I was in the hospital for six weeks and apart from the spinal tap I don’t remember anything from the first five. The swelling in my brain had damaged my memory. I lost every experience I had from before the hospital. I didn’t even know who my parents were when I first saw them.
My dad had moved to a new church in the time I was away. When I got to the new home I didn’t recognise any of the toys in my room. I did hold on to some things, like language and maths, but sometimes I couldn’t associate words with objects. You have no idea how frustrating it is to know your twelve times table but not the name of the metal things which unlock doors.
Even things I was told that I used to like doing, like going fishing with Dad, I couldn’t remember. It almost cost me a finger on the first and only time we went after I was ill and I tried to unhook a pike by myself and it sucked my finger in and I felt the edge of its teeth in time to pull my finger out.
And I didn’t remember anything about Jesus or God. So all of that had to be explained to me anew. So I wondered what would have happened if I'd died? And I almost did because they caught it so late. With no memory, I didn’t believe in Jesus at the time. Would I have gone to hell? Does god make exceptions? Not if the story of the flood is to be believed because there’s no way everyone on Earth except Noah was irredeemably wicked.
And then I got to the new testament and read this:
Luke 14:26
If any man come to me, and hate not his father, and mother, and wife, and children, and brethren, and sisters, yea, and his own life also, he cannot be my disciple.
And I asked my dad, “How could the bible say that?”
He told me, “It doesn’t mean hate. It means you have to love Jesus first. Jesus has to be more important than anybody.”
That placated me for a while, well, at least till I got time by myself to think about it. There was a new thing to consider: the Bible didn’t actually mean what it said but all of a sudden meant what my dad thought it said. Surely if God was dictating a book he’d say what he meant? But then something else clicked and I picked up my bible to find something I’d read previously.
Matthew 10:35
For I have come to set a man against his father, and a daughter against her mother, and a daughter-in-law against her mother-in-law.
And then I knew beyond doubt, my dad was lying, or was at least deluded. That this religion I’d been lured into was one of hate and death worship. So by the time I realised I was gay I had no problems with the Leviticus injunctions or the implications of the pentitude because I realised it was all a load of rubbish designed to keep people scared and afraid of authority. None of it made any sense when tested against logic and evidence.
But even knowing that doesn’t stop me being afraid of what’s ahead of me. It’s like when you know you have to have an operation or a tooth extracted. A week later you might have tickets booked to Disneyworld but there’s no way you can enjoy the thought of it because there’s this huge wall of pain coming your way and no possibility of seeing past it.
I pick up the list my dad gave me of the things I have to pack. It’s not much: one spare set of clothes, any medicine (I don’t take any so that’s fine) and a wash bag.
I pack the things in about a minute and sit down on my bed again then lie down to try and sleep.
I wake up when my mum calls me down for dinner. And it’s not chicken, that was being roasted for sandwiches tomorrow, it’s much much worse – English spaghetti bolognaise, which is in truth a heap of fried mince with a circle of pasta round the edge. My mum adds baked beans to her recipe because the greasy mince isn’t ghastly enough by itself. I manage to eat about half before I get queasy. The conversation at the table is all about Sri Lanka and by the time we’re finished I realise I’d give anything to be going there now.
I’m finished doing the dishes when the doorbell goes. Is this it? Am I going now?
"Isla, get up to your room." My dad goes to answer the door and Isla follows behind him.
I look at my mum. Tears are already dripping down my face. “I don’t want to go, Mum.”
“Now don’t be silly.” says my mum. “Is your bag all packed? Did you bring it down?”
“I don’t want to go, Mum. Don’t make me go.” I sob.
Then my dad comes back in followed by three big men, one with black hair, one with a beard and one bald, all wearing black boots, black jeans and black jackets with Leviticus Ministries emblazoned on the front. I feel my heart pound and my mouth go dry.
“What are you crying about?” asks the bald man in a thick American accent. “We’re not going to hurt you. We’re here to take you on vacation.”
Yeah, I’m sure, because it takes three men who look more like thugs to escort you on your Summer holiday. They might as well be carrying nightsticks.
“I don’t like them, Mum.” I look her in the eyes. “Please don’t let them take me away.”
My mum takes another glance at them. I can tell she doesn’t much like the look of them either. They’ve come mob-handed for me. “Peter, I’m not sure if this is such a good idea.”
I run over and hide behind her and I know she won't let them take me.
My dad signs a form against the wall and hands it to the bald man. “There you go.” He gives him a nod.
I run back to put as much distance between the men and me as possible. They head directly for me.
My dad walks over to my mum and holds both her hands in his.
“Don’t try to fight us,” says the bald man, “you don’t have a hope.”
I try to dart through them but the bearded man’s ape-like hand gets a hold of my arm. I can feel him pushing his thumb into my elbow socket and I keel over and a cry out in pain. Before I can do anything about it the black haired man takes my other hand and they haul me up, arms forward while the bald man pulls out a set of handcuffs.
“Mum,” I scream, “Mum, get them off me.”
I see her now looking into my dad’s eyes as they say the Lord’s Prayer together while the bald man shackles me and I see exactly how wrong I was.
The three men drag me outside and put me into a people carrier. There are two other boys in there already.
One is blond and young: twelve, maybe thirteen, all curls and freckles. He is either asleep or he’s been drugged. The other boy seems more my own age. He has a black crew cut and looks like he’s just been crying. Though who am I to judge as I only just stopped myself. He looks up at me for a moment and gives a solitary dejected nod. “I’m Lewis.”
“I’m Malachi.”
The bald man knocks at the window and motions for me to roll it down.
“Put your arms out here.”
I do so and he undoes the handcuffs.
Then my dad gets to the car, carrying my bag.
“I’ll take it,” says the bald man. “It’s best you leave him with us now. We’ll take good care of him and you don’t want to make it any harder on him than it already is.”
The thugs get into the front of the car and drive off. I see my dad looking at me as we pull away. He gives a single wave but I don’t acknowledge it or look at him. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to look at him again.
There’s one thing I know for sure: he’s put Jesus ahead of me and turned against his own son. I bet he’s feeling so proud right now.
Chapter Five
I often wonder what is it that has driven the evolution of laws in our society in the more liberal direction of freedom and equality and away from the dictates of religion. I don’t think it is a single factor. To make this clear you only need to look at any one of the thousands of books written on the politics of the twentieth century to see that this is a complex issue without a single answer. I do think that a part of it is the system of democratic laws with its ongoing conversation but I also think there is something deep down inside of us all, something which we all know and with which we can all identify.
I think it’s what’s known as the golden rule. S
imply stated it goes something like this: do unto others as you yourself would be done by.
The thing I’ve found about the golden rule is that it pops up in some form in almost every culture that has ever existed:
In China – Never impose on others what you would not choose for yourself. — Confucius (551–479 BC),
In Greece – Do not do to your neighbour what you would take ill from him. — Pittacus (640–568 BC),
In ancient Rome – Expect from others what you did to them. — Seneca (4 BC–AD 65),
In India – Hence by self-control and by making right conduct your main focus, treat others as you treat yourself. — The Mahabharata (900-400 BC).
Most religions also have a version of it:
In Buddism – Hurt not others in ways that you yourself would find hurtful. — Udanavarga 5:18;
In Christianity – And as ye would that men should do to you, do ye also to them likewise. — Luke 6:31 (c. 60-90AD).
From Hinduism – If the entire Dharma can be said in a few words, then it is – that which is unfavourable to us, do not do that to others. — Padma Purana 19/357-358 (c. 500BC).
From Islam – You should forgive And overlook: Do you not like God to forgive you? And Allah is The Merciful Forgiving. — Qur’an, Surah 24 v. 22 (632-650AD).
Jainism – Just as sorrow or pain is not desirable to you, so it is to all which breathe, exist, live or have any essence of life. To you and all, it is undesirable, and painful, and repugnant. —The Acaranga Sutra (454 AD).
Judaism – You shall not take vengeance or bear a grudge against your kinsfolk. Love your neighbour as yourself: I am the LORD. — Torah, Leviticus 19:18 (c. 538–332 BC).
And even Taoism – Regard your neighbour’s gain as your own gain, and your neighbour’s loss as your own loss. — T’ai ShangKan Ying Pian (c. 1100-1200AD).
That last version is my favourite rendering.
The point is that in whatever form it is written it suggests that you should treat people the way you would like to be treated and, whether you agree with the sentiment or not, it would seem to point to something ubiquitous in the nature of all of humanity: the ability to empathise and put yourself in someone else’s position when considering the repercussions of your own actions.
One might call this the rational side of the conscience.
But what I can’t escape from is the feeling that this car journey, wherever it leads, is taking me away from the golden rule and to a place where there will only be The Bible rule. A rule that is set in stone and has remained unchanged by the progress of civilisation, chiefly to those who would kill abortion doctors and stone gay people if they got the chance – Baptists.
I’m gay and an atheist. I’m gay and an atheist. Is it possible to be so sure about yourself, to be so sure of who you are and yet still be terrified that you can be changed, not by evidence or reason, but by indoctrination and fear?
I am scared of that and of possibilities far far worse.
We are driving through the night: the thugs, my fellow captives, and me, in this car which smells of stale cigarettes and spilled coffee. I try to keep track of where we’re going: west on the A4 for hours, for which I try to close my eyes and sleep. I’m awake when we turn onto the M5 at Bristol but we leave it soon after for country lanes and I haven’t caught clear sight of a signpost since.
They are quiet up front, listening to a talk station I can barely make out and paying no attention to their captives. Lewis hasn’t looked up at me through the entire journey.
On the whole I don’t like going places. My parents know this about me and sometimes I have to be dragged out of the house. The only exception to this is the local library and museums. I love museums, they are the best places in the world. It was the first time I went to the Science Museum in London when I decided I was going to be a scientist but my best ever visit happened during the last Easter holidays.
I was in the library looking at Sam Hawnett’s blog. By that time I’d become a total fanboy and I’d read every book he’d written and every article I could get hold of. I was impressed the way he demolished my dad in all five of the debates in which they’d met.
There was a new blog post in which he announced he had a new book coming out on the science of the simulated reality hypothesis. It was something he’d mentioned in articles before: the idea that we’re all living in a simulated world.
I know it sounds out-there but the logic behind it is philosophically sound: advanced societies will no doubt run simulations (think of advanced, virtual world computer games) of historical times. That means for every real world there will be an exponential number of simulated ones. So it’s very likely our reality is a simulation.
Even better than the announcement itself was the fact he’d posted his penultimate draft on line and offered anyone who could find something he’d missed or a problem in his arguments a complete set of his books – signed.
I got to work right away and on the first read through there was nothing I could find fault in but I read it through again anyway and the second time, when I was reading the chapter, Computational Power, it occurred to me that I did have an idea he hadn’t put in the book. It came from an observation of the Copenhagen interpretation of quantum physics.
This is best described by a thought experiment called Schrödinger’s Cat.
You take a cat and you place it in a metal box along with a Geiger counter (which detects radiation) which is then connected to a mechanical stamping device. Under the stamper you place a vial of poison strong enough to kill the cat.
Then you place in a small amount of radioactive material, like uranium, enough of it so that once the boxed is closed and the Geiger counter is turned on for one minute, there will be a fifty percent chance that the uranium will decay one atom, the Geiger counter will pick it up, the stamper will crush the vial of poison and the cat will die, leaving an equal chance that this wont happen.
So you shut the box, switch on the power to the Geiger counter and give it a minute. Now, did an atom of uranium decay or not? Is the cat alive or is the cat dead?
The thing is, in the quantum world, something happens that goes against any rational thought or any notion of common sense you might have: the atom both decays and doesn’t decay and what happens isn’t decided until it is observed. So in fact the cat is both alive and dead at the same time until you open the box.
My idea was quite simple and something I figured he must have considered. In a simulated universe these kinds of events must be happening all the time. The computers running them must be powerful but still limited in capacity. So there would be no point in resolving unobserved interactions that didn’t directly effect observers: the people in the world. Therefore, this effect was evidence of conservation of resources because the computer power would only need to be used in resolving observed effects. I felt that this made the hypothesis more likely.
I also told him about a couple of my other ideas which were unrelated to his book but I thought there might be a chance he’d tell me what he thought of them.
A week later I got a lengthy email back from Doctor Hawnett about my observation on his work and about three pages worth of feedback on my other ideas. He also asked me a question I wasn’t expecting: Which university are you working at?
Then he told me he’d be including an analysis of my idea in the final draft of his new book, which meant I’d won a signed copy of his book collection and could I give him my address so he could send them to me.
And that’s almost what I did until I realised what a stupid move it would have been because if my Dad saw them, I didn't know what he'd do.
I was so excited to have made contact with Doctor Hawnett. I sent an email back thanking him for his feedback. I told him the truth, kind of: I told him I was about to sit my A-levels and was unsure about which university I should attend and what degree I should take. I didn’t tell him how old I was or who my dad was because I was sure he wouldn’t want to meet me if I
did. So it wasn’t a total lie.
The thing is, I’d seen his Wikipedia page and so I knew he lived somewhere in London with his wife. I finished the email saying I too lived in London and asked if there was any way I could pick up the books from him in person.
I got an email back an hour later: I’m going to be at the Science Museum this Saturday for a meeting. How about you meet me by the steam engines at 11am. We could go for a wander round the museum and talk about your university choices.
I replied in the affirmative at once.
This Saturday was two days away and I don’t think I’ve ever been happier or more excited in my life with all the anticipation I was feeling. I went over and over it in my head, imagining what it would be like and us talking about science all day.
I’d been able to go to museums by myself since I was twelve, which was fortuitous, because what I had planned would have been impossible if I had to go with my parents or anyone they knew. It wasn’t like my parents might have thought him untrustworthy or that he was a gay axe-murderer in secret and I’d never been seen again. It was that for all intents and purposes he was my dad’s enemy – someone who thought precisely the opposite as him when it came to religion, which, as far as my dad was concerned, was the only thing that mattered.
I was half running after I got through the barriers at South Kensington. There’s this huge underground tunnel which connects all the museums and when you get down there it feels like you’re entering another world. It’s a foreshadowing preparation for leaving your normal life behind and getting ready to be overwhelmed by everything you’re about to see. I walked down there so fast, away from the world of religion and into the world of science. I went through the main doors and over to the steam engines on the left hand side. Standing where we’d said we’d meet was Dr Sam Hawnett.
The Crucifixion and Resurrection of Malachi the Queer Page 5