******* WARNING: Spoiler vis a vis “The Life of Pi” at bottom of this post. *******
So begins a (potential) series of posts on the moral bankruptcy of atheists and the ludicrousness of believing that triumphant life such as it is could ever have “evolved” by accident without the guidance of a supreme and loving being. Equally likely is that I will lose interest and just make t-shirts instead. But, I would like to get my thoughts in order before I have a hopefully fruitful conversation with Panda. Rambling on here will hopefully help me get down all of the reasons I think religion is dangerous bullshit before then.
The Goddess with the fondness for socks has inspired me this early morning to say a few words on an observation that floated around in the back of my mind for years before a particular fantasy novel I was reading solidified it. I actually think I mentioned it before. The Gods were extremely human. In particular I remember the God of Love who was petulant and self-interested and constantly pouting to people and asking them if they loved her. My thought was this. Even if a supreme being DOES exist and his/her existence can be proven beyond the shadow of a doubt, so WHAT? Why does his/her existence naturally lead to the conclusion that we should worship this all-powerful entity? Because we owe it our existence? And? Children owe their parents their existence as well. That doesn’t make their parents a moral authority on anything. Plenty of parents are big assholes. And the thing is, the Christian God, at the very least, is a huge JERK. It’s appalling that people would actually want to worship him, even if you can get beyond the absolute absurdity of believing this acid-trip tale of virgin births, resurrections, and bread that turns into flesh as it is being consumed (and eww gross…later turns into shit?) by millions of apparently cannibalistic Catholics. He claims to be infallible and omniscient, then he creates Man with the capacity for evil and destruction. Then he punishes Man for succumbing to that which is inherent in the nature given to him by his creator. And then he shrugs his shoulder while RAINING DOWN SULFUR ON EVERYONE as if to say, well this is all YOUR fault?!?! If he’s omniscient, then he KNEW what would happen and yet he didn’t see fit to tweak his design in the slightest. It can’t be both ways. Either he’s infallible, in which case he wanted this to happen and is a huge sadistic asshole, or he made a mistake, in which case one of his main claims for authority (omniscience and perfection) is completely undermined.
I used to be an agnostic. Agnosticism is to atheists as bi-sexuality is to gay men: a safe place to pause before full acceptance of the truth. As long as I was an agnostic, I had no problem with other people believing. For a while there I envied them and in fact resented that my faith had been taken away from me by my intelligence. But gradually I’ve become more and more hostile toward religion, longing with greater and greater fervency for its complete eradication. Dawkins has a great quote that touches on reasons for my own hostility. But in order to understand his reference, I have to post an excerpt from Bertrand Russell on why the burden of proof does NOT lie with the skeptic of religion:
“If I were to suggest that between the Earth and Mars there is a china teapot revolving about the sun in an elliptical orbit, nobody would be able to disprove my assertion provided I were careful to add that the teapot is too small to be revealed even by our most powerful telescopes. But if I were to go on to say that, since my assertion cannot be disproved, it is an intolerable presumption on the part of human reason to doubt it, I should rightly be thought to be talking nonsense. If, however, the existence of such a teapot were affirmed in ancient books, taught as the sacred truth every Sunday, and instilled into the minds of children at school, hesitation to believe in its existence would become a mark of eccentricity and entitle the doubter to the attentions of the psychiatrist in an enlightened age or of the Inquisitor in an earlier time.”
And now for Dawkins:
“The reason organized religion merits outright hostility is that, unlike belief in Russell’s teapot, religion is powerful, influential, tax-exempt and systematically passed on to children too young to defend themselves. Children are not compelled to spend their formative years memorizing loony books about teapots. Government-subsidized schools don’t exclude children whose parents prefer the wrong shape of teapot. Teapot-believers don’t stone teapot-unbelievers, teapot-apostates, teapot-heretics and teapot-blasphemers to death. Mothers don’t warn their sons off marrying teapot- shiksas whose parents believe in three teapots rather than one. People who put the milk in first don’t kneecap those who put the tea in first.”
Finally, on those who choose to believe because it makes their lives more comfortable. I still find myself somewhat compelled by this reasoning, though I can’t imagine that many people could receive genuine comfort from something they deep down believe to be fantastical. However, one of my favorite reads of the last few months addresses this in its final pages. I’ll post it below. I think that maybe we just need practice at accepting that when we die, that’s all we get. And that no benevolent entity in the sky is invested in our welfare. I would imagine that if we hadn’t grown up thinking this only to have that comfort snatched away, but rather never had the comfort to begin with, we wouldn’t feel a loss.
“You’re welcome. But before you go, I’d like to ask you something.”
“Yes?”
“The Tsimtsum sank on July 2nd, 1977.”
“Yes.”
“And I arrived on the coast of Mexico, the sole human survivor of the Tsimtsum, on February 14th, 1978.”
“That’s right.”
“I told you two stories that account for the 227 days in between.”
“Yes, you did.”
“Neither explains the sinking of the Tsimtsum.”
“That’s right.”
“Neither makes a factual difference to you.”
“That’s true.”
“You can’t prove which story is true and which is not. You must take my word for it.”
“I guess so.”
“In both stories the ship sinks, my entire family dies, and I suffer.”
“Yes, that’s true.”
“So tell me, since it makes no factual difference to you and you can’t prove the question either way, which story do you prefer? Which is the better story, the story with the animals or the story without animals?”
“That’s an interesting question…”
“The story with the animals?”
“Yes. The story with the animals is the better story.”
“Thank you. And so it is with God.”
less than 24 hours after Deutschland lost the EM to Spain, and already the nationalistic fervor has been smothered. after weeks of drunken men shouting “‘tschland!” to random passersby and “Mode Fans” (usually female) painting their cheeks with german stripes, the glory days are, unequivocally, over. without football as an excuse to rally together and sing their anthem and chant to their God, “Lu Lu Lu - Lucas Podolski!”, germans will return to their quiet, inoffensive way, glaring at anyone who hangs a flag from their window and immediately assuming that person has plans for the next genocide and a battered copy of Mein Kampf in their back pocket. while I appreciate contrition, (and can, now that I mention it, think of several people who could use some of the runoff from germany’s obvious overabundance), enough is e-fucking-nough. I think you’ve paid your dues, guys. it’s been over 60 years. none of the rest of us will think anything of you wanting to be a little happy you’re german outside of a sports context. so go forth! be patriotic! and don’t wait two years until the next World Cup to show your cold, german love.
Dresden. Take two.
This was my favorite city in Germany when my program went a-travelin’. So after gradually shifting from asking me if I wanted to go with her to referring to “our hotel,” Lena finally got me to agree to take a train and check it out again. Our entire relationship is a war of attrition. I’m always losing.
Tonight I went out on the roof outside of our window seeking solace in the usual places: my iPod and a cigarette. So caught up was I in my rendition of Okkervil River’s For Real, I didn’t notice that the hotel restaurant’s wait staff had stepped out for a cigarette and were sitting on the steps below me. Now staring at me. In awe and confusion. These looks were not flattering. Reluctantly I took out one ear bud and asked the girl with the most piercing stare if she was speaking to me.
“Ja”
“Noch einmal?”
“Hallo.”
I put my headphones back on. Did a mental calculation to work out the odds that they were calling security to come and escort me back inside or the police to talk the jumper down. We’re on the first floor. Things seemed to be in my favor. But then a manager looking man came out and seemed to be talking. The ear bud came out again.
“Bitte?”
“Alles klar?”
”Well since you asked…” I thought to myself.
“Ja, alles fit.”
He gave me one more incredulous look and then retreated back into shadow. I guess I was safe. The view was incredible, the weather crisp.
Wednesday I forewent a riveting lecture on Roman Mythology, for what at this point must be the 7th consecutive week, in favor of a nice fireside chat with my German shrink. One might hope that I would leave Europe with a stronger sense of self, a broadened world view, and a newfound desire to live. In any case, I guess now I can express abstract thoughts in a foreign language. After drawing out my family tree- not in the her sophisticated use of metaphor has figuratively drawn us a picture way; I would have been content with verbal description; she insisted stick-figures were necessary- she asked me how things were going with my friends. Lucy and Lena had been visiting for roughly a week and she was hoping that my spirits had been lifted by their presence. This led to a discussion of my general sense of isolation and how having friends physically present only served to remind me of the spaces that never left. I thought (but did not share) of the many times I imagined myself (read: fantasized about) smothering my body against someone else’s in a childish effort to literally close the gap. Forcefully, violently. It is an assault. Driven by desperation. The way a man might shake his lover to prevent her from leaving him after a fight in one of those Victorian romance novels I used to read in middle school. I looked up and realized that she had asked me a question.
“Bitte?”
“Wollen Sie sterben?”
“Gerade jetzt?”
“Im Allgemeinen.”
“…….”
“…….”
“…….”
“das ist immer am Tisch. Sagt man das auf Deutsch?”
She asks me if I have an age in mind after I explain that I figured I’m only 21 and could see if things might improve. Some people, it seems, give birthday deadlines. If I’m not happy by year 30, I’m sticking the cake and my head in the oven. I had nothing so firm in mind. She seemed comforted by this, and I found myself wondering why. The way things stand, without some goal in mind, I could just give up on a whim. I could walk home one day and the next some reporter with the A Tragedy Has Befallen This Community Voice could be interviewing baffled acquaintances and roommates who couldn’t think of anything specific that had happened that day.
But I digress. None of this is what I actually want to say. What I really want to tell youmesomeone is that the trip is off. First Panda said she was too eager to be with her boyfriend. Then, just now, Gwen said that her husband’s job situation had changed such that a trip to South America for three months was no longer possible. For some reason I couldn’t understand she suggested I go by myself. I thought about my options for the next school year. I could go back to Harvard. I could go stay with my parents in Seattle. I could spend it with Gwen and the kids. I could spend it in New York with Lena. I could kill myself. And there it was. Unbidden, unexpected it arrived. In tidy order single file behind the other choices. Like it belonged. Like it was no more the black sheep of the family. No, worse than the black sheep. The perverted uncle who might molest the children if he was left alone with them. It had somehow wheedled its way into the family. It was a bastard child no more. Years of persistence had been rewarded with legitimization. It might have been a fluke. But it wasn’t. Because 10 minutes later when Gwen idly said, “i will just have to find a way to get there with everyone one day,” my immediate thought was, “hopefully I’ll be dead by then.” I was appalled. Hopefully I’ll be dead? When had this happened? When had I started expecting that resolve and certainty about taking my life and not eventual happiness were to be my reward? She mentioned something about hope, and I snorted. Out loud. A while later she mentioned it again and my soul rolled its eyes. And yet, I don’t feel particularly driven to throw myself out the window. The actual state of things seems much more sinister. It really is on the table. Not like a meal that is eaten and removed, but like a center piece. Sure, it can be switched around from season to season, but it still has a permanence. And so it seems that this is where logic and rationality have led me. I know what you’re thinking. Most of you anyway. And I resent you for it. People think that when you’re suicidal you want to hear about how much they love you and need you and would miss you if you were gone. Like thinking about slitting your wrists is just some way of fishing for compliments gone epically wrong. But every time I hear those three words, I hear them for what they are: a threat. I love you…sodon’tkillyourselforelse. All I really want to hear is that you understand. And that you’ll continue to understand if and when I give up.
