Rules
rule. They tell us where to drive our
cars, what to wear, how to conduct our social relationships, how to do our jobs,
how to preserve our health, how to play our games. Some are written in stone, others in
sand. Some are flexible enough to bend;
others break easily. Some seem to fall from the sky; others are the fruit of
debates and votes. Some support
traditions which seem arbitrary. The
worst kind are the unwritten ones, which lurk below the surface like land
mines, ready to explode without warning.
I learned an
important unwritten rule on my first day of school. I had been seriously ill, and was not able to
attend school until the academic year was well under way. My mother tried to help by teaching me to
read, which annoyed my teacher because she thought that was her job. All the other children had slates and chalk;
I had notebooks and pencils, which were rarely used in that classroom because
they were too expensive and hard to get.
The teacher finished the day by having us gather around her while she
told a fairy tale. I thought this was
rather strange because I thought everybody knew the same fairy tales I
did. But she seemed to be enjoying
herself, soaking up the adoration of her listeners, so I tried to be as adoring
as I could. She concluded by saying, “If
you like, you can draw a picture from this story.”
When I arrived
at school the next day, I was horrified to discover that all the other children
had drawn pictures on their slates, and were showing them off proudly to the
teacher. I had interpreted “if you like”
literally, not realizing that drawing a picture was an order, not a
suggestion. I don’t recall what consequences,
if any, I suffered from the misunderstanding, but I do remember how utterly
stupid I felt. I learned that teachers
and other authority figures don’t always mean what they say, and their
utterances have to be interpreted. “If
you like” is a veil over power – let’s pretend that you really want to do what
I want you to do, and we’ll all feel good about ourselves.
I was taught
that “please” is a nice word to use when we make a request. But it actually means “if you please”, which
implies freedom to refuse. In situations
of unequal power, it means absolutely nothing.
The underdog can comply with a smile, or snarl in expectation of being
compelled to submit. Sometimes
manipulation is a strategic alternative.
But we always know who is holding the gun, and fantasize about the day
when it will be our turn.
My confusion
about rules was deepened when the teacher announced that a dentist was going to
visit our class to demonstrate correct tooth-brushing technique, and we were
all supposed to bring a toothbrush to practise with. My grandmother absolutely forbade me to take
my toothbrush to school on the grounds that it was “unhiegenic”. As often happens in situations like this, she
did not discuss the matter with the teacher, but left me to bear the brunt of
her displeasure. Torn between two layers
of conflicting rules, I risked being struck by lightning no matter what I
did. My inability to solve the problem
reinforced my growing belief that I was a stupid, unworthy person who would never
get things right. Long before being exposed to any theology, I was haunted by
the ghost of original sin which could never be erased. Not good enough. No matter how hard I tried, I would never be
good enough.
The existence
of a rule implies that there must be a rule-maker – someone with enough power to
reward the compliant and make life unpleasant for transgressors. Penalties vary from torture, imprisonment and
death to social disapproval and loss of status.
If the law-giver is God, the menu of carrots and sticks extends even
into the after-life.
Rules have one
thing in common: they awaken resistance.
Almost anything becomes attractive once there is a rule against it. We want to flex our muscles, test our power,
find out what we can get away with.
Perhaps it is way of testing where we fit into the pecking order. It feels empowering to frustrate the minions
of law enforcement. Those who can break
rules openly without being challenged are virtually gods.
If we curb our
rebellious impulses, we expect to be rewarded.
If we do everything right and still don’t get the brass ring we
expected, we wail, “Why is this happening
to me?” Why is the vending machine
of blessings not working as it is supposed to?
Did I overlook something? Is the
Rule-Maker unjust? Or is everything random?
Since the time of Job, just about every theologian has taken a kick at
that particular conundrum. But the questions continue.
In 1973, when I
was a newly-minted confirmed Anglican, my parish priest asked me to teach the
confirmation class. I told him I was completely inadequate for the task. He said, “You have just been through the
course. The curriculum is so complex
that it requires a university degree to understand it. And you have teaching skills. You are the best qualified person available.” Because I had not yet learned that no is not
a four-letter word, I took on the role of spiritual guide for half a dozen
twelve-year-olds.
Before the
first class, a woman I had never seen around church delivered her red-headed
daughter, pronouncing “It’s time to get her done.” I smiled and kept my thoughts to myself.
My pupils sat
passively around the table, waiting for the magic to happen. If they showed up for six weeks, they would
get confirmed. Photos would be taken and
documents would be signed. Their parents
would be happy. As far as they knew,
that’s how things had been done from the beginning of time.
I tried to get
a conversation going. Their faces were
blank, reminding me painfully of my first day of teaching. Clearly, my skills were not up to the
task. I would have to rely on the
wonderful curriculum which required a university degree to understand.
Suddenly, the
red-headed girl broke the spell. “Why
should we believe in God? How do we know
there is a God?”
I silently thanked
God for her presence, anticipating a lively discussion. Self-disclosure, sharing of secret thoughts,
perhaps even a teachable moment or two.
The
highest-status girl in the group fixed the newcomer with a withering
stare. “You just have to, that’s all.”
This statement
of the Rule of Blind Faith put an end to the matter. It was above discussion. I surreptitiously looked at my watch,
wondering how in the world I was going to survive the rest of that hour.
The red-head
never returned. I didn’t investigate,
hoping her mother didn’t realize that she was skipping class. I wasn’t familiar with the concept of
spiritual rape at the time, but I was convinced that the worst thing that could
happen to that girl was to be dragged to the communion rail for the hocus-pocus
of laying-on of hands in the name of a god she had not been introduced to.
It didn’t take
me long to realize that the confirmation curriculum might as well have been
written in ancient Hebrew. In the weeks
that followed, I tried to shed some light on the basics – the Lord’s Prayer,
the Creed, the ten commandments, highlights of the catechism. My charges waited quietly for it to be over.
“These kids
don’t have a clue!” I told the priest.
“No way are they ready to be confirmed.”
He shrugged and invoked the Rule of the Expediency of Jumping Through Designated Hoops. “They go to class, they get confirmed.”
Horrified, I
made a pact with my husband that we would not permit the confirmation of our
unborn children until they were at least sixteen and willing to question the
status quo. Some years later, I
volunteered to give confirmation lessons, provided it could be a two-year
program, the first year on general Christian belief, lifestyle and service, and
the second year exploring the specific peculiarities of the denomination. My offer was declined. I was not surprised. For the convenience of the patrons of the
church machine, the most important commitment anyone will ever make is carried
out like a shotgun wedding.
Sometimes our
rules serve us; sometimes they break our spirits; sometimes they lead us to
perdition. But they will never leave or
forsake us. Even in Paradise, we need to
know on which side of the road to drive our cars.
