WRITTEN BY JOSHUA MASTERSON, AAI NEWS TEAM
James A. Haught's book, Religion is Dying: Soaring Secularism in America and the West, reads like a pleasant conversation about religion's imminent demise. For readers of Dennett or Dawkins, Haught's theses comprise familiar concepts: the paradox of "evil," improvements in science education, and declining church attendance. However, in comparison to writers like Dawkins or Dennet, Haught presents his argument much less abstractly and argumentatively. Rather than a philosophy or biology lecture, Haught's book feels more like a series of anecdotes shared by a favorite uncle during a slow holiday.
WRITTEN BY ELIZABETH EMERY, AAI NEWS TEAM
When I picked up Peter Enns’s new book, The Bible Tells Me So, it was primarily because I was enticed by the subtitle Why Defending Scripture Has Made Us Unable to Read It. Anyone who has left Christianity because of (or is still Christian and wrestles strongly with) doctrinal inconsistencies and ethical conundrums in religious texts may be curious (like me) to know how Christians who love the Bible manage to deal with these issues.
Enns begins his book with a disclaimer: the Bible, as a literal work, is “like a knock-off Chanel handbag—fine as long as it’s kept at a distance, away from curious and probing eyes.” He admits that from its very genesis (sorry), the Good Book is chockfull of the fairy-tale-like adventures and mythical achievements of God’s people. This is tough, Enns says, because a literal reading of the Bible (and if you don’t read it literally, why are you really reading the Bible?) leads us to believe that the God of the Christians is an ambivalent, brutally merciless, jealous individual who condones genocide and infanticide and every other –cide there is. “Strictly speaking,” writes Enns, “The American with Disability Act is unbiblical,” because the disfigured are barred from the priesthood. It’s bothersome to say the least.
So what do we do with the Bible, presupposing it’s directly from God? According to Enns we must first recognize that the problem isn’t the Bible itself but it’s with our expectations of the Bible, and our desperate attempts to make it something it is not; making it, as Enns says, “behave.” Enns wants us to accept it as the “messy, troubling, weird, and ancient Bible that we actually have.” He asserts that we must start thinking about the Bible by trusting God rather than ourselves, and cease imposing our own wills upon it, having faith that it is the way it is for a reason!
Enns spends the first section of his book tackling a heavy subject that has given the spins to lay Christians and biblical scholars alike: the genocide of the Canaanites by the Israelites. Enns admits that it’s difficult to reconcile the notion of a caring, loving Heavenly Father with an angry, jealous dictator who wipes out all of humanity with a flood, kills the unlucky Egyptian first-born children, and tells His people to mercilessly murder every man, woman, and child of Canaanite descent simply for being there. (In theory it was for being wicked, too, although it’s hard to imagine little babies sinning in any way besides repeatedly waking up their parents in the night). When confronted with such a significant question as this, Enns begins his trend (carried throughout the book) of avoiding a very possibly ugly answer—by just plain making shit up. For example, Enns’s tactic of letting God off the hook for the Israelite violence against the Canaanites is this: “God never told the Israelites to kill the Canaanites. The Israelites believed that God told them to kill the Canaanites... That’s really what this comes down to. Canaanite genocide is part of Israel’s story of the past—not a historical account of something God did.” Those silly little Israelites’ interpretation of God’s will had simply fallen victim to the tribal warfare culture of the time, and because that’s just the way things were, God went along with it and so they assumed He endorsed it. And, oops, we’ve all been interpreting this wrong the entire time.
Another significant issue is Enns’s willingness to cherry-pick parts of the Bible that are subject to interpretational pliability. If, as it turns out, the Israelites just grossly misinterpreted God’s will, couldn’t the same be said of any other part of the Bible? Perhaps the Ten Commandments are just a product of Moses’s PTSD, something he thought was necessary because of societal trends at the time, but actually isn’t really all that important today (I’d be okay with that, especially if it meant we could use Louis C.K.’s version instead). In all seriousness, this is a huge question that Enns glosses over without considering that the trail he blazes sets a poor example for less kind-hearted Christians than he. It’s this very same personalized malleability that allows evangelical Christians to liberally interpret the one obscure verse that allows total condemnation of gay men (Leviticus 20:13), but ignore the slightly more ‘Christlike’ edict of “Love thy neighbor” (Matthew 19:19). Historic Christianity would have us believe we are made in God’s image but it seems as though we are making God in ours. Enns’s book is an example par excellence.
So only fifty pages into The Bible Tells Me So, I found myself struggling to continue. On top of his blasphemous re-twisting of Biblical history, the tasteless writing style Enns uses in an attempt to make light of some very serious conundrums is nothing less than obnoxious. There is really only so much har-har humor one can take in any book, much less one where we’re discussing whether or not God “rolls” a certain way about manslaughter or the virgin birth. Enns gives his readers an overabundance of trite silliness, melodramatic ellipses and italics, and several poorly disguised Warning! Warning! This may be difficult for you to wrap your head around. Considering that the majority of his readers are probably well versed in the verses, Enns would probably have better served his cause by not constantly presuming that he’s about to blow all of our minds. Maybe I’m just a Grinch.
Also, beyond Enns’s hackneyed goofs, one could argue against even attempting to make the violence and inconsistencies in the Bible compatible with the advent of a modern-day “God is Love.” Why bother? When women worldwide are still systemically oppressed by religion, when radical believers still kill in the name of God, when in America the religious right is still responsible for the inexcusable lack of civil liberties for many minorities, why in the world would we even try to justify the Bible? Why do we endorse attempting to make an ancient, historically inaccurate, self-contradicting book a moral guide for our behavior today?
A lot of it has to do with power and money. As long as Christianity has been a thing, its proponents have been known for touting their own personal versions of God’s will as absolute reality, and entire populations have been wiped out as the result of groups of believers rearranging the ‘truth’ to their liking. And in a day where information about everything is so broadly available, this DIY approach to “Biblical Christianity” rings hollow. We’ve seen Christian apologists before—over and over!—and their efforts always yield the same result: Nice for you, but what about the rest of us? It comes off as doubtful at best but exhausting and dishonest at worst, which is why I imagine Enns’s most vocal critics are conservative Biblical Christians. Don’t like the truth? Rearrange it to your own liking! – It’s easy, sure. But it certainly isn’t revolutionary in the way Enns seems to think it is.
It would be refreshing to read that, okay, the Bible has these weird parts that we really can’t understand in the context of modern-day humanity, but aren’t there a lot of texts from which we leave out the bad and harvest the good for our enlightenment? Sure there are. And since we obviously can’t ignore the Bible, that approach might reflect a more realistic, more humble approach than Enns’s ending edict of, “The Bible, just as it is, still works. Don’t try to explain it. Just accept it.” (And yes, that’s verbatim.) In short, it is tiresome, fruitless and makes no sense to try to justify the patently un-‘Godlike’ parts of the Bible as simple misinterpretations on the part of the biblical author that we could get past if only we opened our puny minds to God’s will.
WRITTEN BY MARK KOLSEN, GUEST WRITER FOR AAI NEWS TEAM
In Contradiction, Jeremiah Camara’s intelligent film about religion’s seduction of African-Americans, Lawrence Krauss says “the rise of non-belief is the rise of science.”
Krauss refers of course to natural sciences like cosmology and evolutionary biology, disciplines now giving us empirically based theories for the origin of the universe and man; and to social sciences like sociology and psychology, which are now explaining how the brain generates religious beliefs and behaviors. These new scientific discoveries, Camara recognizes, “are clashing with biblical doctrine,” and exposing the contradiction between truth and African-Americans’ irrationality. In the film – to take just one example – we hear the muddled African-American view that god must have created us, that we could not have evolved from “monkeys” because on earth “we still have monkeys.” This illogic is followed by Richard Dawkins’ concise, scientific explanation of the human family tree.
Contradiction should not be seen merely by atheists. Children should also have the opportunity to view it. In fact, if I were emperor, I would mandate that every grade school child see it in order to understand the social and political conditions which foster humanity’s irrational addiction to religion. That wish is itself pie-in-the-sky, but for his hard work and intelligence, I thank Jeremiah Camara for providing me with a first-rate teaching resource.
AAI News Team's guest writer is Mark Kolsen, Managing Editor of the Richard Dawkins Foundation Newsletter
WRITTEN BY LIZ EMERY, GUEST WRITER FOR AAI NEWS TEAM
In The New Age of Atheists: How We Have Sought to Live Since the Death of God, British historian Peter Watson explains how atheist thinkers and artists have sought meaning and purpose in life ever since Nietzsche declared that “god is dead.” Joshua Ferris, in his latest novel, depicts an atheist dentist who struggles with the same question. As Liz Emery observes in the following review, we can all relate to this very funny, very real, story.
In To Rise Again at a Decent Hour, Paul is a terminally caustic dentist in New York who fills cavities, watches baseball games, and pushes people’s buttons. The majority of the story’s plot, dialogue, and Paul’s constant self-musings occur within the hours spent at his understaffed dental practice, which, in an effort to save money during construction, lacks a private office and any resultant confidentiality said office might provide. Through conversation with his head hygienist, Mrs. Convoy; his office assistant and ex-lover, Connie; and O’Rourke’s own hilariously cynical, honest (and downright egocentric) inner monologue; we come to see who Paul Conrad O’Rourke, DMD, is—and, by his own admittance, he isn’t much at all.
On the surface, Paul actively spurns any and all religious affiliation. In truth, however, he is intensely superstitious and, by his own admittance, creepily leeches onto the uber-conservative religious families of his girlfriends in an attempt to feel included as a part of some greater whole. Because Paul’s father committed suicide, and because Paul is who he is, Paul is constantly sorting out a litany of psychological issues, including loneliness, lack of belonging, and the suffocating feeling that when he wakes in the middle of the night, as he usually does, everybody else in the world is asleep. When he arrives at his office, he can’t bring himself to say hello to his staff, despite asserting to the reader that he wants nothing more than to offer a cheery good morning to all. Instead, he says, “Where’s the day’s schedule?” to Connie, or “You’re alone today,” to Mrs. Convoy. He peers into the mouths of his patients, pleads with them to floss, and then goes out to have a cigarette. When he returns from smoking, his conversations with Mrs. Convoy, who is uncannily aware of his every movement, are typically structured around the strange but effortlessly executed dialogue tactic of, “She said ‘x’, I replied. She said, ‘x’, I replied.” The two spar endlessly over Mrs. Convoy’s obnoxiously sincere Christianity and Paul’s certainty in the pointlessness of maintaining proper dental hygiene.
When Paul goes home, he ruminates over how there is nothing New York City offers besides drinking and eating endlessly (no wonder America is a nation of “fat alcoholics and the nurses and therapists who tend to them”), and so he spurns professional gatherings, meetings with friends, and does nothing but watch the Red Sox—religiously, you might say—on Thursday nights and then regrets not going out afterwards. When he awakes in the wee hours after the game is over, he checks his email, despairs over the lonely darkness of the early morning, and then watches the previous night’s game until dawn breaks.
Paul C. O’Rourke is single. On his knees, he weeps at the thought of a baby or puppy and all the tragedies he could endure at the expense of loving one. Although he is obsessed with his girlfriend’s family, he severely lacks good conversational taste and does things like telling tasteless Anti-Semitic jokes when his girlfriend’s family is sitting Shiva. He has no friends because he appears to be fundamentally unlikeable and spurns what pseudo-friends he does have. His family is dead (well, his mother is in a mental hospital); he has no children or pets, and for someone who self-admittedly “only wanted to be smothered in the embrace of an inclusive and coercive singular “we”, he is remarkably alone.
Then comes the website. Someone pretending to be Paul, with intimate knowledge of his life, has put up a website for Paul’s dental office. The impersonator begins commenting on various sports threads as Paul, and perhaps most disconcertingly, includes quotes and links on the website, the sports threads, and now Twitter, which reference an entirely unheard-of group of ancient people called the Ulms (don’t waste your time Googling—there’s no such thing). As Paul comes to find out via sparse email interactions with the perpetrator, the Ulms are a displaced, abused society comparable to the Jews—except their hallmark of persecution is doubt in God, instead of faith— and Paul is apparently one of them. Now he’s being invited to search out his Ulmish destiny.
Of course, in the meantime, the anti-Semitic comments Paul’s impersonator posts on the dental practice’s website and Twitter account are angering a lot of people, including Connie and her Jewish family. As Paul tries to placate Connie’s family and discover who his doppelganger is, and as Paul tries to determine whether the Ulms are a legitimately disenfranchised part of biblical history, he is forced reluctantly on a journey of self-discovery, where he ultimately has to confront the fact that despite eschewing all religious convictions, he and others like him still have an deep-seeded human need to connect.
And what better way to illustrate the fallibility of human need, desire, and design than from a dentist’s chair? Teeth that crumble. Infection galore. When Paul visits a settlement outside of New Delhi on a charity mission to fix the teeth of impoverished children, he spends a whole page describing God’s glorious design: “Pulp necrosis, tongue lesions, goiterlike presentations… trench mouth, incurable caries… Those tender infant mouths never stood a chance…. Mrs. Convoy said we were there to do God’s work. As for God’s work, I said, ‘Seems like we’re undoing it.’” Paul doesn’t soapbox, simply describes the mess he sees, and denies any possibility that it points to a higher power. And you get it, you get Paul—you understand his cynicism, his constant irritation at Mrs. Convoy’s benign insistence on God’s good dental intentions. (“What exactly have you been doing?” I’d tell her, and she’d say, “Why do you feel the need to lie to me?” I’d tell her, and she’d say, “Scrutiny does not kill people. Smoking kills people. What kind of example do you think you’re setting for your patients by sneaking off to smoke cigarettes?” I’d tell her, she’d say, “They do not need a reminder of ‘the futility of it all’ from their dental professional.”) Without preaching or pontificating, Ferris makes the human mouth the perfect breeding ground for one bitter and sullen atheist’s festering.
In an easy-reading, non-politicized way, To Rise Again at a Decent Hour addresses some of the most common questions asked of atheists: Who do you belong to? What are your morals? Can you love someone of another faith? Does faith in doubt constitute some sort of transcendental belief, regardless of the disbeliever’s protests? Through Paul, Ferris approaches potential answers to these questions in a genuine, believable conversation without ever approaching didacticism. Perhaps because he asks the questions from such an honest perspective, or perhaps because Paul is such a whip-funny asscrack, the character’s take on the eventual decay of any ultimate purpose in life, via the hilarious metaphors of gum disease and cavity rot, is totally convincing. Even if Paul doesn’t find answers to all of his questions, the gut-wrenching desire with which he searches mirrors that fundamental human yearning for a greater understanding.
If nothing else, To Rise Again at a Decent Hour is a laugh-out-loud funny reminder that, regardless of belief or nonbelief, the only ultimate meaning to eating, drinking, fornicating, flossing, or watching a baseball game is the meaning we give it. At the very end of the novel when on another charity trip to New Delhi, a brief but incredibly poignant moment occurs: Paul runs into a child with a smile so beautiful he calls it “God-given”—and then later realizes it was work he performed on the child himself, years before. Perhaps that in itself answers all of Paul’s questions for us.
Our guest writer Liz Emery is a writer for the news team of the Richard Dawkins Foundation.