Terra Incognita – Or how I’ve come to appreciate some stories from my childhood
It was earlier this year, when several precocious boys of [insert school], in their infinite wisdom, spontaneously decided it was their sacred duty to set the record straight. The topic was raised and, taking fifteen minutes out of morning tea, the intellectual pioneers were to finally settle it: What use is religion for the modern Australian? And as hastily as they had weighed anchor, and put out to sail the supposedly ‘uncharted’ territory, these trailblazing thinkers of 2019 quickly returned to the safety of port. But of course. They could see, looming on the horizon, the cloudbank of questions, each confounding and controversial. Invariably, the conversation turned back to the more domestic matters of adolescent life. If you’re hoping to watch me broach this incredibly problematic matter, and – in an attempt to outdo the philosophers – flail about for eight minutes, you’ve come to the right place. In fact, I’ll not only answer the question – by expounding on the power of trope and story – but more importantly, I’ll describe how a dusty Biblical tale – Abraham’s story from Genesis 12:1 – remained pertinent for a teenager on the edge of graduation, regardless of whether I’m religious, agnostic or atheist. Here’s how I’ve come to appreciate some stories from my childhood.
I think it’s informative to explain how I find some archaic religious texts – the Tanakh, the Bible, the Quran – to continue compelling so many, despite the scepticism and cynicism brought about by the Enlightenment. For the hypothetical people who’ve read up on their Carl Jung – so nobody here – one avenue of explanation is that religious stories are archetypal stories. After some mental gymnastics, I figured that archetypes are ‘universal’ patterns and images, having evolved to represent common themes of existence that transcend time and culture. An example of an archetypal story would be the hero’s journey. We can all resonate with the experience of being lost in the world, answering a call to adventure, discovering a purpose or an ideal, and confronting that antagonistic force obstructing our efforts to redefine ourselves. And we’ve all encountered the archetypal characters, such as the story of Commodus and Maximus in Gladiator, which traces back to that of Cain and Abel. We loathe the one who compensates for his shortcomings with deceit and cruelty, and admire the other who is the embodiment of the ideal, possessing the characteristics that enable him to contend with malevolence and tragedy. In ways comparable to the Brothers Grimm fairy tales, these religious texts have persisted, not only by promising meaningful existence and an afterlife, but by providing distillations of the human condition. Mythology is the projection of the inner world onto the cosmos. Its merit lies in articulating a story that spurs us to strive and attain an archetypal ideal. In doing so, we may empower ourselves to navigate the malaise of life.
Okay, let’s – invariably – bring the discussion back to the domestic matters of life. I’d say my childhood is pretty much dead. While CS Lewis may lament the loss of innocence – and punish the characters in Narnia for ‘growing up’ –, he did subscribe to a holy book that champions the necessity of maturity. So I’ll take his advice, that “[s]ome day [I] will be old enough to start reading fairy tales again” (2009, p.7). We begin with Abraham, who must answer the call to adventure.
You could say that the first commandment isn’t “thou shalt not have any strange gods before Me”. Genesis 12 opens with: “Now the Lord said to Abram: Get out of your country, and from your father’s house, to a land that I will show you”. Each clause is significant. Go out into the unknown! Now that’s the first commandment – “Get out of your country”. Gain some perspective. Unless you’re content with what you already know, it’s necessary to explore new territory. All the talk about lifelong learning is impossible without exploring the unknown. That’s pretty self-evident – leaving your comfort zone to broaden and enrich yourself. The second commandment, “Get out of... your father’s house”, is also straightforward. Get away from your family. Establish your independence. Grow up. It’s a confronting realisation, that I’ve been insulated from hardship due to unearned wealth. While that’s worked out wonderfully for me, my parent’s labour has shielded me from necessity. There’s rarely been any immediate retribution for resting on my laurels, or acting out of line – up until now, I haven’t really been compelled to put myself in order. So maturing was a matter of self-discipline. But with adulthood right around the corner, I’m presented with an opportunity: to reject dependency, and allow necessity to drive me forward, become independent and establish myself in the world.
It’s a scary thought, shouldering that responsibility.
God tells Abraham to ‘go’, and do something with himself. Because if he does go, he’ll become the father of nations. But he isn’t just whisked off to the land of milk and honey. In fact, he leaves safety and security to suffer a famine, end up in the grasps of Egypt’s tyrannical ruler, and find men that can – and would – bang his wife. He’ll have his descendants, but they’ll be enslaved for generations before finally arriving at the destination. And he’ll be long gone by the time that happens. So what the hell, God? You could say that this story is about a dictatorial father beating up his kid while promising a lick of ice cream later. Or that Abraham was so desperate to keep his faith that he’s read good into abject disaster.
But I’d argue that whoever wrote this story was simply being realistic.
Even if things turn out well for you, even if your family flourishes, they’re still going to die; they’re going to get sick; they’re going to be alive, and experience suffering. Like Abraham, I find myself at the cusp of the call to adventure, with the ‘assurance’ that I’ll pay for everything I do – or neglect to do. Here I am; there’s a crisis; I’ll collapse; maybe I’ll bounce forward, or stay down. The question is, how can I weather the storm? Therein lies the merit of this story. The covenant and the ark are the same. And the covenant is to have faith in the structure of existence, so we may sail into the unknown.
