Don’t sweat the petty things, WWJD and Aloka the Peace Dog - lessons from the steam room
The Monday Farken’ell*
The steam room at the Virgin Active in Rosebank is not usually a place for conversations. You are there to sweat, for recovery, to ease sore muscles, to open the pores for that deeper clean and retreat into your thoughts as you relax and disappear into the mist.
You are not there, as a Kiwi friend once said, to sweat petty things nor should you ever pet sweaty things. Not in the steam room. Steamers come out in a better space than they went in. The shock of an ice-cold shower immediately afterwards brings them back to heart-thumping life. The contrast, the rush of endorphins makes you feel alive and brings a satisfied smile.
(Instagram: walkforpeace.usa)
It has become a big part of my new normal, a necessary change after a long time when, ahem, my life and my head blew hot and cold. New habits, changed structures, better distractions and fewer excuses. I wrote a column recently about simply doing the things that needed to be done instead of thinking about and planning to do them. Just do them.
On Saturday there was a conversation in the steam room. Young men, mostly ripped, whom I suspect train together on a regular basis, began talking about the pain of leg day. I nodded in the mist. “Leg day”. I have heard of this. I must try it one day. Leg day quickly moved on to God day, an unexpected turn. The segue? Did Jesus do leg day before walking on water?
The man on my right asked another who was going to the local Catholic church on Sunday whether they held the service at 8am to make sure believers did not have a big Saturday night. A chuckle and a denial. No big nights. Just routine, his normal. Man on right then asked about why and how they believe in a god. No mockery, no smugness, just inquisitive. Was he atheist? Not really, he just wanted to know.
It was a good steam room debate, if there is such a thing. No rancour. Open. Fun. Belief and devotion, faith and science. Do you go to confession? Do they charge for confession? “There isn’t a toll gate on the confessional,” was the input from this Retired Catholic (RC). I had Jesus drummed into me by my mother, left a country because being a Catholic or Protestant was an invitation for a fight, and had Jesus beaten into and then out of me at Catholic school.
(Image: Takealot)
A body-builder had a question. Can you ask for more of those wafers if you are hungry? Communion Wafers? Hosts? There was confusion. “I’m not sure they will give you another piece of the body of Christ because you are peckish,” drawled RC. (That said, you can buy unblessed communion wafers on Takealot. R260 for a packet of 500). Another had been to Catholic school but hadn’t been to mass for a while. I suggested he would be able to repeat all the creeds and responses off by heart. He nodded and laughed.
When I left after 25 minutes the chat was still going on. The man to my right just wanted to know more. He was curious not (thanks Ted Lasso) judgemental. It was measured, humorous, without rancour and zeal. No sweating of petty things.
It felt Christian, if that is the right description. Christianity the way it is meant to be. Not the warped Christian nationalism of Trump and his gang of stormtroopers, surfing on the votes of the gullible, the judgemental and incurious, murdering citizens in their streets, pandering to the rich and powerful, con artists pulling off a grand heist.
Charlie Kirk was a Christian in name only. JD Vance, the vice president, alleged couch shagger, a converted Catholic who outed his mother as an addict in his book and loves his neighbour as long as she isn’t too dark, should be ex-communicated. The new pope is American and outspoken on poverty and welcoming the needy, JD. Trump sells bibles with his name on that he doesn’t read. The White House spokeswomen wears a cross and sins regularly, bearing false witness, speaking both in tongues and with a forked tongue.
What is Christian about dividing and conquering? I know many who identify as Christians who think Trump is doing good. The hypocrisy is staggering. That’s not Christian. If you support Trump you are not a Christian. You are a plastic Christian. You are a Christian nationalist. You are racist. You are anti-poor. You love a grifter.
When I still went to Mass at St Dominic’s in Boksburg (my mum made us McCallum boys go on a Sunday morning because the Central Hotel 200m down the road wasn’t open then. She had long since worked out we were spending the hour of Saturday evening Mass “down the road”), the priest asked the congregation of 150-200 strong who believed sanctions would end apartheid. I, my brother Barry and about 10 others raised our hands. The man next to me tried to push my arm down. It was probably the first time he was told to “fuck off” during Mass.
(Image: jamestalarico.com)
That may have been the last time I went to church, save for funerals, weddings and a baptism or two. It felt pointless to sit and chant alongside the liars. I don’t know what I am now. I don’t know if I have to be anything. I am not anti-Christian, but anti fake Christians. I like the cut of James Talarico, the Texas senator and devout Christian Democrat, who uses the bible to show the duplicity of those in power. He asks, in a meaningful, practical way, what would Jesus do. Remember those bangles? What would Jesus do “about a tax system that benefits the rich over the poor” and “a health care system that forces the sick to start GoFundMe pages to afford lifesaving surgeries”.
His credo was learnt from his a Baptist-preacher grandfather who taught him: “we follow a barefoot rabbi who gave two commandments: love God and love neighbour”. Simple enough.
(Instagram: walkforpeace.usa)
Nineteen of Talarico’s fellow Texan residents are living those commandments. They are Buddhist monks from the Huong Dao Vipassana Bhavana in Fort Worth on a Walk For Peace. In October they set out on a 2,300-mile walk to Washington DC “with a goal of promoting unity and compassion”. They will walk through 10 states over 110 days. Hundreds of thousands have lined the roads of their journey.
They are accompanied by Aloka the Peace Dog, a stray who followed the monks on their 112-day peace walk in India and never left their side. They decided to take him to the US. He has become an icon of the walk, the heart-shaped mark on his forehead a symbol of their mission. He has rarely missed a step, gives love to all who meet him. If I ever adopt another doggie, he or she will be called Aloka.
We walk not in protest, but to remind Americans that peace is not a destination. It is a practice. And that peace resides within each of us. The walk is a reminder that unity and kindness begins within each of us and can radiate outward to communities, families and society as a whole. – Bhikkhu Pannakara, spiritual leader of the Walk for Peace
Right now, the world is a steam room. It always has been, I suppose, but today those in power, those who follow them and those who control them are hiding in the mist, confusing, dividing and conquering. Our neighbours are not our enemies. We need more steam room conversations, more understanding and acceptance. We need a cold shower of reality and compassion. We need to not sweat the petty things and, most importantly, don’t pet the sweaty things.
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* Doug Place inadvertently came up with this title after mistaking ‘Farnarkel’ for ‘Farken’ell, which has now evolved into a competition to see how many ways we can use Farken.
“Farnarkel” is Australian slang for wasting time or acting “in a careless and inconsequential manner”. It was coined by comedian John Clarke, who parodied television sports reporters with commentary on “farnarkeling”, the competitive sports of doing nothing. It appeared on the 1980s Australian TV show, The Gillies Report.