harrowing and undoubtedly uncomfortable. Cohen takes no prisoners. There is no-where to hide.

But the lesson in this kind of iconoclasm, is that society is completely riven with prejudice. Of course, it is American society, which is particularly under the spotlight here, but the transposition to our own society is so slight, so minuscule, that you would need to be completely idiotic not to see it. The film is about the adventures of a gay Austrian in middle America, but it easily could be about a lesbian Nigerian in Soweto. And the "gay" issue is simply the medium to mine the vein of societal hegemony. It provides us with a tool to investigate what we all know is there, but perhaps need something like this to expose. It confronts us, in the way good art does. It worries us, and it won't let us be.

There is a kind of denouement at the end of the movie, which indicates the underlying intention of the movie. It is in the form of a song sung by well known, credible personalities, who sing a duet with the character Bruno. Because, despite the over-the-top characterisation and situational mayhem, underlying the movie is the mind of a man who seems to be able to see through the whole hegemonic grip of what is considered normal in the world in which we live.

There was a smattering of applause for the movie, as we all scrambled for the doors. Almost like what sometimes happens after a really bumpy landing. The applause is something like a cross between relief, joy and appreciation that we are not mangled wrecks, but can get out of the plane and carry on with our lives.

I felt lighter of foot, after leaving the cinema. Not in a Pollyanna kind of way. It was much more grown up than that. The man is, like many that went before him, distasteful, but prophetic.