Content warning: References to religious trauma, sex, and literary violence 

The curse of every child put through the Catholic school system, lapsed or not, is a lifelong affinity for religious imagery. Prayers are inherently poetic, are they not? I even catch myself humming a hymn from time to time (for all their faults, the Catholics make some banging tunes). Fittingly, with the past six months seeing a healthy online fandom surrounding the Oscar frontrunner Conclave (2024), (ah, the power of old man yaoi) the opportunity to attend “Are You There God?” at the Melbourne Writers’ Festival could only be divine providence. I couldn’t resist. Also, big RIP to my man Jorge and a respectful obligatory shout out to Pope Leo XIV from the 2025 Conclave.

‘Are You There God?’ was moderated by Jaclyn Crupi—a deeply witty and engaging host who had the audience laughing out of their seats. It featured award-winning Australian writers Emily Maguire and Josephine Rowe. Maguire’s Rapture is a gritty, deeply personal reimagining of the myth of Pope Joan. Her first work of historical fiction, Maguire discussed the “intimidating” shift away from her usual contemporary studies of patriarchy and family violence, owing it to “the allure of legends and rumours,”. Rowe’s Little World is a longform triptych of how the body of a saint comes into the custodianship of an engineer in northwestern Australia. Known for her short-form and poetry, Rowe maintained her “artistic integrity” in her commitment to telling the story in her distinctive lyric style. The panel explored the depths of each work, in regard to religious themes and the writing process.

These works can be seen as conversational, both engrossed in the concept of the holy in the natural world; the broad strokes of God in the bush. In regard to setting, language and themes, both authors place their work in the natural space, in the intrinsic beauty of the world around them and their characters. The two presented some brief readings that highlighted this aspect of their literary relationship. Rowe’s nameless Saint takes shape within concise prose that mimics the hymns of old. Her Saint is captured with a “heady, floral aroma, believed to be the odour of sanctity,” linking the divine to the nature around her. Maguire paints a deeply sensory, almost primitive sense of the world of early Christianity. The corruption and the obscenity of her protagonist’s world is grounded into the carnal physical ugliness of the human experience. It is subsequently contrasted with the natural beauty of the fields and forests surrounding her protagonist. All in all, the real beauty is a focus on tiny moments of significance. 

On writing as ritual, both authors speak to their process. Maguire gives herself the advice she gives to new writers, to take herself out of her own context and focus on the human nature of it all. Rowe jokes about owning an endless stack of loose papers and annotated shopping receipts, as well as her faith in the reader. Her balance of opaque yet engrossing description details a process that relies on an immersive belief, a strongly held respect that the reader will understand. Rowe affirmed this idea of having more faith in the reader than most because novelists are self-serving, with their own agenda. They serve their own ideal, therefore it is only fair to the reader to democratise the image and trust in their readership. 

I wanted to briefly discuss the intersections of their respective works. Rowe made some references to the British Empire, the inherent imperial contexts driven into a work that questions a Western religion on Stolen Land. Maguire touched on the horrors of ninth century gender: in and outside of religious orders, the grotesque in the physical body, the terror of patriarchal society. Faith is complex. Being queer and Southeast Asian while growing up around predominantly white Catholics, I can confidently assert struggles of faith are more than just theological. On the base level of these works, the link between womanhood and violence is laid bare on the page. Maguire’s reading focused on the dread her protagonist faces after having attended a birth the night before, eliciting a visceral reaction from the women in the audience (fittingly, the event took place on Mother’s Day). Rowe discussed how her saint exists in space both as a body enacted and a perspective in strife. I would have personally appreciated a bit more time given to this angle of thinking on faith, on the inherent complication given to those who struggle with their faith not just as a religion, but as a tool of their own oppression. 

In response to the titular question, our host Crupi states at the beginning of the seminar, “We’ll find out if he or she is.” I don’t believe we did find out, nor do I believe we were meant to. It’s personal. It’s literary. It’s in the work. Writing, for some, is akin to prayer: reflection, communion, a conduit, the act of remembering, the simple regathering. It is something beyond yourself. It is something beyond definition. It can be something as big as a saint in the outback or as small as holding hands with someone you love in all the ways that matter.