Gambling is part of the psychopathy of Sydney
We preachers have been saying it for years, but gambling is a game for mugs.
Not that anyone listens, mind you. Gambling has become part of the psychopathy of Sydney.
As a sign of our utter failure to win this debate in the past two centuries, the Premier has listened to broadcaster Alan Jones and decided to put horse racing ads on the sails of the most iconic cultural building in the nation.
A peculiar blend of conditions led to the creation of Sydney as a gambler's town. The habits of gambling that came with the early settlers from the mother country were the habits of the aristocracy and the habits of the working classes.
A classless vice
The aristocracy liked to gamble, usually on refined pursuits like horse racing, to show what they could afford to lose. The racetrack has ever since then cultivated an air of gentility and even snobbery.
The convicts and the working classes gambled because they were by turns bored and desperate. They could not change their circumstances by sheer hard work. Surely a quick turn of good luck was just around the corner.
What of the Protestant middle classes? For them, gambling was a social and individual moral evil. And they were determined to use everything in their power to stop it. Preachers preached. Politicians were lobbied. By the end of the 19th century, there was a concerted and determined attempt to restrict gaming and betting practices.
It was a complete failure — not least because of the famous Bulletin magazine and its characterisation of anti-gambling sentiment as "wowserism". Women and clergymen were in cahoots to stop blokey fun. Again.
What's more, because the anti-gambling campaigners concentrated on the vices of the lower classes and did not address the activities of the high-end, gentlemanly gambler, they did not foresee the collusion between the two. A gentleman politician was not likely to introduce legislation against his own recreational pursuits — even as he might deplore the crass activities of his social inferiors.
Finally: introducing legislation into the world of gambling led to establishment of the government as the chief bookmaker, casino operator and profiteer. And now, advertiser.
Ever since then, there has been little to stop the tide of increased gambling activity.
The theology of luck
What was and is needed is a description of the deeper causes of this cultural addiction to luck — which is reality a deep-rooted theology of luck.
The Anzac could see that he might be dismembered at any minute. Luck might be against him. Why not see if the universe might turn his way a little?
The farmer on the land knows that hard work might yield no result, if bushfire, drought or flood prevailed. Why not bet on a different outcome, since it was all a gamble anyhow?
The factory worker's routine was grinding her down and for all her labour brought meagre rewards. Who knows if a quick return for a small investment wasn't just around the corner?
It's a faintly shimmering ray of hope. It colours the grey world with fluoro lights.
But there's an alternative way of telling the story. It's the story not of luck, but of blessing.
It is an easy story to mis-tell. It can sound self-righteous.
But rightly told, the story of blessing completely outflanks luck. The story of blessing starts with gratitude for what we have, rather than anxiety about we don't. And if you feel blessed, you have a tendency to give rather than grab.
Luck is cold like a corpse. Blessing is warm with hope — which is what the gambler has so little of.
Dr Michael Jensen is the rector at St Mark's Anglican Church, Darling Point and is the author of My God, My God: Is it Possible to Believe Anymore?
[contf]
[contfnew]
ABC .net
[contfnewc]
[contfnewc]
