General suicide?

At the dawn of the 1990s, a bizarre religion called the Church of Euthanasia emerged in the United States. Founded by “Reverend” Chris Korda, a transgender artist and activist, the organization has only one commandment – “thou shall not procreate” – and one true goal: to limit the world's population to “restore the balance between humans and non-human species”, and, thus, save humanity. Quite simply.

It all started in the green sheets with white polka dots on a mattress stuck in the dust of a worn parquet floor. This night in 1992, Chris Korda is sleeping soundly when his subconscious creates the dream that will change his existence. In her dream, the thirty-year-old meets a form of alien intelligence, The Being, spokesperson for Earthlings in other dimensions. He has a message: our ecosystem is in danger and our leaders are in denial. Then two questions: “why are they lying to us? And why do so many of us buy into their lies?” Waking up, Chris stammers the future slogan of his church: “Save the planet. Kill yourself.” In a notebook, he scribbled the lyrics to what would become a piece of techno music, released in 1993 on his own label, Kevorkian Records. A name that pays homage to Doctor Jack “Dr. Suicide” Kevorkian, figure in the defense of euthanasia who allegedly helped 130 patients die before being sentenced to ten years in prison in 1999. When he died in 2011, he became a saint of the Church of Euthanasia, mirror distorting and grotesque which sent back to American society an image that it could hardly bear. In the era of post-punk, zine and DIY culture, the CoE was born in Cambridge, a university town which is home to the universities of Harvard and the Massachusetts Institute of Technology (MIT). “A home of liberals, of people steeped in rebellious ideas. At the time, it was called the People's Republic of Cambridge”, defines today the other founding member of the Church, Robert Kimberk, known as Pastor Kim, whose meeting with Korda dates back to a shared accommodation in a communal house in 1981. “He was very nice,” he says. I liked it straight away. He was an anti-authoritarian iconoclast. We spent a lot of time talking philosophy, throwing ideas into the air while smoking weed or drinking Turkish coffee.” Their home is like a filthy squat, where movie characters, squirrels and a seagull live. One day, the two friends have lunch in a Thai restaurant. Amid the scent of curry, Chris, not in great shape, asks Robert what to do with the rest of his life. Answer: “Start your own religion! But a religion that contains Dadaism.” Korda smiles and embraces the idea. Until then, his enlightened dream had only produced the embryo of a bizarre song and Save The Planet, Kill Yourself stickers. The artist distributed them on Harvard Square, his face hidden under a mask in the shape of a skull, leader of a small neo-Dadaist group then known as Children of The Plague. In July 1992, things accelerated. By forging a press invitation, Korda infiltrates the Democratic convention about to nominate Bill Clinton as the presidential candidate. It takes place at Madison Square Garden in New York City. “I gave stickers to all the delegates,” smiles Chris Korda, in front of the computer screen in his Berlin apartment. They were quite popular! Some laughed, others less. Someone took a photo and we ended up in The Daily News. This was our entry into popular consciousness. We were there in the right place, at the right time. We were capturing the zeitgeist. Once launched, the Church grew on its own.”

Self-proclaimed “the only anti-natalist religion” in History, the CoE is not exactly a religion in the usual sense of the term. The faithful do not go to the temple to pray and in reality they are only asked one thing: not to procreate. “Members swear not to have children and not to donate eggs or sperm,” proclaims the Reverend. Cloning is prohibited. Adoption, on the other hand, is encouraged. Everything else is optional. Even veganism.” In the 1990s the CoE charged ten dollars per membership and sent stickers and magazines to each member. “We don’t do it anymore, so it’s complicated to count the numbers. But if a person has decided not to procreate knowing about our existence, I count them. There are probably tens of thousands of us.” Asking the Reverend to explain the goals of his organization is like subscribing to a river of emails. Here is a summary. One day, bacteria will reign on Earth: 99% of the species that once populated it are extinct. The universe doesn't care about the fate of humanity. If it disappears, only dogs and cats will mourn their masters. Other species will see it as an opportunity. “The last time the planet had a temperature similar to the one we propose to reach, crocodiles were swimming in the Arctic,” notes Korda. Humanity does not have the power to permanently damage the Earth. Even if we blew up all our nuclear devices. Bacteria and certain insects would repopulate the Earth. In fact, it is humanity that is the danger.” To survive, our species must therefore “give up something”. The party is over. And Korda considers that it is easier to persuade “people not to procreate than to reduce their standard of living”. Next chapter: the old religions were established to respond to problems that are no longer ours. They have constructed an outdated moral and philosophical order, among other things responsible for the current attitude towards procreation, according to him. “These religions placed humanity above nature. It didn't matter, because few humans populated the Earth. Now, billions of humans are consuming nature in destructive ways. Things need to be fixed. Humanity needs nature to survive. A new religion is therefore necessary. A religion that encourages humanity to cooperate with the natural world.” A religion like the Church of Euthanasia.

Suicide, abortion, cannibalism and sodomy

Reverend Korda describes the time before the birth of his organization as a zone of turbulence. In 1991, this son of a publishing mogul quit his job as a software developer, abandoned a career as a jazz guitarist that never took off and moved to a gay community known for its balls and drag competitions. Chris becomes Christine. “I discovered transformationism,” she says. This world opened me to possibilities. I was more receptive to new ideas. I came out by sending a photo of myself as a woman to my family and friends. Suddenly, I had very few friends. My family wasn’t happy either.” The Church of Euthanasia will be a new family. Filled with various artists, activists and radicals, the spiritual benches of the CoE fill up quickly. The number of members would very quickly increase from two to hundreds, then thousands. In 1993, Reverend Korda decreed the four pillars of his faith, four words still tattooed on his left shoulder: suicide, abortion, cannibalism and sodomy. “Some members took the pillars more seriously than others,” explains Korda. But everyone took a vow not to procreate. It was and still is easy to convince young people that procreation is a waste of time. The idea of the CoE was to honor those who didn't want children, for whatever reason. I was thanked a lot for that.” In 1996, activist Lydia Eccles praised the Church's progressivism: "It's great, as a woman, to have someone who supports you in not having children. The dominant culture defines this as selfishness. For Chris, it's the opposite. Since becoming involved in the Church, I am also proud of not having a car. Whereas in our society, it is considered pathetic not to have one. I get recognition for things that are usually seen as dysfunctions.” Those who join the CoE are seduced by its openness and its ecological mission, but not only that. In the university town, this neo-Dadaist religion is an art form like any other, a means of expressing one's creative potential. The demonstrations that she organizes, at first summary, quickly resemble shows put on by a theater troupe, whose successful performances do not end with bursts of applause, but with insults spat out by faces. horrified. “We were putting panic in the public sphere and people liked that,” Korda summarizes. It was fun! One of our members said we changed his life. He had found a way to do crazy things.” The Church wishes to wake up with a start a population plunged into the torpor induced by the consumer society in order to help it redefine its relationship with the Earth. The process that led to the climate catastrophe being rational, the Church decides to take an irrational path. “People are immersed in an immense media offering,” says Pastor Kim. However, many don't really pay attention to it. If they understand information in an instant, they will not read further. So we had to focus on things that were difficult to understand.” Among the slogans brandished in the streets, one of the most absurdly punk is “Eat A Queer Fetus For Jesus”. Eat a queer fetus for Jesus. “People were fascinated,” assures Kim. They were staring at the message and trying to figure out what was going on. It gave us an opportunity to talk to them.” The adventure of the CoE has often been summed up in a litany of media stunts with a tangy taste of scandal. In September 93, a black tarpaulin bearing the organization's slogan covered the Boston Science Museum. On the adjacent highway, motorists have difficulty concentrating on the road. Recognized as an educational foundation, the Church is tax-exempt. It is financed through the sale of t-shirts, stickers and other goodies distributed in half a thousand shopping centers by a leading company in the distribution of kitsch products in the USA. The Reverend launches a newspaper and sends “e-sermons” to mailboxes. In September 94, the CoE sabotaged Population Awareness Day in Boston. Korda wears red lipstick, a floral dress and carries a stick of a bloody fetus, with a piece of the American flag and a pro-abortion symbol attached to it. In this burlesque carnival, the other members drag a giant abortion pill across the asphalt. The CoE's actions were shaped in part in response to the violent pro-life groups that were making headlines at the time. In December 94, an anti-abortion activist opened fire in two clinics, killing two and wounding five. In 1996, the Church began to focus its action on this societal issue. On their signs, we read slogans like “Fuck Breeding”, “Sperm-Free Cunts for the Earth” or “Make Love, Not Babies”. In 1997, the Church plastered Boston with posters promoting Courtney Love's visit to a sperm bank. The singer would have planned to be inseminated. Upon arrival at the scene, the CoE noted the presence of nuns crossing themselves with their rosaries and teenage girls impatiently waiting for their idol. Kurt Cobain's widow, who will never arrive, is replaced by a phallus puppet the size of two stories, which sprinkles the front of the establishment with his sperm. “We were not pro-choice, we were pro-abortion,” Korda explains. We found it important because Christians were shooting doctors with almost complete impunity. One day we had a fetus barbecue. Members were disguised as doctors with fake gunshot wounds to their heads, with blood flowing. This is what we did. We showed real things, but in a weird and Dadaist way.” A month later, Pastor Kim led an action, disguised as a priest, with a sign featuring the words “Pedophile Priests for Life.”

Coffee in the mouth and planes in the towers

The Church of Euthanasia annoys and Korda receives death threats. Spectators at the CoE Magic Theater sometimes react with violence. One day in March 96, a vote for the Republican nomination took place in the Boston Public Library. The faithful hang a banner the size of a bus. “I remember the sound of the TV crews’ trucks braking to come and film us,” laughs Korda. And for good reason. On the red and black banner, we read the anagram of the nickname of the Republican Party: Grand Old Party. In the O, a swastika has been drawn. “It looked very real and it was very scary.” TV crews film the president of the local party branch insulting Chris Korda. “He said I was disgusting and that he hated me. I didn't give up on my story: we said we were simple Pat Buchanan supporters, coming to support him. Buchanan was a candidate for the nomination and almost openly a Nazi.” Library employees try to tear down the banner. One of them throws hot coffee in the face of the Church photographer, before following up with a punch. “We ended up understanding that we had to prepare for violence,” Korda continues. Once, some punks threw glass bottles at us and chased us. It became more and more obvious that you could make people violent. I was always in heels, in my most feminine version. We wanted the leader to seem like the most vulnerable member. We had to protect Aphrodite.” The Church recruits muscles accustomed to the altercations inherent to the life of radical movements. They proved particularly useful on March 26, 2000. That day, a large demonstration was organized to oppose a tech convention, Bio 2000. The CoE showed up with a banner with a cryptic slogan – “Human Extinction While We Still Can” – and a powerful sound system, which the faithful bring to the event stage. Very loudly, they profess “anti-human” slogans, very little to the taste of the anti-globalization organizers who cut the speaker cables. “The right-wing activists and the police were not aggressive,” assures Korda. It was the left-wing demonstrators who were. Because it’s not their method to call the cops to solve a problem. They are in direct action. They’re pissing you off.” A human shield must form to prevent the Reverend from being beaten. At the mention of the event, Pastor Kim's face, troubled, changes expression. “Our actions became more and more extreme. In radical groups, you always go a little further. We were always more intrusive, the police tolerated us less and less and monitored us more and more. Chris had started working for a new company, writing 3D modeling codes. We were both very busy. It was in our interest to calm things down.” The CoE leaves the streets and moves online. Korda focuses on his careers in tech and music, through which he will end up causing more outrage than ever. On September 11, 2001, two Boeings hit the World Trade Center towers. Korda responded by composing a techno song called I Like To Watch. The clip combines images of the attack with pornographic scenes, professing the birth of a perverse fascination, that of those who will spend hours hooked up to news channels after each atrocity perpetrated in the Western world. The video will cause some trouble for Chris, who is still not allowed to perform in the Netherlands. “September 11 changed the game,” she breathes. We would no longer have been able to carry out the same actions, due to security and anti-terrorism laws and police surveillance. It would have been considered a crime. We would have ended up in prison.” Chris Korda speaks quickly, very quickly, following the rhythm of a brain that seems to have a long response to everything. However, she will refuse to answer a question. Just one. In 1995, the Church of Euthanasia installed a billboard on a street in Boston advertising a “Suicide Assistance Hotline,” a suicide assistance service that offered to guide those who dialed the telephone number toward death. The line will never be activated but the Church website has long offered instructions for ending one's life. “It’s a disappointment that no one killed themselves and that parents didn’t sue us,” Korda said provocatively in 1999. “That would have hit the media gong.” In 2003, in Missouri, a woman was found dead in her home. Near his corpse lay a sheet printed from the Church of Euthanasia website. A prosecutor threatened the organization with a manslaughter charge and the suicide instructions were removed. How had Korda reacted to this death? “No comment,” she said, her face closed. She too lost loved ones to suicide. A close friend, for example, who convinced him to stop eating meat at the age of 16. Korda no longer wants to laugh. She has long become aware of the seriousness of a situation that the vast majority of her peers deny, ignore, accept with lazy defeatism or try to forget, because it is too heavy to think about. Because they have a life and problems. When it comes to the heart of the matter – the survival of the human species and its imperiled environment – Korda's hollow cheeks tense with what appears to be slight panic. Since the founding of the Church of Euthanasia, the world population has increased from 5.5 billion to almost 8 billion. As a pragmatic organization, the CoE has failed. “That wasn’t really the goal,” Korda says. The CoE is an ethical and symbolic avant-garde movement. It is a form of Dadaist and ecological art. But the problems we face are deadly serious.” The Reverend sits back in his desk chair and continues. “I have spent most of my life trying to communicate the urgency of the environmental crisis. We first tried to provoke a feeling of shame in people, and to shock them. I try to adapt to current society and I would like people to avoid procreation, by adopting veganism, by limiting the growth of our collective ecological footprint. Korda struggles to reconcile the urgency of the problem, her obsolete methods in a world much more politically correct than that of her beginnings and the radicality of what she really thinks. “I would not be against state suicide centers,” she concludes. It was already in a Hollywood film in the 70s. You've seen Soylent Green, right? But my mission is to make people aware that if we don't wake up, we won't get through this. Humanity is on the brink of the precipice. It’s complicated to do because it’s a slow process. But it remains real. No problem will be solved by adding more people. I would like us to understand that the ending is not yet written. It doesn’t have to end like this.”

“It’s elaborate punk”

Considered completely alarmist in the 90s, the climate emergency has, these days, a taste of reality. Consequence: Reverend Korda’s religion finds a certain resonance with those we call millennials. Young people say they are members of the organization in Brazil, South Korea and even in Bordeaux, where Lény Bernay, known as “Jardin” *, resides. In 2020, he was made Cardinal Lény of the Church of Euthanasia. Yes. How did you discover the Church of Euthanasia? I first discovered the music of Chris Korda. A DJ friend, Madame Patate, introduced me to her records, like Six Billion Humans Can’t Be Wrong. It was in 2017, when I lived in Brussels. When listening to his music, we feel that there is a politicized and poetic message. The form is light, but the texts are serious. This is what I also look for in my own work as a musician: to say very harsh things to music that makes you want to dance. Dance your sadness and cry your joy. It upsets me. I am the child of immigrants and the child of punks. I grew up in a priority area, in Creil, where the first veil incident took place in France, in 1989. A place where M-16s were fired in the middle of the night. At the same time, I discovered life in self-sufficiency on the high plateaus of Auvergne with my grandparents, sixty-eight breeders. We lived in caravans, without running water or electricity. So there is a kind of dichotomy for me. When I was 12, I wrote a song that described the human species as a kind of virus that was growing on the planet and causing it to explode. The Church’s slogan “Save the planet, kill yourself” was therefore something that I already had within me. It's obviously not about pushing people to suicide, but just letting people make the choices they want to make. The Church of Euthanasia is elaborate punk. In my artistic projects at the end of art school, I had the punchline: “With no future, everything is possible”. It’s a point of tension that, for me, describes the times we live in. One day, in a squat in Lyon, I saw a “Yes Future” tag. It’s very Church of Euthanasia. Chris says that the human species is going to become extinct anyway. But life will go on. We may be a virus, heading towards our doom with ultra-capitalism, we are only a micro-event in the timeline of life. The problem with all this is not that we are a dirty species, but that we have no respect for other species. What does it mean to “give your wishes” to the Church of Euthanasia? It's a bit like a baptism. You repeat a few sentences. You agree not to reproduce. It's quite simple. I did this during the party celebrating the release of my record, at the Brasserie Atlas in Anderlecht. It was a great evening. Chris Korda did a live, then he asked me to become Cardinal Lény. I thought about it. And I said to myself that it was extremely poetic, powerful, funny, very serious and unifying at the same time. The Church of Euthanasia is a mix between the punk movement, post-70s ecological concerns, queer issues, struggles for abortion, and a position in relation to American policies. And therefore a kind of virulence in response. I said “yes”. All the children of humanity will be my children. All comments collected by TA

(*) Jardin identifies as non-binary.

The preceding is a translation. The original language is here.