Cults: what's good and what's bad about them

 In some circles, it seems, the word "cult" denotes something that is automatically assumed to be bad, and some people who make this assumption use it to denigrate groups that they don't like, while others seem to think that the word should not be used at all because they see it as derogatory. 

I find this attitude rather strange, and it seems to be difficult to discuss it. The people who think like this seem to simply take the line "It's a bad word, don't use it. End of discussion," or "it's a bad thing, so I'm just calling a spade a spade."

So what is a cult?

Is it a useful word for describing a bad thing, or a bad word used to indoctrinate people into thinking that something good or neutral is a bad thing?

My Concise Oxford Dictionary defines "cult" as follows:

cult n. system of religious worship; devotion, homage, to person or thing (the ~ of)

To determine whether any given phenomenon is a cult, therefore, one must determine whether it is a system of religious worship, or whether it involves devotion to a person or thing. These are fairly objective criteria, and it should be easy to determine whether a phenomenon is a cult or not.

When one has established that a phenomenon is a cult, determining whether it is good or bad is far more subjective. That would depend on whether one thinks that what is worshipped, or what receives the homage and devotion, is worthy of it.

For example, there are two books that I would like to read on the cult of the saints. One is The Cult of the Saints by St John Chrysostom, which is a series of sermons on the lives of Christian saints, and the other is The Cult of the Saints: its Rise and Function in Latin Christianity by Peter Brown.

In both these books the word "cult" is used in its proper and legitimate sense, and it is in no way pejorative. St John Chrysostom, in particular, regards the cult of the saints as a good thing. I too regard the cult of the saints as a good thing.

I do believe, however, that there can be, and are, bad cults. A few years ago I discussed the cults of two unscrupulous businessmen who became politicians, one living and one dead. I discussed the cults of Cecil Rhodes and Donald Trump in the course of reviewing a book called The Cult of Rhodes.

In my view these cults were bad, because I did not think that Cecil Rhodes or Donald Trump were worthy of such homage or devotion. Your view may differ. You may think that one or both of them were saints, or, even if not actually saints, at least worthy of homage or devotion. So opinions on whether the cults of these men are good or bad may differ.

But opinions on whether the adulation of these men, Trump while he is still alive, and Rhodes after he died, constitutes a cult also seems to be a contentious matter.

The word "cult" has, mainly in the 2nd half of the 20th century, been misused to describe "new religious movements", "minority religions" and various other groups of people. A recent book dealing with this misuse is 'Cult' Rhetoric in the 21st Century, and the description on the GoodReads site is as follows:

This book focuses on how 'cult rhetoric' affects our perceptions of new religious movements (NRMs).

'Cult' Rhetoric in the 21st Century explores contemporary understandings of the term 'cult' by bringing together a range of scholars from multiple disciplines, including sociology, anthropology, psychology, and religious studies. Ranging from the 'Cult of Trump' and 'Cult of COVID', to the campaigns of mass media, contemporary 'cult' rhetoric has become hybridised and is common vernacular for everyday people. The contributors explore these issues by analysing how NRMs have developed over the past decades and deconstructing the language we use to describe these movements.

I can see several problems in the description, but there's no way I can afford to buy the book. and owing to bureaucratic bunglings at the Unisa Library I no longer have access to an academic library so I can't get hold of it that way.

Religious organisations and groups, whether new or old, usually have cults, which they practise, but it is rather misleading to say that they are cults. All Christian bodies, for example, practise the cult of Jesus who is called Christ. Some of them practise the cult of the saints, mentioned earlier.

Cults may be either good or bad, depending on whether you judge the object or person worshipped or to which or to whom homage and devotion are paid is worthy of it. But it is high time we stopped using the word pejoratively, or demanding that it be banned simply because it assumed to be pejorative. 

 

A Game of Thrones for Kids: The Threads of Magic

The Threads of Magic by Alison Croggon
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

A bit like A Song of Ice and Fire by George R.R. Martin, but for kids. There are some differences, however. Though both are of the sword and sorcery genre, A Song of Ice and Fire has too much sword and not enough sorcery, while The Threads of Magic has too much sorcery and not enough sword. But there is plenty of political wheeling and dealing, power struggles, and back-stabbing, on all sides.

In the city and kingdom of Clarel, the royal family had been taken over by evil being called spectres, though a non-spectral usurper had temporarily ousted the spectres from the royal family itself, but were clearly no better than spectres. The church's leadership, represented by a sole Cardinal, is possibly also infested with spectres, who eliminated their enemies, the witches, a century earlier, and have a team of assassins to ensure they never reappear.

And then there is Pip, a 12-year-old orphan who lives with his older sister Eleanor, and supports them by picking pockets in the Dickensian city. Unfortunately he picks the pocket of an assassin, getting a magical artifact in a jewelled box. He pawns the box and is about to throw away the artifact, the shrivelled heart of Clovis, the heir to the throne and next-in-line for spectreship, had the throne not been taken by the usurper and his heart by a witch when he was seven. And Clovis, whose spirit is trapped in the heart by the witch, wants Pip to keep him.

Oh, and there's a Princess Georgette, whose father wants to marry her off to a neighbouring King for the sake of a political alliance. And there are numerous other characters too, all taking part in this complicated wheeling and dealing political dance, with each party dancing to the music of its own band, playing its own tune, and out of tune and with sudden changes of tempo.

I found it hard to like any of the characters very much. They all seemed emotionally unstable, being kind one moment and nasty the next. The settings seemed inconsistent too -- witches had been eradicated a century earlier, and then one or two appear, and then suddenly they are there in large numbers and have been all along, and even dominate one quarter of the city, and are behind the running of a midsummer festival in which everyone takes part. And at the end of the story, no one seems to know, or care, what happened to the heart that started all the trouble.

While I didn't think it was a great story, I'm glad I read it, because I also write fantasy stories, mainly for kids, and this book shows a lot of the things that one should avoid -- things one should bear in mind when editing one's own writing. 

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A Literary Mystery: Who was Elizabeth Charlotte Webster?

 

More than 60 years ago, while browsing the shelves of the Johannesburg City Library (in the days when Johannesburg actually had a city library) I came across a book with the rather odd title Expiring Frog, so I pulled it from the shelf, and discovered that it was written by Elizabeth Charlotte Webster, and was about a (fictional) community of Anglican nuns in the (fictional) City of Geldersburg, which could have been the whole Witwatersrand or any town or city within it. 

I knew of two communities of Anglican nuns in Johannesburg at that time: the Order of the Holy Paraclete (OHP), who ran the St Benedict's Retreat House, and whose mother house was at Whitby in England; and the Community of St Mary the Virgin (CSMV). who ran St Mary's Diocesan School for Girls in Waverley (and another similar school in the Diocese of Pretoria). The CSMV mother house was at Wantage in England, and they were sometimes known as the Wantage Sisters. 

The Anglican chaplain at Wits University, where I was a student, was Father Tom Comber, and he was also the chaplain of St Mary's School. Father Comber recruited male university students who lived in the vicinity of the school to function as altar servers in the school chapel on Sundays. Back in those days in the Anglican Church the girls could carry candles in processions as acolytes, but they could not serve within the altar. As servers, we were chastely clad in white albs and amices, and black shoes were obligatory, so our appearance was largely uniform, other than the fluorescent orange or green socks we wore, to the tittering of the girls in the congregation.

In reading Expiring Frog, however, I pictured neither the CSMV nor the OHP sisters, or their dwellings, but rather the Roman Catholic Convent of the Good Shepherd, whose grounds formed the view from our flat in Cheltondale. Expiring Frog begins with Sister Lilian who fed the fowls at the Convent of Serapha of Sicily, and the view from my desk was over a green field on which Friesland cows grazed, which were fed, and for all I knew, milked, by an ancient sister bent over double like the Greek capital letter gamma, carrying two buckets of feed for the cows. The sisters there also ran the Good Shepherd Home, a kind of orphanage, and that seemed closer to the function of the Convent of St Serapha of Sicily in providing a home for fallen women.

I read the book and thought it was OK, but nothing outstanding. I occasionally thought about it and the quite at the beginning, from The Pickwick Papers

Can I view thee panting, lying
On thy stomach, without sighing
Can I unmoved see thee dying
On a log
Expiring frog!

And clearly, in the book, the "expiring frog" was a symbol of the Anglican Church.

The book belongs in a general category of novels about the Anglican Church, its clergy and monastics, by authors like Anthony Trollope, Ernest Raymond and Susan Howatch. One of the best written in a South African setting is one I recently reviewed, A Sin of Omission by Marguerite Poland.

A few years ago I saw a street bookstall selling second-hand books, and found there a copy of Expiring Frog, and bought it, just in case I should ever want to read it again, because I'd never seen another copy anywhere. And it's sat, unread, on my shelves for the last 20 years or so. A previous owner was R.J. (or R.G.) Jabobs. There appears to have been another owner before that. but it has been rubbed out, and I can't read the name. But having the book, with publication details, I was able to enter it into GoodReads, and mark it as read.

But in GoodReads there is no information  about Elizabeth Charlotte Webster. She apparently wrote a couple of other books, one of which could be a different edition of this one, with a different title, and possibly other changes as well, but there seems to be no biographical information about her. Web searches reveal nothing. So who was she? That is something of a literary mystery.

There was an Elizabeth Charlotte Webster who married Richard Anthony Hulley in Trinity Church in Grahamstown, Cape Colony, on 17 November 1880, and her signature in the marriage register looks quite similar to that of the author of the book, and the differences could be explained by the gap of 46 years. But the Elizabeth Charlotte Webster who married Richard Hulley appears to have died in Southern Rhodesia in 1901.

There is also a Wikipedia article:

Mary Morison Webster (1894 – 1980) was a Scottish-born novelist and poet who came to South Africa with her family in 1920. She lived in Johannesburg, where she was an influential book reviewer for The Rand Daily Mail and Sunday Times for 40 years. She wrote five novels, including one in collaboration with her sister, novelist Elizabeth Charlotte Webster, and several collections of poetry.

Amazing things I learned at Fairmount School in Johannesburg

Over the last couple of weeks I've had reason to remember various things I have learned, and I'm quite amazed at how many of them I learned in Standard 1 (Grade 3) at Fairmount Government School in Johannesburg. I get the impression that it is now called Summerwood Primary School -- I'm not sure why or when the name changed, but I think it is the same place. 

This morning it was a discussion on English usage. Someone asked whether in English the word "camel" applied only to the two-humped Bactrian camel, and that the one-humped ones were not camels, but dromedaries, as they apparently are in French.

And my mind took me back to the Standard 1 classroom at Fairmount School, where Miss Armstrong (who became Mrs Legger) taught us that there were two kinds of camels: the dromedary camel with, with one hump, which was native to North Africa and Western Asia, and the Bactrian camel of Eastern Asia, which had two humps. But the word "camel" was used for both. 

I was only at Fairmount School for a year and a half, out of twelve years of school, but my most vivid memories of things I learned at school are from the time I spent at Fairmount.

I first went to Fairmount School in the spring of 1948, when we had just moved to a 5-acre smallholding in a place then called Sunningdale, though only a small part of it is still called Sunningdale today, and the part where we lived is now called something else. My father would take me to school in his car in the morning, and I would walk home after school in the afternoon. a walk of about a mile, mainly on a footpath through the veld, or a winding gravel track, which is now tarred and called Summer Way.

My memories of Fairmount mainly concern what Miss Armstrong taught. The only fellow-pupil whose name I can remember is a girl called Jennifer Foulis, who was a year or two older than me, and lived almost next door to the school. I sometimes went to her house and played with her and her brother John after school. I once invited her to come and play with me at my house, and her mother was horrified. It was quite out of the question. I asked why, and her mother said "Because she's a girl." It was quite OK for a boy of 8 to walk a mile over the veld to go home from school, but a girl of 9 or 10, no, not even, or perhaps especially not, when accompanied by a boy.

The Johannesburg municipal boundary was at Sandler Road, about 2 houses from the school, and beyond that was under the jurisdiction of Edenvale (our car had a TDL number plate). We had no mains electricity, and no telephone -- off-the-grid was easy in those days.

Other things I remember from Fairmount School -- the headmaster was E.E. Harrison. I once had to go to his office for not having completed my homework, and he beat me, the first time I experienced such a thing at school. He had a leather-covered cane that appeared to be broken, so held together with leather, so it acted as a kind of flail. The Vice Principal was a Mr van Schalkwyk. 

The school had four "houses" for the purpose of sporting competitions, named after birds: Penguins, Pelicans, Eagles and Cranes. I was rather disappointed to be allocated to the Penguins, as my favourite birds were eagles and sparrows.

Most of the things I remember learning at Fairmount had to do with subjects like Nature Study, Hygiene, and History. In history we learnt about cavemen, pyramids in Egypt and the growth of civilisation in Egypt and Mesopotamia. We also learned stuff from different periods like the invention of safety matches, and at one point I had a mental image of cavemen running around with unsafe matches in their pockets.

In Nature Study we learned not only about one-humped and two-humped camels, but also about monocotyledonous seeds, like mealies, and dicotyledonous seeds, like beans, which we put in damp cotton wool to watch them sprout. Looking back, I think it was quite an achievement to learn how to spell "monocotyledonous" at the age of 8. Miss Armstrong must have been a pretty good teacher.

In hygiene we learnt about the importance of not building "kleinhuisie" toilets on riverbanks upstream of human settlements, because doing that could cause epidemics of various unpleasant diseases. 

Miss Armstrong also introduced us to "Little Golden Books", and my favourites were one about a tugboat and and one about Tootle, the little railway engine that wouldn't stay on the tracks. 

There was another book that had a serious political message. It was about a country with square, round and triangular people, who all lived happily together until the squares seized political power, and decided that everyone had to be square, so they built a machine to force the round and triangular people to become square. Eventually the oppressed round and triangular people revolted, took control of the machine and put it into reverse to restore their own shapes again. 

Thinking about it in retrospect, I think it was a bit of Cold War and post-War propaganda, to warn kids of the dangers of totalitarian systems like Communism and Fascism. 

Of my classmates in Standard 1 I can remember the names of only two, Hilary and Valerie, who shared a desk to my right at the back of the classroom. One day Valerie was missing, and we were told she had been killed in a car crash on the road to Vereeniging over the weekend. We never went to her funeral, and she was just gone.

At one point we were all bussed to Orange Grove Primary School, which was putting on a series of plays. I remember only one, The Monkey's Paw, which was my introduction to horror literature.

I'm sure there will be other things that come to mind, and I'll wonder how I learnt them, and then recall learning them in Miss Armstrong's class at Fairmount School.

A sin of omission: a brilliant historical novel set in 19th-century South Africa

A Sin of Omission by Marguerite Poland
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

A historical novel that gives one a real insight into the history, with a vivid sense of time and place. The characters are detailed and believable, and this is a classic of South African literature.

An Anglican deacon, Stephen Malusi Mzamane, is on his way to tell his mother, whom he has not seen since he was a small child, of the death of his elder brother. The story of his life, and how he came to this point, is told in a series of flashbacks. He was based at Trinity Mission at Nodyoba, near Fort Beaufort, in the 1870s, where he had to serve alone, without a resident priest.

The flashbacks tell the story of his life -- how he and his elder brother were found starving after the cattle-killing of 1858, rescued by an Anglican priest and sent to school. There he was called to the ordained minister of the Anglican Church, and sent to St Augustine's Missionary College in Canterbury, England, for training. At the college his best friend is Albert Newnham, who is also destined to serve in the eastern Cape Colony. They dream of working together, but this dream is never realised, and circumstances conspire to keep them apart for most of the time.

It is those circumstances, the setting and the people, that put obstacles in their way. One of the themes of the story is their friendship, which should have supported both of them in their ministry, but did not.

One of the themes of the story is the tension between the call to Christian ministry, and the ties of family and cultural background that undermine it. Stephen feels the tension initially with his elder brother; Albert with his wife. But it is part of a wider social setting, and it comes out quite strongly in the book -- the Xhosa-speaking clergy are painfully aware of the tensions between their Christian faith and secular Xhosa culture; the English-speaking clergy, whether colonial or from overseas, are, with one or two exceptions, not aware of the tension between their Christian faith and their own British secular culture.

Of course this is fiction, and the author chooses how to portray such things and write them into the story, but I believe, from my own study of history and experience of church life in South Africa, that her portrayal is spot on. She tells it like it was, and in some ways still is.

Poland portrays the relationship between the Xhosa-speaking clergy and the English-speaking clergy very well indeed, and at times I get the feeling that this could me, because it could be describing my experience, as a South African Orthodox Christian vis-à-vis Greek clergy. 

As a missiologist, I also think that this is the kind of book I would like to have prescribed to my students. Occasionally one finds novels that help to make a missiological point -- another one is The Poisonwood Bible by Barbara Kingsolver, but I think this one is even better. 

One interesting, and perhaps telling sldelight is that in its submission guidelines Penguin South Africa says it will not usually accept fiction manuscripts dealing with religion, so this one must have been pretty unusual to jump over that hurdle and be accepted.

It is a sad story, but well told, and well worth reading.

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The Magic Cottage

The Magic Cottage by James Herbert
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

A book that started off in a fairly promising way, but seemed to lose the plot towards the end.

Mike Stringer, a musician, and his girlfriend Midge Gudgeon, a musician, buy a cottage in the New Forest in Hampshire. The cottage, called Gramarye, was part of a deceased estate, and they had to undergo some kind of test by the executors of the will.

Not far away is an old manor house that is home to a community of selfstyled Synergists, led by a man called Mycroft. Members of the community are initially friendly and welcoming, but when Mycroft promises to enable Midge to make contact with her dead parents, a nasty side appears. The local vicar warns them to have nothing to do with the Synergists, and appears to think they are evil Mike is sceptical, both of the Synergists' beliefs and the vicar's fears.

The cottage initially seems to have mysterious healing properties but when the Synergists visit the healing properties seem to be corrupted.

After an interesting build-up the story seemed to fall apart in the end, and seemed designed for a B-movie with spectacular special effects. There was a growing atmosphere of evil, but the bits that were supposed to be really scary at the end weren't scary at all, and were just boring. My mind kept wandering off, or I kept dropping off to sleep.

And one rather curious thing I noticed about it was that it has a surprising number of Americanisms for a book written by an Englishman, and published in England: flashlight where I would have expected torch; sneakers where I would have expected plimsolls or trainers; and braids where I would have expected plaits or pigtails. On the other hand, it had presently meaning shortly afterwards, which I don't think is the way an American would use the word. 

In a way, it had some echoes of That Hideous Strength by C.S. Lewis: a couple whose relationship is deteriorating, and the Synergists had echoes of the N.I.C.E. but the characteristics of their group were largely New Age/Theosophist cliches. There wasn't a contrasting "good" community. It might have been That Hideous Strength as reimagined by Dennis Wheatley, except that I think Dennis Wheatley might have made a better job of it.