Week 10: An Atheist Feels the Gospel Spirit

I’m in way over my head.  There have only been a handful of times in my life when I’ve said to myself, “How the hell did I get myself here?”  Shivering in the dark with no car on a Cree Indian reservation in northern Quebec.  Stopped at a military checkpoint in Nepal with drugs (not mine) in the car.  Standing on top of a spikey, iron stockade fence, trying to untangle my pants, so I could escape a graveyard.  Yes, that about sums up the most adventuresome moments of my life.

But here’s an honorable mention: church this week.  I realized that I have no idea what I’m doing on this project.  It seems simple enough.  Just visit a church each week.  And it is that simple, and I plan to continue doing it, but this week was the first time when I just thought, “What the hell am I doing?”  I thought this during the few seconds it took the pastor to walk down the aisle and hand me a microphone, as 200 African American faces turned around to look at the white atheist in the back row explain why he’d sat down in their church.  The pastor had asked if there were any visitors.  What was I going to do, blend in?  Hope nobody had noticed me?  So I had raised my hand and stood up.

Perhaps I’m being a bit dramatic.  It was just a church like thousands of others.  But toward the end of the service, as I sat and watched people falling on the ground in hysterical shrieking prayer, I realized that I just don’t know shit about religion.  My upbringing, my religious study, my book-learning, my self-indulgent Churchgoing Atheist project—it is all dwarfed by everything I don’t know.

So let’s get the easy things I do know out of the way first.  First, people look ridiculous when they are screaming and crying about God in a wild frenzy.  Most observers would laugh if they were not wide-eyed with incredulity. Second, I am a voyeur who deceived good people in order to write about how they are delusional.

But when I stood up I didn’t say that, of course.  I was partially truthful.  I told them my name, and that I had seen their church on the news when they donated all the collection money to Haiti earthquake relief, and that their church had looked like a joyful, interesting place and I wanted to visit.  Everyone said “Welcome”—and a few said “Praise God!”—and I took my seat.

Now on to the tough stuff.  I’m not going to criticize these churchgoers for their worship style.  To do so would be a failure to recognize the dramatic difference in culture.  To expect them to act “normal” according to my white-middle-class norms would be narrow-minded and ignorant.  It would be arrogant at best and racist at worst.  Besides, I already decided I don’t know shit.  But all this is beside the point, because I don’t want to criticize the service anyway.  I loved it.  (Well, some of it.)

My experience with religion has been narrow.  Even for this blog, I’ve gone to a fairly similar group of churches.  Never had I seen anything like this.  This church was genuinely uplifting.  People had passion!  There was a raw, naked, honest quality to impassioned worship that I have never seen before.  The music was deeply moving.  I don’t believe in God, I don’t think Jesus is listening, I don’t think there’s an invisible holy spirit in the room with me, and even I was nearly moved to tears.  It was joyous, infectious. 

There’s something about a specific organ sound that gets me.  Not a church pipe organ, but a jazz organ, a gospel organ.  That vibrating sound that warms the bones.  It’s a living thing.  And the jazz organ played for nearly the whole two hours.  It sang during the hymns, riffed during the prayers, and conversed with the pastor during the sermon.  It pumps life into the soul, even of an unbeliever.

Please don’t get the idea that I’m converting.  Still pretty confident there’s no god.  But I have to say, if gospel churches dropped Jesus and just started worshipping the gospel organ, I’d consider it. 

The atheist worldview, however, dilutes all of those good feelings.  The joy one feels is cheapened when one recognizes what’s actually going on, even if only imperfectly.  The bottom line is this: all the passionate worship, the hysterical prayer, the uplifting message—it’s all a mistake.  Once we begin with the premise that there isn’t a god that's listening to any of that, the atheist eyes begin to understand, and it’s way more complicated than simply explaining it away with God.

What I see is a fascinating combination of history, culture, biology, and psychology.  Trying to explain this complex blend of factors could fill a library.  I’ll just take one aspect that intrigued me.  Since I loved the organ, I'll build on that—there was an improvisational quality to the whole service.  Yes, there was a bulletin with a plan for the service, but each part of the service was flexible and open-ended.  The prayers seemed unscripted.  The band played along without music.  The congregation spoke or stood whenever they were moved to.  It was as though the speakers and the singers and the band and the congregation (or audience, if I may) were all interacting parts, playing off one another in a grand improvisation.  And this improvisation is part of black culture.  Jazz grew out of it.  Rap grew out of it.  Certain kinds of dance grew out of it.  And all of those cultural ingredients were in the religious stew that I tasted.

Several days later and I’m still not sure what to make of it all. Part of me wants to laugh and sneer and mock.  Part of me wants to pity them for wasting such time and energy.  Part of me wants to recognize that their lives are filled with joy and community so even if they’re “wrong” it doesn’t matter.  And part of me wants to just join in and feel the love.

I can’t just feel the love, though, if my head says it’s an illusion.  Still, I get the attraction of it all.

Week 9: Christian Science. Holy Shit.

“If half the attention given to hygiene were given to Christian Science and spiritual thought, this alone would usher in the Millenium.”

-Mary Baker Eddy in Science and Health

“Yeah, A thousand years of really smelly people.”

-The Churchgoing Atheist

It would be pretty easy to make fun of the nuts who practice Christian Science. Yes, these are the people who believe so deeply that prayer will heal the sick that many of them choose to forgo medical treatment. But part of the Churchgoing Atheist project is giving everyone an equal fair shake, so here goes.

The building has piqued my curiosity ever since I briefly lived on the same street. It is an imposing structure: square, domed, fronted by Greek columns. It looks more like a government building than a church. I wondered if there could possibly be enough Christian Scientists in the Rochester area to warrant such a structure. Finally I had my chance to find out.

Inside it is a majestic building. Above the main room is the dome, gilded with ornamentation. Strangely, there is not one single cross anywhere. There are rows of benches roughly in a semicircle. It could probably hold 700 people. There were maybe 30 people there for the service—a decent number, but they were swallowed up by the room. That place will make a cool concert hall or museum when the church inevitably goes under.

So here’s a bit of basic history for you: in 1866 Mary Baker Eddy was miraculously healed of an injury after reading a Bible passage. She then founded the First Church of Christ, Scientist. The foundation of their belief system is both the Bible and Mary Baker Eddy’s book, Science and Health, in which she interprets Bible passages.

Christian Scientists love Mary Baker Eddy. In some ways, the structure of the service resembles most other churches I’ve been to: hymns, scripture readings, prayers. But the bulk of their service is simply reading from Mary Baker Eddy’s Science and Health.

They have no pastor or priest, no official religious leader of any kind, apparently. The service is run by two lay people who stand side by side at the front podium. One reads a passage from the Bible, and the second reads the corresponding passage of interpretation from Mary Baker Eddy.

This back and forth goes on for quite some time. They share no interpretation except the 150-year-old words of Mrs. Eddy, so it barely qualifies as a sermon, but that’s what they call it. Most of the interpretations from Science and Health were bits of wisdom about the nature of existence. It was a lot of new-age sounding spiritualism about how all matter is illusion and the true nature of existence is immaterial. Only when people learn to let go of the material world can they truly know God. I suppose in that respect it’s not terribly different from Buddhism or even pantheism (everything is God). Still, I don’t put any credence in that mushy cosmology.

There are a number of reasons why I like churches. Good music. Friends and fellowship. Thought-provoking, inspiring sermons. Charity work. This church had none of the above. And on top of it all, it was boring! Outrageously boring. Keep in mind: this is coming from a man who doesn’t believe in God but chooses to go to church every week. I am not easily bored. Forget the comparisons to paint-drying and watching grass grow. Mary Baker Eddy took it to the next level. Honestly, I don’t know how this religion ever spread, because this sermon must’ve been boring even by 19^th-century standards. Even the music was boring (lyrics by Mary Baker Eddy). The whole thing was soul-crushingly boring.

Couple all this with a theology that advises against personal hygiene, and it’s no surprise that the Christian Science Church is dying. Their membership has declined according to their own website (and you should check out the FAQ on their site—it’s rich with bizarre rationalizations). I’ll limit the summative criticisms to only two sentences. This church should die out. It is an outrage that people will deny sick children medical treatment, and the claim that religious belief protects their right to do so turns my stomach.

But now that I’ve got the criticism out of the way, allow me to offer a potentially surprising compliment. I respect their honesty. Christian Scientists actually seem to believe what they say they believe. They do what all Christians should do if they really believe in the power of prayer. Sure, I know the standard answer to this: God answers prayers in the form of good doctors and healing medicines. I don’t buy it. Daniel Dennett has a charming essay, “Thank Goodness,” about why we should thank the doctors and the field of medicine rather than thanking God.

You could look at this in different ways. On the one hand, you could say that doctors are agents of the divine, performing miracles each day, and that is the highest of compliments. Or you could say that doctors have devoted years of their lives to learning, compassion, and selflessness, trusting in science to discover how the human body actually works. Sure, you can have it both ways, but I think claiming the doctors would somehow be less effective in the absence of prayer or God is not only wrong, but a cheapening of the profession and the sacrifice of those individuals. Daniel Dennett’s essay expresses this more eloquently than I can.

To close, a few words about belief (again drawing on the words of Hitchens and Dawkins). Christians claim to believe in the power of prayer, but most would choose to actually place their bets on science when it really matters. Imagine if your child was dying and you only had time to drive to the hospital or the church. Those who genuinely follow through on their belief are respectable, in a twisted sort of way, but the more people actually believe, the more dangerous they are. As many people have observed, the 9/11 terrorists actually believed what they claimed to. Why do we not praise them for their faith? If everyone believed martyrdom would lead to immediate paradise, why do they not all follow through on that belief? The same applies to Christians. If Christians genuinely believe death leads immediately to everlasting life with God, why are they so passionately against physician-assisted suicide? Why do other Christians criticize Christian Scientists for their practices, when they are simply acting upon what they believe? The nature of religious belief is a strange, twisted maze, and trying to navigate it makes one realize how damningly stupid the whole thing is.

Week 8: Gotta Light?

"God from God, Light from Light, true God from true God"

-The Nicene Creed

“The natural light of reason has as much right as any other kind of knowledge to be called divine.”

 -Spinoza

“Faith must trample under foot all reason, sense, and understanding, and whatever it sees it must put out of sight, and wish to know nothing but the word of God.” 

-Martin Luther, Works Vol. 12

 

It would probably be tedious for me to list the many ways in which religious belief has interfered with human progress.  So I’ll refrain from an extensive list, and content myself with the a few highlights from religion’s endless battle against intelligent thought: Martin Luther condemned reason, Galileo was accused of heresy, and former congressman Tom Delay blamed the teaching of evolution for the Columbine shootings.  Today, the Religious Right fights against stem cell research that might alleviate real suffering.  Religion is not the light to the world that it claims to be.

But that does not stop religions from making that claim, over and over again, every week.  Everything in today’s service was about light.  Whoever planned the service got a little carried away with the motif.  The prayers talked about light, the scripture readings, the sermon, and the songs, even the children’s lesson.  It was all aimed at stressing upon the parishioners that God/Jesus/religion/they can be the lights in this world of darkness.

The closing hymn at today’s Methodist service said, “Christ is the world’s light, Christ and none other” (lyrics by Fred Pratt Green, d. 2000).  I want to respond with Really?  None other? Obviously Mr. Green doesn’t mean that Jesus is literally the sun.  He means it symbolically.  In fact, everything from today’s service was intended symbolically.  When the children’s minister told them to find the light in themselves, and that light is Jesus, and they could find the light of Jesus in all their friends, even if it is very dim, I think she meant that symbolically. 

Which leads me to my point for this week.  Is it possible to speak with more clarity or exactness about what we mean by “light,” or more broadly, by any of the symbolic terms we kick around when talking about God/Jesus?  What do religious leaders (or lyricists, or ancient texts) mean when they use “light” as a symbol?

Symbols are powerful.  Their power is that of suggestion.  They need not be exact.  If symbols were simple equations, where Symbol A = Actual Thing B, then there would be no need for the symbol.  Rather, symbols bring to mind the deep variety of associations we have with them.  So for example, the most basic symbol of Christianity, the cross, conjures feelings of love, awe, forgiveness, suffering, sacrifice, divinity, salvation, etc.  It does not simplistically represent any one thing, but uses the mind of the viewer to create meaning based on that viewer’s experiences.  For this reason, symbols are dependent upon the viewer.  They carry no meaning outside of the mind of a specific individual.  The cross means nothing to someone who has never heard of Christianity.  To the Romans who crucified Jesus, it symbolized torture and punishment, the absolute power of Roman law.  To many in the Muslim world, it symbolizes the blasphemy, decadence, militarism, and economic power of the West.  These symbols are slippery things.

The church’s use of the word “light” is therefore very powerful, since light is such a basic need for humanity.  The notion that light is good must be very deeply rooted in the human psyche.  It allows us to see clearly; it accompanies warmth; it means safety from predators.  Its symbolic meaning has been extrapolated over time to suggest life, hope, joy, and truth.  For all these reasons, I suspect, fire and candles are used extensively in religious rituals around the world.

But I would suggest that the church’s employment of light as a symbol is a kind of trickery.  Ironically, rather than enlightening and clarifying, its usage obscures truth.  When churches talk of the light over and over, it is a convenient way of avoiding saying anything real or specific.  It feels good to hear about light.  It sounds good to hear about light.  It conjures all those positive associations and leaves it at that, without actually saying anything.

When the children today were told that they have the light of Jesus in them, does that mean they have love and kindness in them?  I think so.  Certainly we can spread love like spreading a flame—there’s plenty to go around. 

But to take it beyond that, to use light as a symbol of the truth of Christianity, is to begin down the slippery slope of meaninglessness.  Why do churches and preachers continually feel the need to remind us that the Bible is truth, that God is truth, that Jesus is “the way, the truth, the life,” that the church is the light of the world?  Most Christians don’t believe the Bible to be literal truth, so the church must mean some kind of spiritual truth, some kind of spiritual light that defies logic.  Sorry folks, but I see all this talk about “light” as sound and fury signifying nothing.  Theology is anti-intellectual, spiritual mumbo-jumbo wrapped up in a beautiful and convincing cloak of symbolism.  Any attempt to remove that cloak of symbolism is met with arguments that are impossible to argue with, like, the truth of God defies logic, or the truth of God is outside of science, or some other empty catchphrase.

To close, allow me to borrow some ideas from atheists Christopher Hitchens and Richard Dawkins.  There was a time when the influence of the church far outweighed literacy and science.  It was known as the Dark Ages. (Yes, I went there.)  I believe most people recognize that an inquisitive mind is what leads to enlightenment.  Science has been a light to the world, opening doors that the church tries so hard to keep closed.  The inconsistent and bizarre teachings of the Bible pale in comparison to the beauty and grandeur of our natural world.  I have been enlightened by learning about history, chemistry, psychology, math, and astronomy.  I have been enlightened by reading beautiful works of literature.  In our understanding of life, Darwin shone a light—a brilliant beacon of light—that has taken human knowledge to a new plane.  Truly, these are the areas in which light as a symbol makes sense to me.  The church uses the symbol of light only to distract, dissemble, and darken.

Week 7: What is the Value of a Church Community?

"And, ye fathers, provoke not your children to wrath: but bring them up in the nurture and admonition of the Lord." -Ephesians 6:4

Let me begin with baptism, since it is the symbolic beginning of a child’s participation in a church community. Baptism creeps me out. (Baptism of infants, that is.) The child is completely oblivious. He or she is deemed to be part of a church community without having any say in the decision.

Would Jesus or God love the child less if it had not been baptized? Well for 7 centuries the concept of limbo existed as a place to put those children who die without baptism, but the Catholic Church officially decided it didn’t exist in 2005 (http://www.time.com/time/magazine/article/0,9171,1145257,00.html). The elimination of a hypothetical supernatural realm of existence surprisingly didn’t get much attention in the media. Anyway, I don’t think that most people really considered getting to heaven the true purpose of baptism. Rather, it is a symbolic gesture that the church will welcome the child as a Christian. The cynic in me says that it is the beginning of the child’s indoctrination.

The baptism was followed by a practice I’d never seen before. The pastor held the baby, then paraded it down the center aisle, showing it to each pew, saying that this is their new Christian brother. (Richard Dawkins writes about the flaw of referring to a “Christian child” or “Muslim child” since children are not yet old enough to choose for themselves.) Then, at the end of the aisle, she handed the baby to a random congregation member to carry back to mom and dad, saying that it was symbolic of how the whole church would raise the child.

It is fitting that I saw a baptism at this week’s outing, and consequently thought about how I was raised in a church, because I was there with my parents. Visiting my parents for the holidays gave me the opportunity to attend church with them right after Christmas. This was a highly uncomfortable experience for me, since my newfound atheism, still a secret from them, is in such profound conflict with their beliefs and lifestyle.

It’s like for the first time I’m a fish trying to understand the water. Since I was raised with those beliefs and lifestyle, since I was raised in a church community, my entire worldview is shaped by it. And here’s what’s weird—I think I’m better off for it. Throughout my childhood and adolescence, I had a weekly prompting to think about life, to consider how I might live better, to give money as an act of selflessness, to learn about how the world works, and so on. I participated in youth group activities that had a variety of social and intellectual benefits, and were often fun as well. I made many friends, and the group of friends my parents made 30 years ago is still part of our lives.

For all these reasons and more, I recognize great value in having a church community, in following through on that promise made to the baptized infant.

But I cannot, as an atheist, accept the underlying reason for it all. My parents are aware that I’m not particularly religious anymore, but they continually stress the importance of being part of something. “How will you raise your kids?” they ask. For them, the many benefits of the community are perhaps even more important than the beliefs themselves. They think that only through a church community will children grow to be completely moral, well-rounded, good, stable people. Churches may indeed help to nurture children in those respects. But if, in doing so, churches connect all that good social nurturing to false claims, dogmatic teaching, and a worldview that discourages free thought, it may not be worth it.

The real question is this: is a church community the only way by which parents can raise good kids? This is a really tough one, because I must admit that young people I know who attend church are often better people for it. Will I deny my children (if/when I have any) that opportunity? What would we replace church with?

Character education comes primarily from the home and the parents. Sure, a weekly trip to church can reinforce things, but character education, I think, depends much more on the manner in which parents behave. But this is an incomplete answer. Children need social outlets and community environments that teach them in ways their parents cannot. I believe arts programs can be part of that. Athletics often foster sportsmanship, diligence, teamwork, etc. Summer camps that include academics or arts are available to parents who don’t want their kids to have to pray or be taught about the Bible.

A side note: I would like to say that youth organizations like the Boy Scouts are also great, because I had a great experience there, and it helped me to become who I am. Unfortunately, the Boy Scouts exclude atheists. That’s their right, of course, but that doesn’t make it right. They also exclude homosexuals. These two beliefs may help perpetuate good old, small town, Sarah Palin-style American values, but they are closed-minded and offensive. It pains me, but I am tempted to reject the Boy Scouts because it is a prejudicial organization. Does that negate all the good that came from it in my life? No, but it certainly taints it. I hope that eventually they’ll wake up and change, choosing to teach kids that people can be good even if they don’t believe in invisible, mind-reading, all-powerful friends who love them (but not if they’re gay).

Unfortunately, youth programs, arts, and athletics would not provide the same kind of stability that a church would. Those are temporary things, with transient social groups. The members of a church may change, but the entity will always remain, a rock in people’s lives. It’s very easy for me to say I don’t need that rock. I have a job, a loving family, a house, and a good group of friends. I am lucky to have a stable life. I hope some day I can introduce children into that stable life and raise them without relying on a church. I don’t want them to be part of a social institution that preaches unscientific nonsense, encourages conformity, draws its values from an ancient tribe of desert nomads, and, at times, propagates hate towards those who are different. I’ll take my chances finding and creating a community for myself and my kids elsewhere.

I left the bright, whitewashed walls of the southern Presbyterian church feeling guilty. My parents were thankful—almost giddy—that I had chosen to participate in that community with them rather than sleeping in during the holiday vacation. That guilt, which for years has been eating at me on Sunday mornings, still will not go away, despite my best efforts. I am confident in rejecting the idea of God, but not confident in rejecting all the rest of it.

Postscript: Baptism doesn’t give children a choice. However, I do appreciate that most churches place value on confirmation, which is the time when a youth can decide to remain part of the church or not. Unfortunately, by that time, the child has been trained to remain part of the community, so it’s not really a fair situation. I recall participating in my confirmation, and I was surprised that some members of my class chose not to join the church. Looking back, I realize that those young people had greater ability to think for themselves than I did at the time.