I don't believe in God. This was cemented for me around the time my goldfish died and it became clear to me that it didn't get to go to heaven. And even if I made it a plastic take-away container coffin lined with tissues, rather than flush it down the loo, it didn't change that fact. So in my mind, if the fish wasn't going to heaven, then my dog wouldn't be going to heaven. And if my dog wouldn't be going to heaven, then I also, most likely, would not be going there either. Why? Because we all had brains and eyes and mouths, so why did my set of those things qualify me for heaven but not Apricot Fish and Toby? It didn't make sense. It was far more logical to conclude that heaven just didn't exist. It was a whole “I’m six and have just set off an existential chain reaction” kind of thing. Part of me wishes it could have come a little later in life, but don't cry for me Argentina: while I couldn't hold on to God, at least I did get to hold on to Santa Claus for a few more years. Beggars can't be choosers.
Saying that, though, a decade later I did manage to create my own deities to worship. To replace the God I had lost with Apricot Fish's passing, when I was sixteen and discovering the power of being a girl and being angry, I managed to develop the self-made holy trinity of Germaine Greer (the father), Naomi Wolf (the son) and Courtney Love (I'm guessing that leaves her as the holy ghost. Makes sense - she sure could wail).
And despite having progressed through the following decade of my life from that point to marvel at Germaine Greer digging in a foxhole of increasing craziness, and to witness Ms Love's fall from the "elegantly wasted" grunge A-list to the Z-list position of celebrity roadkill addicted to plastic surgery and prescription medication: I've still always had Naomi Wolf. The Beauty Myth. So insightful. So relevant. And still relevant two decades later. It responded in shock to the fact we were losing a generation of women to bulimia and anorexia with no international epidemic being announced. Without even any questioning of what could be driving so many, from one gender all over the developed world, to start starving themselves to death. It challenged the unquestioned mandate the media seemingly had to present women however they wanted: with no cellulite, no body hair, and no thighs for that matter. It also altered the way that women thought about those images of themselves they were being presented. It dared to say – you’re apparently through the glass ceiling, sweetheart, but this is why you still don’t feel you got anywhere.
It was the bible for new feminism.
So with Naomi Wolf's visit this week to Melbourne, upon being offered a ticket to see "God" speak, I was of course ecstatic. At the possibility that God, through some fluke of my work connections, was going to perhaps grant me a personal audience? I couldn’t even function. But after hearing the sermon delivered I was left... a little cold. There was nothing ecclesiastical in that auditorium for me. Her argument was ill defined, lacking intellectual rigor and delivered with a boisterous LA accent (that particularly grated during the section where she advised a member of the audience to take up meditation as a way to "counteract negative thoughts"). After that, when I was finally introduced and got to shake her hand - to literally touch God - I'm glad there was no time to say anything. I felt cheated. As a disciple I came away feeling as though I were better equipped to spread the doctrine than the oracle herself.
Perhaps it’s a warning about creating false idols? Or maybe just that Christianity sure has it worked out: they've set it up so that the author of the text can never present themselves to disappoint. One’s deities sure are best kept at arm's length.
You never want to deal with something as tricky as the medium getting in the the way of a good message.
