Friday 19 July 2013

"It isn't hard to do..."

Fransico Goya's "Witches Sabbath"
What if there really was no religion? Would we gain a new level of understanding or all go to hell in a handcart?

‘Imagine’ by John Lennon is one of the 'go-to' songs for those wishing to convey a message of world peace. You can hear it as the backdrop to ceremonial occasions the world over, it’s ever present, becoming almost as ubiquitous as the releasing of a white dove.

It's a little strange given that it asks us to imagine a world with no religion. How many heads of state and other notable dignitaries have unconsciously endorsed the striking of religion from our lives?

But what if we did live in a religion free world? Many would think us destined to descend into an irreversible chaos.

One of the most influential books I read whilst at school was "Introducing Marxism: A Graphic Guide". It was probably my first step towards political awareness (ably assisted by cartoon illustrations).

I remember an early chapter on the symbiotic relationship of the ruling class and religious belief. How Marx believed religion, particularly the fear of God, was a bourgeois tool with which to control the populous and maintain a stranglehold on power.

By instilling the belief that reward would come only in death, and only to those who had lived by the ethical code of a religious doctrine, the elite could quash the desire for rebellion in the working class, rendering the populous placid, docile and compliant to the whims of the bourgeoisie.

As Marx himself put it, "Religion is the opium of the people".

Nothing I have read before or since has been so damaging to my personal belief in the divine and although I can appreciate the many merits of religious community, the premise on which they are founded has long been beyond my acceptance.

On the contrary, the French philosopher of the Enlightenment period, Voltaire, argues that if God didn't exist, it would be necessary to invent him, that people need to believe in a higher power for comfort, to give their lives meaning, to rationalise or form a narrative of why things are.

But wouldn't it be nice to think that humans could make do without? Could accept this finite lifetime for all its natural beauty and absurdity, to be moral, ethical and just without the dangling carrot of a heavenly reward or the looming stick of a hellish comeuppance?

Biologist and primatologist Frans de Waal certainly thinks so, suggesting most of northern Europe, where the vast majority of people are now non-religious, is currently undergoing a form of organic social experiment to see whether a society in which religion isn't the dominant force can still remain a moral one.

de Waal refutes what, he suggests, is the oft held belief that religion was the birth of moral behaviour, claiming that religious morality was somewhat 'tacked on' to pre-existing moral codes, perhaps to "sway morality in a direction that we might prefer".

It does seem to chime with Marx's idea of religion as a primary means to control, and certainly the proliferation of secular societies and charities aiming to better humanity's plight suggests the desire to 'do good' doesn't solely rely on a religious belief.

Morality covered then, but what of the other great pillar of religious purpose - meaning?

Whilst at university in 2001, I remember sitting down with a friend and watching the Sam Mendes film American Beauty on VHS, borrowed from the campus library. Kevin Spacey plays Lester Burnham, a middle aged, middle class man fed up with modern life.

By quitting his insufferable job, taking up a strict fitness regime, smoking marijuana, buying a fast car and listening to loud rock music, he begins to free himself from the prison of his own disillusionment. A mid-life crisis it may be but by the end of the film his pursuit of happiness seems, almost by happenstance, to have reached an end. In fact, the point is, it wasn't really a 'pursuit' at all. More accurately, he has come to an acceptance of his own existence...

It's a sentiment easy to mock, yet another article, again from the endlessly excellent BigThink website, takes up this idea in the context of the Samuel Beckett play 'Waiting for Godot'...

"Like most postmodern literature it’s unclear what, exactly, Waiting for Godot is about. But that’s the point. You create meaning for yourself ... In other words, we’re spending our lives searching for meaning – waiting for our Godot – and failing. The problem, paradoxically, is just that: we’re searching....we know that the search for happiness and meaning is self-defeating: if you’re looking for either, you’ve already failed."

Perhaps one day we'll live in a global society where morality and meaning are intrinsically woven into the very fabric of our existence, hardwired into the minutiae of our everyday lives without us having to seek the approval of a higher being or the validation of a higher reason.

It may seem twee, but there is surely enough beauty and wonder in even the most seemingly insignificant aspect of existence to make us grateful for every single moment of our "stupid, little" lives.

At the end of American Beauty, Lester is somewhat flippantly asked "How are you?". Perhaps we too will be able to pause for a moment, consider the reality of the question and answer, truthfully, "I feel great".

Thursday 11 July 2013

"The folkish summer romance" - Or how Andy Murray conquered the All England Club

yvettemn via flickr
This year's Wimbledon was a heady festival of tennis in which Andy Murray not only conquered his opponents but also the quintessential Englishness of the All England Club.

Of all the sports writing I've devoured since Andy Murray's triumph at Wimbledon, Barney Ronay's article in The Guardian has perhaps best encapsulated the giddy height of his accomplishment...

"It is a genuinely gold-standard achievement for the man from Dunblane, given weight not just by the burden of history and the folkish annual summer romance of Wimbledon itself, but by the fact he is competing in one of the great periods of elite men's tennis."

Indeed, Murray has won the most coveted prize in tennis at a time when, as Billie Jean King recently put it, the sport boasts possibly the four greatest players ever to grace the game - Nadal, Federer, Djokovic and Murray himself.

Yet, despite this undoubtedly remarkable feat of sporting excellence, it is the reference to a 'folkish summer romance' I find particularly interesting.

For isn't it true that the annual fortnight of lawn tennis at the All England Club brings with it a very peculiar strain of English behaviour? It cultivates a quasi-religious fervour in those who have barely a passing interest in tennis for the remaining 50 weeks of the year. 

On the eve of the final they find themselves inexplicably queuing overnight, not for tickets, but for the chance to perch on a proximitous patch of grass, officially called the Aorangi Terrace but also taking on the mythical monikers of Henman Hill or Murray Mound (I prefer to call it Bates' Barrow, a tongue in cheek reminder of the desperate era when Jeremy Bates was our great British white hope - Bates never progressed passed round 4).

So why this bizarre form of mass hysteria?

In clement weather the All England Club takes on a guise of the ultimate garden party, with those lucky enough to attend initiated into an intimate other-world, replete with sporting colossi and celebrity glamour but also stamped with Royal approval. It symbolises a very English sense of propriety and privilege, the grounds dressed in politely disarming whites and greens but also purple - the colour of Royalty.

For so many in the middle class majority, it seems Wimbledon allows them to transcend the divide between their own social status and that of the elite.

As much as I love the BBC, it portrays and fuels this same self-aggrandisement delivering a relentlessly gushing celebrity sycophancy, punctuating the pauses in play with shots of the rich and famous.

It's part of a somewhat callous mystique that surrounds Wimbledon, pervading the general discourse continually. You can hear it when your mother calls the evening after the final, conversation momentarily happening upon the sporting prowess on display before quickly turning to an in-depth sartorial analysis of those in the Royal Box.

It makes its voice heard again when 'Beeb' presenter John Inverdale remarks on ladies champion Marion Bartoli not being the best 'looker'!

It veritably screams at you when, following Murray's final victory, the headline on the front cover of the Daily Mail reads not "Champion" nor "He's done it!" nor even a histrionic "Our hero" but instead opts for the following... "Now it'll be arise Sir Andy". How galling that potentially being bestowed a Queen's Honour is given more import than the skillful artistry of the sporting achievement itself?

Yet, even though I suspect he would accept such an honour gracefully and is certainly happy to channel the heady energy of the Centre Court crowd to his own advantage in a match, what makes Andy Murray such a fascinating character is that he always appears one step removed from the madness around him.

Of course, the clambering English public disliked this fact initially, they want to submerge him in all that Wimbledon represents to them, they want him to get recklessly caught up in the hazy summer vibe, to ultimately validate their own sense of occasion.

Indeed Murray's tears after last year's final loss to Federer temporarily gave them the chink in the armour they craved. Suddenly the relationship between player and public thawed. However, that outpouring of emotion was momentary, no longer relevant after the claiming of the US Open confirmed that Murray's career need not be defined by Wimbledon alone.

To Murray's credit he seems aware of the ongoing circus surrounding him, batting away the wild interview questions with a disregarding pragmatism. Some still choose to interpret this as a stereotypical dourness but it's nothing of the sort. He simply won't play their games nor pander to their pandemonium.

It is that feature of his personality which allows him to shed the burden and, despite overwhelming pressure and expectation, find a way to win.

For Murray is, undoubtedly, a winner, and though in many ways the English love him for ending 77 year wait for a British male champion, there's a small but significantly dark corner of their collective psyche that resents him a little too. It suggests that he'll always be somewhat of an outsider. After all, winning just isn't English is it? Then again, neither is Andy Murray.