My basic argument was that there is no answer to the question.  The reason is that “Christian” is an arbitrary human group designation that is used with different (implicit) definitions by different groups.  Since none of those groups has accepted authority to establish a (or the) correct definition, and since “Christian” does not (as we used to believe) refer to anything divine or supernatural, it follows that there can be no final, ultimate, “correct” definition.  There is no right answer to whether “I was a Christian” is true or not, independent of context and a pre-chosen definition.

I still think my answer is substantially correct.  But its not exactly punchy.  It takes a bit of explaining, and that won’t always do in the heat of an argument.  When faced with confrontation and criticism from friends, former friends, and others who challenge us, it helps to have an answer at the ready that doesn’t depend on delving into philosophical issues of “natural kinds” vs “nominal kinds”.  I wanted something more memorable – compact & colorful, more visual and less abstract.

So after continuing to chew on this, I think I’ve come up with one.  So, let me share it here and you all can tell me what you think.

Here’s the setting: you are telling a friend, coworker, or stranger on the web that you used to be a Christian, but you deconverted.  She scoffingly replies that that means you never were one in the first place; true Christians remain faithful and never leave.  (Or, as a variant, as was said to me once, that you cannot lose your salvation, so you are still a Christian whether you think you are or not.)

I think I will call this Kenobi’s Fallacy.   Here goes:

Imagine that you once believed yourself to be a Jedi.  I mean, seriously.  You really, truly, honestly, in your heart of hearts believed in the Force, and that you, as a Jedi, were studying to master it.  You dedicated many years of your life to this with the singular passion of a Sith. Then, gradually, after many years of often painful reflection and study, you came to lose your belief.  You came to realize that there really was no Force, and there never had been.  You used to feel so sure – you once believed you felt it, flowing through you, controlling your actions but also obeying your commands – but now, you realize you were mistaken.

It was a very wrenching process for you.  You dedicated your life to this craft, and now, sadly, you see that Han was right: there really is no substitute for a good blaster at your side.

Now, though, your former Master comes to you, and says:  You never really were a Jedi in the first place.

I feel I hardly need to explain any more.  Do you see the silliness in having a debate with this person about whether you “really” were a Jedi?  Now that you have de-converted, you can see that the word “Jedi” doesn’t refer to anything except this:  people who believe themselves to be masters of the Force.  It has no supernatural, extradimensional, mystical (or whatever) aspects to it at all. 

Of course, your former master believes it does refer to something.  He thinks it refers to “someone who actually is a master of the Force”, just like you used to.  But from where you sit now, it cannot mean that – or, rather, it could, but if so then no one is a Jedi, because there is no such thing as the Force.  And since it would seem weird, and needlessly confusing, to claim there were no Jedi when the whole galaxy was full of people running around claiming to be Jedi, it makes much more sense to retain the term but change its referent. 

But how can you answer this person, who says that you never really were a Jedi – in his sense of the term Jedi… i.e., master of a real, literal Force?  By arguing that yes, you “really” were? No, that’s not true – you don’t believe that.  There is no Force.  But its also not strictly accurate that you “really” weren’t a Jedi either, in his sense of the term Jedi, because that still implies there is an actual Force to be a master of. And that’s the point: it cannot be answered whether someone has satisfied his definition of “Jedi” or not, because it assumes a nonexistent entity. His criterion for what qualifies as a Jedi is nonsensical.

So, back to this galaxy, the analog is clear: when someone uses the word “Christian” to mean something like “one whose soul has been saved by Jesus” , it becomes absurd to argue whether or not you ever “really” met that criteria. The only criteria that can really mean anything has to do with mundane and arbitrary group membership, membership that is not based on anything external, in any precise way.  “Christian” can only mean something like “one who considers herslef to be a follower of Jesus.”  “Christian”, thus, is actually more like “soccer fan.” There’s no real right answer as to whether someone is or not.

What I think I like about this analogy – if it holds – is that, in actual use (and I haven’t beta tested it), I don’t think you would need to explain as much as I did here.  Just replying to your critic, “That’s kind of like if, say, you used to think you were a Jedi, but now you don’t, and then I came to you and said ‘you never really were a Jedi’”, and let the implications slowly sink in, would probably be enough.

And if you like, you could reshape this analogy into anything you like: you used to think you were a wizard.  Or a dragonrider.  Or a unicorn-tamer.  Or a Romulan spy.

So ,what do you think of my analogy, my fellow Padawans?  Useful it is, hmm?

There is at least a small upside to this issue, which is why I’m including my own reasoning.  The only potentially serious function it has, in my view, is that it provides a convenient arena in which to explore some epistemology.  “Epistemology” is that branch of philosophy that deals with knowledge – how do we know what we know?  Hashing out the atheist vs. agnostic question can be an entry way into how we approach questions of knowledge.  We can sharpen our critical thinking skills and learn some philosophy to boot. To the degree that they serve that purpose, such debates can be informative, maybe even useful.  There’s a serious downside, though, but I’ll save that for the end.  So, for what intellectual exercise it’s worth, here’s my take on this question:

I start by defining terms:  theism, of course, refers to belief in god(s).  Atheism, then, obviously refers to a lack of belief in god(s).  Agnosticism is the assertion that it is not possible to know the answer, and thus a refusal to opine (with any confidence) on the existence of god(s).

Now, some atheists define atheism broadly.  They suggest it can mean one who asserts, “there is no god”, but also one who simply lacks (by choice or happenstance) any belief in god.  This is a rather fine distinction, but real enough, I think.  The former position is sometimes called “hard” atheism, the latter, “soft” atheism.  However, since a “soft” atheist (a) does not assert “there is no god”, and also (b) does not assert “there is a god”, for my part I do not see any difference between this position, and agnosticism. So, for my usage of these terms below, I will restrict the word “atheism” to the “hard” variety: an atheist is one who asserts “there is no god.”

The Argument

It seems to me that this question hinges on what the baseline position is taken to be.  In other words, if we are convinced there is a god, we are theists.  However, if we are not convinced by theistic arguments, what position are we in “by default”?  As my first pass effort, I suggest that this, in turn, depends on whether you consider the question of god’s existence to be a philosophical question, or an empirical question.

If you think it is a philosophical question, then it would seem that the more natural position is one of Socratic ignorance.  Philosophy starts by saying “I don’t know”.  An argument that fails to convince simply fails to convince; that is not the same thing as demonstrating the opposite.  Thus, you will consider yourself as remaining agnostic.

If, however, you think it is an empirical question, then the failure to produce convincing evidence of a god would seem to suggest that we reject the hypothesis that god exists, and accept instead the logically opposite hypothesis, that god does not exist.  Thus, you will consider yourself as remaining an atheist.

So if we are more philosophically-minded, I suggest we are likely to be agnostics.  If we are more scientifically-minded, we are more likely to be atheists.  However, that is not the end of it.  I think I can show that, even if god’s existence is considered an empirical question, agnosticism still remains the appropriate position in a wide number of cases.

Unicorns and Aliens

Consider an example offered by many empirically-minded atheists themselves: unicorns.  If we do not have sufficient evidence to warrant belief in unicorns, as we do not, then we properly say we disbelieve in unicorns.  We do not remain agnostic about their existence.   To do so would be unnecessarily waffling, and kind of weird. Take a stand, already!  “There are no unicorns.”

However, I do not think it is that simple.  Consider an alternate example: extra-terrestrial life.  Currently, we have no good evidence at all for the existence of any non-Earth-based life.  None whatsoever – just like with unicorns.  So what is our epistemic duty in this case?  Are we somehow obligated to claim (and believe) “there is no extra-terrestrial life” until such time as evidence is produced?

It seems to me that clearly the answer is no.  It would be much more appropriate to stay agnostic and admit “we don’t know whether or not there is any extra-terrestrial life”.  The difference between these two cases, I suggest, is one of background expectation.  In other words, if there were any evidence to be had of unicorns/aliens, would we expect to actually have it?

The world is pretty small place. We’ve been all over it.  If there were unicorns to be found, it seems reasonable to suggest we would have done so.  The same cannot be said for alien life.  The universe is a very, very, very big place, and we have looked at almost none of it.  There are a gazillion reasons why the universe might be teeming with aliens (sentient or not), and we’d never know it, at least not now.

So: is god more like unicorns, or more like aliens?  If there were a god, would we expect to have evidence of him/her/it?  (If, on the other hand, you’re looking for evidence that aliens abducted all the unicorns I don’t think I can help you.)

Here again, I think it depends: what kind of god we are talking about?  In theology, there is a debate concerning “divine hiddenness”.  I.e., an omnipotent god could easily make his existence unmistakable to everyone, if he wished.  So if there is a god, why hasn’t he done so?

Fundamentalist conceptions of God have a hard time answering this question, I think.  If there is an omnipotent God, who is morally perfect and good, and who loves us infinitely, and has one singular message to us about how to be “saved” from our corruption, and thereby have a relationship with Him, it becomes hard to see why he does not once and for all settle the question of his existence for everyone.  This would not be hard, for a God.  Even we humans can do this without effort: I suspect that you, dear reader, spent very little time and effort convincing your friends that you exist.  Explanations can and have been offered to explain why, if there is a God, there can be such a thing as atheists. But these tend to be contorted and rely on positing things like the “noetic effects of sin” (you are so thoroughly corrupt you can convince yourself God doesn’t exist, so you don’t have to face your judgment – a problem the IRS somehow does not seem to have to overcome.)

Liberal conceptions of God, however, though much fuzzier and ill-defined than fundamentalist versions, have other options open to them.  Their God is not going to send you to hell for disbelief.  So, perhaps She might want to make Her existence unclear.  Some suggest there is virtue to be had in struggling with the question, or with uncertainty itself, or with doing the good work of “God” without knowing for sure that there really is one.  Others suggest that learning to do good for its own sake, rather than concern over punishment and reward, is intrinsically valuable.

I don’t mean to suggest I myself find these arguments convincing.  For me, the lack of a good, plausible answer to “divine hiddenness” was one of the main reasons for my de-conversion.  However, I would be willing to grant that we can’t be sure a liberal sort of God might not exist.  I think probably not, but who knows?  Such a God might have Her reasons for staying out of sight.  We can’t be sure we have a “right” to expect sufficient evidence for Her.  The universe is a very big place.

In the end, my conclusion is this: from a philosophical perspective, nontheists should be agnostics.  From an evidential/scientific perspective, we are justified in being atheists about the fundamentalist gods, and agnostics about liberal sorts of gods.

Why It Doesn’t Matter

So, that’s my take on the matter.  That an $4.95 will get you an venti iced mocha latte. That, and not much more, not even a biscotti. It was fun, for me, thinking it through.  But it’s an issue of very limited importance, in my view. There’s a downside to obsessing over this distinction, and it’s a doozie:

Those who prefer the term “atheists” and those who prefer the term “agnostics” have far more in common than not.  It is therefore crazy, I think, to go after each other when the goofballs who think the earth is 6,000 years old, and the truly scary people who want to reinstate “stoning” as a valid judicial sentence in U.S. courts, are out there doing their thing.  That is where our focus should be, not on silly semantic differences.

I think we in the skeptical community get way too invested in seeing ourselves as “rational” – and thus we get very nervous at any hint of being seen as “irrational.”  So we concoct these elaborate defenses of every stance we take about anything, no matter how inconsequential.  It’s almost as though irrationality is to us what doubt and heresy is to believers: an unforgivable admission of flaw, of imperfection.  And that’s a big mistake.

So atheists think agnostics are hopeless fence-sitters, wishy-washy and emotionally unwilling to take the final, logical step.  It’s irrational. You already don’t believe.  Why not just say it?

And agnostics think atheists are asserting with confidence something they cannot possibly know.  Isn’t that what the fundys do?  Isn’t an emotional need for certainty part of the problem?  It’s irrational.  And besides, humility is a virtue.

But so what? The truth is, we all have little pockets of irrationality.  Maybe I am a bit too hesitant to commit to a position (because fully “letting go” of religion makes me sad).  Or maybe I am a bit more confident than I have a right to be (because admitting uncertainty makes me anxious).  Or maybe both.  Is this really the end of the world?  We are all human, after all.  The non-believing community needs to let up on each other – and let up on liberal religious believers, too, but that’s another article – and get on with the business of what really matters: teaching critical thinking, fostering tolerance and plurality, encouraging open-mindedness, and promoting scientific education.

So: show me where my reasoning is wrong.  And then let’s each pick our own label, forget about it, and go watch Penn & Teller.

- Richard

So: either celebrate the holiday and admit you’re a hypocrite, or have the courage of your convictions to do nothing this Thursday, admitting that thankfulness without the fundamentalist God is irrational. Gotcha!

As always, these sorts of facile, black-and-white polarities obscure a whole lot of thoughtfulness and real human nuance. But today, let’s thank them for spurring us to think it through, and answer their challenge: why does it make sense to be thankful, if you don’t believe in a providential god?

I will even grant – because I think it’s entirely true – that gratitude is a salutary emotion. And I think this is true (mostly) for the reasons fundamentalists themselves lay out: it impels us to “count our blessings.” Gratitude makes us attend to, and hence appreciate, what we have. That’s a good thing.

In fact, I will go them one further: gratitude is also good because, in sensitizing you to the many good things you have, it deepens your awareness of, and empathy for, those who do not have as much. Thus, gratitude serves as an impetus toward social justice and helping others. That’s a good thing, too.

So, just how can the nontheist be thankful?

Well, for one, because there are lots of very this-worldly human beings to whom you do owe a debt of gratitude, for concrete things they have done. Your spouse, for instance, for the life you create together – the love, the companionship, the shared laughter, comfort and grief, the kick in the pants when you need it, and for the irreplaceable solace of the everyday. Your friends, for their acceptance and understanding, their encouragement, and their willingness to be honest with you and love you no matter what. Your parents, for their guidance and, hopefully, their belief in your better self. Your children for the inexpressible joie de vivre they bring into your life.

We can feel thankfulness to the farmers who grow our food, to the police, firefighters, and soldiers who protect us. To the engineers who build our roads, the scientists who expand our knowledge, and the mentors and teachers who educate us. To the writers, freethinkers, and intellectual rabble-rousers who challenge us to question our assumptions. To the clerk who helped you use the self-checkout isle successfully. To the countless ranks of social workers, aid workers, and volunteers who try to repair the many wrongs of the world, one soul at a time.

We can even, perhaps, feel thankful to those religious folk in our own past, who did their best to comfort and guide us as best they knew how – as well as to those patient nonbelievers who tried to show us something they thought would serve us better.

Feel free to fill in this list as you see fit. I could expand it all night. We all could.

So, there’s one reason. There are more than enough good things in the world that are the result of real, flesh-and-blood people to justify a yearly holiday in their honor. At least that!

Now, why else can nonbelievers feel thankful? In a word: because we’re human. Far too many people seem to think that human emotions somehow have to be “logical”. But as I have written before, the human limbic system (that mediates emotion) does not consult a syllogism before deciding to fire. Emotions follow their own rules, and they always make sense – on their own terms – if you understand how they work. Emotions are what they are, and what they are is governed by our biology, our evolutionary heritage, and our own individual development.

To feel grateful when you have good things in your life is as natural as sunshine. It’s simply part of our nature as social primates, and it requires no further explanation. Gratitude is an emotion, and as an emotion is does not have to be justified, defended, grounded, rationalized, or vindicated. Emotions just are.

So, no: neither thankfulness nor any other emotion “has” to have anything in particular as its object. To call an emotion “irrational” is like calling a windy day “irrational.” The category does not apply.

So everyone, it seems, has plenty of good “reasons” to feel grateful , God or no God.

For my part, I do not know whether or not there is a God. But, practically, I find it just doesn’t matter to me all that much. Speaking for myself, I find an amazing and overwhelming abundance of good things in my life, enough to fill many lifetimes, and more every time a trouble myself to look. And for all of it, I am grateful. Simultaneously, I find that it is these very things that make me realize how much work there is to do in the world. If there is a God that grounds this all, I suppose I’ll find that out someday. But for now I just want to know how to say thank you.

My answer so far? Live life well. Make the world better. And find someone – a real human being – to thank.

- Richard

Many people have heard this bold declaration from fundamentalist Christian apologists. It is meant, and heard as, an invitation to join the great story of redemption that God is authoring, to be a part of the inevitable sweep of human history and indeed of all Creation. It is an invitation experienced by believers as deeply personal and yet, simultaneously, epic. And judging from the numbers and influence of evangelical Christianity, this claim has a powerful appeal. But I want to look more closely at this appeal, and to try to understand it better from a psychological perspective. As rhetoric, how does this work?

Most people living in Western culture have some familiarity Christian stories. I say “stories” because there are more than one – the individual events and legends in the life of Jesus, the parables he told, and the overarching narrative of the crucifixion, death, and resurrection of Jesus himself. More importantly, the Christian story seamlessly weaves a believers own, individual story – his or her life – into this grand Christian drama. Stories, in Christianity (as in all religions), are a big deal.

The is a growing convergence of thought that storytelling may be relatively central to the functioning of the human mind itself. We are, after all, enveloped by stories from birth to death. Stories exist in every culture that has ever been recorded. Young children naturally tell stories, and crave to hear them. Moreover, so far as we know, no other animal tells stories. We tell stories about sports teams and figures, about celebrities and politicians, and about each other around the proverbial water cooler every day. We gossip. Television, books, movies, and many internet blogs provide a constant stream of stories into our homes every day. Journalists and psychotherapists know that “everyone has a story to tell” (and they’re right). So, to understand Christian stories in particular, we need to understand stories in general. Why is storytelling so central to human life?

Gossip & Social Cohesion

Stories seem to do a lot of things at once. For one, they may be the way that early tribal societies kept track of complex webs of social networks. Michael Shermer suggested as such in his How We Believe (2000). They allow us to distill important information about those around us into memorable and streamlined forms – essentially, gossip – so that we can recall with efficiency who is trustworthy and who is not, who gets along with who, etc. It has been demonstrated that people can solve logic problems better when presented in story form. Stories, on this view, are a convenient form of information transmission, and serve a cognitive and social control function. Important as this is, though, I think we can identify some other functions, served by storytelling, nearer to the heart of human psychic life.

Sources of Meaning

Others have suggested that stories function to provide the sense that one’s life is meaningful. Psychiatrist Daniel Siegel (Parenting from the Inside-Out, The Developing Mind), notes that in telling our own life stories, we are essentially tying together evocative, emotionally-laden autobiographical memories (memories of what you did and felt during important events in your life) into a logical, coherent sequence – a narrative. And this feeling of “coherence”, he suggests, is – empirically – precisely what makes our lives feel meaningful. The story of one’s life is what makes one’s life make sense. To say it another way, we feel that our lives have meaning when we can recall all the important moments (whatever we feel them to be) and show how they work together to form who we are today.

Think, for a moment, about a time when you were young – say, ten years old. You probably recall that memory with a feeling of identity – i.e., “That was me.” But think about your life then. Chances are, there was little about you or your circumstances that is very similar to your life today. Your close relationships were different. You lived somewhere different. Your routine was different. You had different goals perhaps, and different ideals. You thought about different things. Even your body was different. So in what sense, them, does it make sense to call this person “you”?

This concept of self-as-story is part of the answer. We just are, in a psychological sense, our stories. Our stories define, or at least explain, who we are. All the events that have happened to you are, in a way, a part of you. The important ones formed you. Even if we feel we have transcended or overcome some adversity in our past, that very overcoming is itself part of our story (and odds are, a very important part). One’s story, then, constitutes one’s deepest sense of self.

Taken together, this suggests why the Christian story – the journey from sin to redemption, which is adopted in some fashion by every believer – becomes so central to the lives of believers. The core Christian story, first of all, serves as a kind of template on which the individual can project his own experience. It thus serves an organizing function, providing ready interpretations to one’s experiences in the past (e.g., doubt and anxiety, or problems with one’s temper = sin), as well as the present. In providing this structure, the Christian story gives adherents a sense of overall coherence and, thus, meaning. A Christian’s life feels meaningful to her because she has had the right sorts of (very powerful and emotional) experiences, and because it becomes organized in the proper way.

Moreover, since one’s self is, in a sense, defined by one’s story, to criticize the larger Christian story in any way is often perceived as an attack on the very self of the believer. No wonder it is so tenaciously defended!

And please note, fellow de-converts, that we are not exempt from attachment to our own stories. Stories are not the exclusive purview of religion. How many de-conversion stories have you read on the internet? How helpful have they have been to you? Perhaps, even, you have written your own. Your own story from believer to “de-con” is likely an important part of your life (otherwise you would not be reading this): it organizes and helps make sense of your experiences with religion. And how do most de-cons react – and I include myself in this – when someone challenges certain aspects of our story, such as, for example, by claiming we were never “really’ Christians to start with? At such times, our very self-definition is under attack, and our reaction to this is both predictable and understandable.

So, one reason the Christian story is central to believers because it is the basic source of their sense of having a meaningful life.

Stories and Theodicy

Another psychiatrist, Jerome Frank, in his masterful 1991 Persuasion and Healing, delves further into the nature of myth and story. He is writing mainly about psychotherapy, but more broadly about all the methods of “healing” human beings have used throughout the eons: namely, cultic, ritual, and religiomagical healing. Though we today may draw a sharp distinction between (say) shamanism and modern psychological treatments, Frank sees a number of surprising similarities. Interested readers will need look to the book itself for a full presentation of his fascinating argument, as for brevity’s sake I must limit myself to a discussion of those parts of his theory needed for my purposes here.

Frank suggests there are a number of elements that all forms of psychotherapy have in common. Important among them, he suggests, is the provision of “..[a] rationale, conceptual scheme, or myth that provides a plausible explanation for the patient’s symptoms and prescribes a ritual or procedure for resolving them.” (p. 42, emphasis added).

And why is this helpful to suffering, directionless, or otherwise demoralized (Frank’s term) individuals? “Myth”, in this sense, has a number of functions. It combats a sufferer’s feelings of isolation and alienation by forging a bond between him and the group whose belief system he is adopting. It arouses the expectation of help, and hence, hope. And as I have laid out in parts 2 and 3 of this series, myths (like sin and rebellion) can be emotionally arousing – stirring up one’s vulnerabilities – which can provide a powerful motive to seek relief from unpleasant emotions, such as helplessness.

But Frank also notes that myths can enhance a sense of mastery and self-efficacy. He notes:

“Since words are a human being’s chief tool for analyzing and organizing experience, the conceptual schemes of all psychotherapies [and I would add: and religions] increase patient’s sense of security and mastery by giving names to experiences that seem haphazard, confusing, or inexplicable. Once the unconscious or ineffable has been put into words, it loses much of its power to terrify. The capacity to use verbal reasoning to explore potential solutions to problems also increases people’s sense of their options and enhances their sense of control. This effect has been termed the principle of Rumpelstiltskin (Torrey, 1986) after the fairy tale in which the queen broke the wicked dwarf’s power over he by guessing his name.

To be effective, interpretations… need not be correct, only plausible. ” (p. 48) (emphasis added)

This is, I suggest, near to the heart of the lasting appeal of the fundamentalist Christian mythos – it provides a theodicy, an interpretation and explanation of human suffering. No one is more susceptible to apologetic efforts than those who are already struggling with pain, grief, and loss, low self-esteem, a sense of powerlessness or directionlessness in life. Apologetics, as I suggested in parts 2 and 3, amplifies and deepens these feelings, convinces people they represent their “real” self.

Indeed Christianity has an extraordinarily keen eye for human frailty, and thus makes it easy for you to feel understood if you are, for whatever reason, already prone to feel bad about yourself. And where there is understanding, there is hope. Just naming one’s pain serves to tame it, and Christian theory provides an easy-to-use backstory that explains where your suffering came from – your alienation from God through sin – and what you can do about it.

And it is worth noting the robust pragmatism with which the human psyche operates. Explanations for suffering do not have to be correct to be helpful. They only have to be plausible, and the domestication of these formerly inexplicable and overwhelming experiences (pain, loss, difficult emotions, etc) does all that is needed to provide relief. And lest we too blithely dismiss this as placebo effect, I offer for the reader’s consideration that the placebo effect is a “real” effect. Relief from suffering is relief from suffering, whatever the source. Thus, in a very real sense, religions often work. Question of truth are decidedly, from this perspective, secondary.

This is worth remembering all this when we get caught up in the endless disputations about Christian metaphysics (i.e., arguing that the Gospel stories are true on their evidence). These efforts are, I suggest, decidedly post hoc for the suffering believer. Some apologists pursue this out of a perhaps admirable desire maintain consistency in the belief system, but for most others, “evidence” for all the supernatural and historical claims is mostly beside the point. The core message and appeal of Christianity is redemption: purpose, guidance, relief from suffering, the benevolent attention of a loving deity – in effect, the fusion of one’s own story of redemption with that of one’s Savior.

Conclusion

The sense of meaning, purpose, direction, sure ground, ethical certainty, and social belonging that the grand Christian story provides cannot be overstated, as we former believers can attest. Christianity tells the story those who are suffering need most to hear: why we struggle, how it was never meant to be this way, and how things can be set aright. The Christian narrative makes life make sense, and the powerful appeal of this function should never, ever be underestimated, especially by atheists and agnostics.

I hope it goes without saying that I believe in my soul that a life without such supernatural explanations can be exquisitely rich in meaning and purpose…. but we should also not forget that this takes some getting used to. No longer participating in the Greatest Story Ever Told, we each must find a new source of meaning, and, often, a different way to understand our own life’s pain and tragedies. And we can – better and with eyes-open, we think – but this takes some work, and it is not without loss. In a way, in leaving this grand drama, our stories and our meanings will both inevitably become smaller and more local.

But, we also think, they are no less life-affirming for being so.

- Richard

Now, let me remind the reader that in this series I am assuming a naturalistic stance. I am assuming without argument here that the Bible is not actually inerrant. Instead, what I wish to look at here is two things: one, how to apologists do it? How can they possibly argue that the Bible – which on an honest first reading appears to be resplendent in contradictions and errors – actually only has “apparent contradictions”, not “real” ones? Secondly, why do they do so? What is the pull of this idea, and why is it so hard to let go of for those de-converting?

The Case of the Missing Car

Let’s start with a simple thought experiment, seemingly far afield perhaps, but something that touches directly on how we form beliefs about the world. Suppose one morning you wake up, get dressed, and go outside to get in your car to drive to work, like any other morning. When you get outside, however, you discover that your car is missing. It is not where you think you left it. Here is my question: what explanations might we entertain to account for this finding?

Well, the first, most obvious possibility that springs to mind is that it was stolen. And that could certainly be, but consider a few others: you misremember where you parked it. Or, maybe your spouse moved it and forgot to tell you. Or perhaps you next door neighbor had a life-and-death emergency and needed a car, so he just took it, planning to tell you later. Or, perhaps it was towed for some reason.

Or, perhaps a passing alien spacecraft abducted it for sinister purposes all their own.

Hear me out! I am not by any means saying each of these explanations is equally good. But I am saying it can be very helpful to articulate why. Why exactly is it better to say the car might have been stolen than that it might have been abducted by aliens?

Now, one might be tempted to employ the skeptic’s trump card here: extraordinary claims require extraordinary evidence. And although I do agree with this principle, I also note it rather begs the question at hand: why do extraordinary claims require extraordinary evidence? What makes this theory “extraordinary?” Moreover, in this example, I deliberately did not provide any evidence at all as to what really happened. Yet most people reading this would conclude – correctly, I think – that “stolen” is a possibility worth more serious consideration than “alien abduction”, despite there being no evidence either way.

My point is that rational belief formation is not simply a matter of what does, versus what does not, have evidential support. Neither is it simply a matter of logic: there is nothing strictly illogical about the UFO hypothesis. In the example above, all the explanations given (including “UFO abduction”) entirely explain the available evidence, and do so logically. But the “updating” of our belief system in the light of new information or evidence does not occur in a vacuum. It occurs, rather, in the context of a very large and complex array of “background beliefs” – not all of which are created equal.

The Web of Belief

W.V.O Quine, a 20^th century American philosopher, was the first to articulate this view. Quine’s famous metaphor for this model of scientific reasoning and belief formation was “the web of belief.” Our belief systems consist of a vast set of interlocking statements that impinge on reality (that is, contact with new evidence and experiences) at the edges. There are any number of ways to distribute the “force” of new information and experiences throughout the web.

When a new experience (i.e., evidence) presents itself, we must update or alter our existing belief systems to accommodate it. But which beliefs actually get altered is never forced by the evidence itself. Any evidence can be accommodated, logically, in more than one way – infinitely many, in fact. Quine called this the “underdetermination of theory by data.” As the metaphor suggests, though, there are some beliefs that are more central to the web than others. For most of us, the belief that the laws of nature are constant across time and space is much more basic to our webs of belief than other claims. So, we never explain something by saying, for example, that today is Friday, and the laws of nature are different on Friday, and that’s why my experiment did not produce the expected result (as opposed to saying my prediction was just wrong). In our example above, you would probably be more willing, in this situation, to alter your pre-existent belief that you live in a low-crime neighborhood, than your belief that there are no car-abducting flying saucers.

But you wouldn’t have to, and this is the striking consequence of the “web of belief” model: any given theory can always be coherently maintained, whatever the evidence, if you are willing to make enough modifications elsewhere in your belief system. For example, if I wished to believe in the UFO abduction hypothesis no matter what, I could “explain” any contradictory evidence on other things – a cover-up, perhaps. I can also point to all the many sightings and photos of UFOs, and other (claimed) abductions – and dismiss skeptical efforts as the sinister machinations of malevolent aliens who really want my car. Now, this is not a very elegant theory. But it is not a contradictory one – and, importantly, it is one which any and all evidence (no matter what it is) can be accounted for.

So how do we choose one theory over another if the evidence can be construed to fit logically with any of them? I have already hinted at one way: an inherent conservatism in our belief systems. We usually wish to change the fewest beliefs, and the “smallest” beliefs, as strictly necessary in our pre-existent web to accommodate new evidence.

Quine also identified other “virtues” (his word) such as simplicity, explanatory reach, parsimony, etc. that can be used to guide belief formation. He called these “pragmatic” virtues. What it boils down to, in essence, is that the best way to run a web of belief is the way that makes the most practical, common-sense sense of the data we have. Ultimately, it’s really a matter of good judgment.

Tangled Apologetic Webs

What does this have to do with apologetics? This model of belief-formation bears directly on how we resolve potential contradictions between evidence and belief, and between one set of evidence and another. If we are willing to sacrifice some simplicity, parsimony, and the like, we can always maintain a consistent web of belief while simultaneously holding on to any particular belief we wish. Creationists do this all the time. So do conspiracy theorists, end-times theorists, and radical ideologues of every stripe. These folks all have a strong commitment to a handful of central claims, and they are able to retro-fit the rest of the data in around them. They say they can answer every objection – and they can.

So, when Biblical harmonizers say there are no contradictions in the Bible, in a way they’re right. There is nothing that can’t be “explained”, if you’re willing to accept some rather tortuous explanations. The differing times of Jesus’ death reported in Mark versus John are “really” the same, if you accept that one used “Roman time” and one used a different time frame. The differing stories of the Resurrection narrative are explained by voluntary omissions among different writers reflecting differing emphases. The different lineages of Jesus are explained as one coming through Mary, the other Joseph. Isaiah 53 becomes “really” about Jesus if you accept that all the parts that don’t seem to fit are to be understood as metaphor.

Given the complexities involved in the translation and study of any ancient text, there is always room to maneuver in your harmonizing efforts. One can always delve into the language, the sociology, the context, the historical details, etc., to create a coherent (though unsimple) rationale as to why, when “properly understood”, any two disparate passages “really” mean the same thing. Indeed, debates about inerrancy often turn on these very types of issues, as each debater challenges the other’s premises, and premises of premises, and the whole debate mushrooms into an ugly fractal of syllogistic minutia.

And that’s the point. Simplicity is the first casualty in this sort of endeavor, but for the fundamentalist, needful as he is of sure guidance from his god, this is an acceptable loss. A coherent belief system in which he can maintain his belief in inerrancy is his primary objective; all else is secondary. And so that’s what he creates.

God’s Perfect Word

Many years ago I was in the process of gradually shedding my faith. But I feared being wrong (as many de-cons do) and wanted a way to be “sure” I was on the right path. I searched high and low for some problem in the Bible – a contradiction, error, inaccuracy, something that was just too glaring. Something that just couldn’t be explained away by any apologist no matter how clever. I never found one.

What I have since realized is that, basically, I had been asking the wrong question. There are no irreconcilable discrepancies in the Bible… but that is only because inerrancy, for fundamentalists, is not a conclusion arrived at, it is a premise they start with. It is a central strand in their web of belief. In the face of seeming contradictions, it will be given up last of all – or never.

If you think about it, to even begin the task of harmonization is to assume inerrancy in the first place! After all, given two ordinary texts that contradict one another about some point, no one would sit down and try to show how they are somehow necessarily both correct. We would naturally assume one or the other, or perhaps both, to be simply wrong. Yet this is exactly what inerrancy apologists do not do. They try to find a way for both texts to be correct, and by so doing betray a pre-existing assumption that, in fact, they both are.

The real question, then, is whether these harmonization offered, individually and en masse, are the simplest and most parsimonious explanations for the existence of apparent Biblical discrepancies. Is it simpler to assume inerrancy and then have to write enormous justifications explaining away the hundreds to thousands of Biblical inaccuracies and contradictions? Or is it simpler to conclude that there appear to be contradictions and inaccuracies because there are contradictions and inaccuracies, and that that is exactly what one would expect from a patchwork of human religious texts written twenty centuries ago?

Again, it is not just whether one’s web of belief is coherent and answers all the questions. That part is easy; every crackpot conspiracy theorist in the world can do that. It is whether it does so in a simple, elegant, practical, and convincing way.

The Why Question

But what is the appeal of this idea, and why is it so difficult for many of us to give up? I suggest that Biblical inerrancy is so appealing because it meets a desperate psychological need, for believers. It provides a sure ground for certainty.

Certainty is a defining need of the fundamentalist mindset. Fundamentalists are overwhelmed at the prospect of not being sure, or at least not being sure about the things that matter – one’s role and purpose in life, the basis for ethical behavior, what happens after death, how to make good decisions for your life. Now, these sorts of things often arouse anxiety for many people, not just fundamentalists. But because of their religious indoctrination, adherents to fundamentalist religion have a hard time managing that anxiety any other way.

Remember, as I have been elucidating in this series, the value and competence of one’s self is thoroughly undermined, in fundamentalism. Fundamentalist Christianity powerfully hammers home the idea that we are “horrors” to God: corrupt, prideful, and incapable of improving ourselves. The goal of fundamentalist apologetics is to overwhelm you with a gut-level conviction of your own badness, and thereby induce a sense of profound helplessness. It’s every effort is directed against undermining a believer’s sense of self-esteem, competence, or efficacy.

Such a believer can hardly be blamed for feeling inadequate to run his own life! Making important decisions when you cannot be sure of the “rightness” of your decision arouses normal anxiety in everyone. And to tolerate this anxiety and make a decision anyway requires some measure of basic self-esteem and self-confidence. But fundamentalists often have neither, because it has been ground out of them. So they have to get their confidence from somewhere else.

An inerrant text comes in right handy for such purposes. A better anxiety emollient than a perfect Word from a perfect God can hardly be imagined. In errant text quells a believer’s anxiety about life. He does not feel in control of his life, worm that he is – but he doesn’t have to be, because he can hand the reigns to God, certain of the guidance he finds in his book. Inerrancy serves a desperately needed function of establishing confidence in the only guiding star a believer thinks exists. Without it, he is adrift with nothing at all to lead him across some very scary and very lonely waters. The idea of steering using his own judgment just doesn’t occur to him.

So, my proposal for understanding the claim of Biblical inerrancy is this: fundamentalist believers posit inerrancy just because they need inerrancy. They can then just fuss with the details until it all fits. The result is not very elegant, perhaps. But who cares about elegance when your very soul is at stake?

And for those de-converting, the question thus would seem to become: if it is true that there is not, and never will be, perfect and unfailing guidance for making important decisions about your life, how are you going to learn to trust yourself enough to make them on your own?

- Richard

This is a common apologetic maneuver. It is partly a scare tactic, to be sure, but partly, I think they say this because it really looks that way to them. From within a fundamentalist framework, based on what’s called “divine command” ethical theory, such claims can seem compelling, even natural. It seems natural and obvious that, if there is a Deity, then doing the will of the deity guarantees that one will do what is good. Without God, the universe would seem to devolve into an aimless, amoral chaos. Why do anything if there is no God? Why not cheat, lie, murder, and steal if there is no higher right and wrong and we’re all dead in the end, anyway? “If God is dead, all is permitted.”

How ultimately satisfying such a view is is another matter (e.g., Euthyphro problem), but perhaps us former believers can sympathetically recall its appeal. It does make things rather easy – your moral duty is handed to you. Nevertheless, on leaving the faith we often must work to extricate ourselves from the sometimes long shadow of this worldview. In this article, I would like to propose a naturalistic “basis” for these human needs and thus work to allay the fears of those in the midst of de-conversion. In so doing, I also hope to shed some light on what has gone wrong in the fundamentalist worldview in adopting such absolutist standards in the first place.

The (Real) Basis for Morality

I think it would be helpful to start by looking at how, empirically, people do in fact learn morality. Scientifically speaking, where do we get our ethics and why do we behave? This part is easy: morality is largely internalized from our relationship with our parents.

There is nothing mysterious about this. Humans, social primates that we are, have a protracted period of immaturity compared to other mammals. Our brains our wired to internalize the implicit social norms of the group, because cooperation of the group is evolutionarily advantageous – our survival has depended on it. Such internalization of pro-social behavior is based first (in the earliest years) on the intrinsic pleasure of pleasing one’s caregivers and the aversiveness of displeasing them. We can naturally and very keenly detect the emotional responses of those around us and, indeed, we thrive on such responses. So, at first, we behave to gain parental approval and stay connected with them.

Later, but still in early childhood, our brains develop what is (so far as we know) a uniquely human capacity: to take the perspective of another. Variously called mentalizing, theory of mind, or mindsight, this capacity is an outgrowth of that more primitive ability (just mentioned) to detect our parent’s emotional responses in the first place. Here, it is greatly elaborated and we begin to understand, on a gut level, that other people have minds like ours and thus feelings and experiences, like ours. This is empathy, the capacity to perceive, understand, and anticipate the internal state of another.

Empathy allows us to “hook up” our observations of other’s behavior with a “feel” for the mind (and set of motives) behind that behavior. We understand, purely on a naturalistic basis, purely out of the normal biological development of the social brain, how others probably like to be treated and why. And, because we are naturally social, we come to care. Other people become “real” to us, for the first time. This is nothing less than the neural and social basis for the Golden Rule.

Indeed, it is no wonder the “Golden Rule” has appeared in every major religion, and in philosophy (Kant’s “categorical imperative”): we are, literally, wired for it. Thus, empathy – putting ourselves mentally in other’s shoes – is the basis for human morality, it develops automatically out of our early relationships, and it is as natural as sunshine.

The (Real) Fear about Atheism

All this is important to understand for those de-converting. Why? Because fundamentalist Christianity goes to great lengths to convince you that your worst sense of self is your truest. As I argued in previous articles, that belief system teaches adherents that, at their deepest core, they care only about themselves, and that they think of nothing beyond the gratification of their own selfish wants and desires. Left to our own devices, we would all become animals, or something worse than animals. Such apologists argue that it is only religion, and the commands of God (and our conscience, given by God), that prevents such devolution of our selves and our society into barbarism.

So, what I am suggesting is that when apologists argue that “without God there is no basis for morality”, what they are really saying is: “Without God to tell you what is right, your intrinsic selfishness will have no check. You will have nothing to stop you from becoming a monster.” And this, I think, is what those in the midst of de-conversion are really afraid of.

But as I am arguing, this is almost certainly false. Very few people, believer or nonbeliever, need any god (or argument) to tell them that it is wrong to be cruel to their children or to harm our kinsmen. We know it in our gut. Our ethics are internalized and grow naturally out of our relationships, and our sense of common humanity, and need no supernatural world for support. Religion (all religion) simply provides secondary elaboration on internalized, biologically based human impulses (and then, often, takes credit for it all.)

I suggest that the first step here is to challenge this religious view by making the questions concrete. Ask such believers (or yourself, if this is your fear): if you were, hypothetically, to finally become convinced that there was no God, would you really just stop caring about your children, begin cheating in business, go out stealing and raping with impunity? Do you really only love your wives and husbands and parents and friends because you are told to? Don’t you really – if you’re honest – want to also? If there were no God, and you knew it, wouldn’t you pretty much behave the same way you do already?

The “Internal Selection Bias”

Many believers will have a hard time accepting this. Often, a believer’s religiously-based interpretation of his “self” is so dominant that it becomes very difficult for him to objectively look inward and ask himself whether – empirically – he really wants to behave that badly in the first place. His religion has spent years indoctrinating him to believe in his own depravity. He has never really thought to question it. And if he needs any proof, he can point to the endless parade of “selfish” feelings we all do naturally have. (And, of course, he can also look at the world and find no shortage of cruelty and evil behavior there, also).

It is, of course, undeniable that all of us, at times, want (or do) what we know is wrong. But it is equally true that we often want (or do) what we know is right. It feels good to give to our kids or provide comfort for a grieving friend. It feels good to do something that makes your parents or friends happy. We want to keep our pets happy and healthy. It feels good to relieve the suffering of others.

And this is the key point: many believers will overemphasize the former and explain away the latter –all one’s ‘bad’ impulses are one’s own, anything ‘good’ found within oneself is chalked up to God-given conscience. They apply a kind of internal selection bias to the interpretation of their own thoughts and feelings, as it systematically explains away any good impulses and demands ownership of the bad ones. The central “axiom” of the fundamentalist sense of self is: I am bad. Therefore, anything bad I find in me is mine. Anything I find in me that is not bad, must not be mine. It must come from God.

This suggests the next step, the system that must be challenged – and this is what may be helpful for those struggling with de-conversion to think about: Look within yourself. Do you not find it as natural as breathing to love and be good to your children, to care for you family and friends? Why do you explain that away? Why do you take as “basic” somehow all the selfish moments, all the “uglier” thoughts and feelings that you have? Isn’t this division of credit and blame rather arbitrary? Why not call the “good” ones basic and the “bad” ones the aberration? Better yet, why not just call them both a natural part of you?

To truly accept that thoughts and feelings are just that – thoughts and feelings, neither good nor bad in themselves, and not a commentary on the soul of the person – will, I gently offer, be one of the most liberating insights a former fundamentalist can have.

The Is/Ought Question and Why It’s Important – But Not That Important

Some readers will object that in discussing a naturalistic basis for ethics, I have not addressed the is/ought problem. From the empirical fact that we are a mixed bag of selfishness and altruism, it does not follow that I have established an actual basis for ethics. Maybe we are naturally inclined to love our children. So what? Why should we say it’s right or good to do so? Don’t we need some external standard to know what good is at all?

This criticism is valid to a point, but misses what I’m trying to say. There are, of course, many attempts in philosophy to provide a rock-solid “Ultimate Ground” of ethics, such as Kant’s view mentioned above. Such attempts are interesting and valuable and worth consideration. But I resist that conversation here because I think the emotional need for such a ground is part of the problem in the first place, at least for many struggling with de-conversion from fundamentalism. Even if I could successfully develop such a system, would I not mere be replacing one external absolutism for another? Would I not still be playing to that fear: that we need an external absolute to keep the inner beast in check?

So, with what I have suggested, the is/ought question does not go away. I freely admit I have not solved that here. But what I propose is something else, something I think more freeing: that a life spent in human struggle with human moral and ethical decisions is not such a bad thing. It is not so scary or dangerous as we have been led to believe by conservative religion. Indeed, to struggle with ethical questions, to think critically, to continually question oneself, to learn from the views of others, and to heed the call of one’s natural empathy, is not only healthy, is not only honest, it is part of what it means to be human. And it’s what it means to grow.

So I want us to be less afraid of that struggle, less overwhelmed by the prospect of not having a sure rock to stand on, of having no certain answers to give. It’s okay to struggle. It’s okay to be uncertain. Our souls, our behavior, and our society will not unravel. Our ethics will be “naturalistically felt”, not supernaturally proven, and that – I think we will find – will be quite enough to guide us through a (sufficiently) noble and righteous life. Our natural social “instincts” about basic ethics are quite enough for most people to get by in life and make ethical decisions every day without being professional ethicians… or fundamentalist Christians.

In Jewish legend, a man approached Rabbi Hillel and said, “Tell me the Torah [the Jewish law, the basis for Jewish ethics] while standing on one foot.” The rabbi replied, “What is hateful to you, do not do to others. The rest is commentary. Now go and study the commentary.”

Empathy – not doing to others what we ourselves find hateful – grows out of our most basic human relationships. The rest of ethics is commentary. And by all means, study the commentary. But you’ve got your whole life to do it. In the meantime, our own common, shared humanity is all the basis we ever will need to be “good” – whatever we decide we mean by that.

So, when a conservative religious believer says to you that you have no certain basis for ethics, the best response is: why in the world do you need one?

- Richard

• If you de-convert from Christianity, you never really were a Christian at all
• All Christians, in right relationship with God, experience peace in the face of adversity
• If you sincerely seek God you will find Him
• “I tell you the truth, if you have faith as small as a mustard seed, you can say to this mountain, ‘Move from here to there’ and it will move.” (Matthew 17:20, NIV)

What I will argue is that such statements either are not actually claims about the world at all, and hence insulate themselves from disconfirming empirical evidence by defining it away, or else they are claims/predictions, but rely on vague, ill-defined subjective states and thus, are impossible to confirm. In each case, I will elucidate the issues involved and then tie it in with the relevant psychological issues.

Definitions

Tinkering with definitions is a time-honored rhetorical tactic. Essentially it involves making a statement that appears to be about the world, but really, in fact, is just a claim about the meaning of the terms involved. As an example, if I state “All sentences have a verb”, it may appear that I am claiming something about what one will find out in the world – and hence, could be proven wrong by giving me counterexamples, such as if you said the following: “Wow, Richard, what a great post!” But, really, my original claim is actually a definition: I am defining a sentence as having a verb. That way, no counterexamples will prove me wrong, of course, since I will simply reply that if it does not have a verb, it does not count as a sentence. In this case, the upshot is clear: my statement “All sentences have a verb” is not telling me anything about what I will find out in the world, it tells me what I mean by the word “sentence.”

The first apologetic example listed above seems to fall into this category. “If you de-convert from Christianity you never really were a Christian at all” certainly might sound, on the surface, like an empirical claim. But it can be re-written more simply: “No true Christians de-convert.” Then, then matter becomes clearer: the speaker is defining “true” Christians as the set of individuals who never leave the fold. Hence, this claim cannot, by the terms set up, be shown to be wrong. To take issue with this claim, one must take issue with the definition itself, not point out counterexamples.

Philosophically-minded readers will notice that the above example, “No true Christians de-covert”, follows a familiar form. In fact, it is a version of a well-know logical fallacy, known as the “No True Scotsman fallacy.” The name originated from philosopher Anthony Flew’s example: “No Scotsman puts sugar in his porridge”/ “But my uncle does, and he’s from Scotland”/ “Aye, but no true Scotsman puts sugar in his porridge.” . And the effect is exactly as we have outlined: rather than letting the statement “no true Scotsman puts sugar in his porridge” be proven false by producing a Scotsman who does, in fact, do so, the original claim is preserved by instead jerryrigging the definition to exclude counterexamples.

Claims Based on Subjective States

This class of statements function similarly to definitions, but are more subtle and hence, more insidious. What occurs is that the speaker makes the truth of the claim dependent upon a internal subjective state, and hence not subject to public verification. Since I cannot “prove”, except by my own report, what has transpired in my own mind (or my own will/motives), it becomes easy to argue that I am mistaken about it. An example will, I think, make this clear.

If I assert: “If you flap your arms, you can fly to the moon”, the falsity of the claim is obvious. It would be easy for everyone to see (if anyone cared to test this hypothesis) that if one flaps ones arms, one will indeed not fly. But if I instead state, “If you flap your arms and have a pure heart, you can fly to the moon”, the situation is different: now I always have an excuse for anyone’s failure to fly. I can always assert that yes, clearly you did flap your arms (we can all see that), but you did not have a pure heart, and that is why you did not succeed. And so I can maintain the truth of my assertion. Now, in this case, the obvious absurdity of this claim is such that I am not likely to convince anyone that the reason she cannot fly is that she has an impure heart. But consider the following:

“If you sincerely seek God, you will find Him.” (I.e., you will convert to my faith)

This sort of statement is often encountered from those who are asserting that if you “really” wish to know the alleged truth of Christianity, God will reveal it to you, and you will thus convert. But notice the subjective condition: the seeking must be “sincere.” How do we know if someone is sincere? Obviously, other than his or her own self-report, there is no way to know. And that is the point: this statement, as stated, gives us no way to independently determine whether the seeking was, in fact, sincere, beyond just that “outcome measure” included in the statement itself. I.e., the only way to know whether the seeking was sincere is if you do, in fact, eventually convert.

Surely this is a problem. Stated this way we have no way to take issue with whether this claim is, in fact, true. “Blame” for failure of this prediction can always be distributed to the sincerity, not to the link between seeking and conversion. It could even be argued that, functionally, these sorts of claims serve as definitions, as described above: all true (i.e, sincere) God-seekers convert.

And other evangelical claims follow this same pattern. How much heartache has been created throughout the centuries by Jesus’ “if you have faith as small as a mustard seed” claim? The exact same considerations apply: there is no way at all to determine whether one’s faith is the size of a mustard seed (obviously a very loose metaphor) beyond just that outcome measure: does you effort to move mountains succeed, or not? Not many Christians are willing to up and say that Jesus was wrong. He is Jesus, so he must be right. Yet the mountain did not move. So it must be me.

Psychological Issues

The reason these sorts of apologetic efforts are so problematic is that those in the process of uprooting themselves from their faith are already in a state of emotional upheaval. As I have argued in previous articles, evangelical Christian theology saddles them with a number of handicaps: It aggressively tries to undermine critical thinking skills as well as autonomy, by teaching both are sin. It inculcates in them a in deep fear of Hell should they turn out to be mistaken. They often have no support form their community and possibly their own family. They have been taught to always assume the worst about themselves – human beings are, after all, wholly corrupt – and to always trust the “the Bible” (i.e., evangelical dogma) over everything else. Thus, those struggling with leaving their faith are already highly prone to doubt themselves and tremendously unsure about their basic identity.

And what I suggest is that these sorts of evangelical claims function as an easy out: they cut through all the doubt about one’s motives and sincerity by seeming to provide external and easily-visible measure of one’s own internal state. That is, these claims have the effect of “mind-reading”. One must therefore either be able to question the logic involved (as I am pointing out here in this article), or else call upon enormous internal fortitude to trust own self-examination over the dogma – something those in the midst of de-conversion are ill-equipped to do. It takes a high degree of self-assurance to say, “Yes, indeed I have been sincere and I did have faith – and nothing happened” when everything in your experience and indoctrination has taught you to blame yourself, rather than the theology.

Individuals in the midst of de-conversion, as almost all of them attest, go through painful periods of doubt and anxiety and uncertainty. But most have never been taught any way to handle that doubt and uncertainty beyond the usual Christian bromides: pray, “spend time in the Word”, have faith, “just believe”. Which are precisely those solutions the decoverting individual in beginning to suspect don’t work. The trouble is, they know of few, if any, other options.

For me, this issue is in fact rather personal, as it was just one of these sorts of claims that caused me no end of anguish and self-flagellation. For me, the claim I struggled with came from C. S. Lewis’ theology. It was complex and could be stated something like this:

“If you fully submit your will to God, you will be in right relationship with Him, and He will fill you with His spirit. If you are fully self-less in this way, you will be filled with transcendent peace and joy, for this is the state of bliss human beings were created for. However, you must not submit your will for that reason – in order to receive this peace – because that is essentially using God to try to get what you want. I.e., you would be really asserting your will, and only pretending to submit it. And self-assertion is sin. You must, rather, truly and fully submit your will, out of pure love of and desire for God. “

This could be simplified to, roughly: if you truly submit your will to God, for the right reason, you will be filled with transcendent peace. Based on this, I spent many years in ruthless introspection trying to root out whatever selfishness and self-will I could find and thereby purify my motives. This was exceedingly difficult because I was, at that time in my life, horribly depressed and unhappy in my life and it seemed inhuman to ask me to somehow not wish to feel better, and be motived exclusively by a desire for God. But I tried anyway. Prayer, Bible study, seeking the will of God, and all the usual prescriptions had had little effect. Needless to say, this prescription didn’t work, either, but it was only years later that I was able to see clearly why: the hypothesis is false. Submission of the will, meaning something like the volitional cessation of all desires other than the desire for God, does not lead to peace or joy, or even if it does, it is humanly impossible. It wasn’t me, it was the theology. Hallelujah.

And since I found peace, joy, contentment by other means, I was eventually able to set this whole apologetic morass aside. Hopefully, by making plain what is really going on, I can help others do the same: realize that if you flap your arms, whatever the state of your heart, you do not get closer to God. You just get tired and you feel like a failure.

- Richard

I will take my lead from C. S. Lewis. Lewis teaches a lot about sin over the course of his Mere Christianity (MC), The Problem of Pain (PP), and The Great Divorce. Lewis tells us that a sinless creature, such as we humans were before the Fall, would be perfectly and utterly selfless. He would be perfectly in tune with God and the will of God, and his own will would be entirely subordinated to God’s. Lewis describes this memorably: “…each soul [in heaven] will be eternally engaged in giving away to all the rest that which it receives. And as to God, we must remember that the soul is but a hollow that God fills. Its union with God is, almost by definition, a continual self-abandonment– an opening, an unveiling, a surrender, of itself. ” (PP, p.151)

Thus, Lewis tells us that a state of harmony with God is a state of utter selflessness, of perfect and continual abdication of the will. Thus it follows rather directly that the nature of our corruption, of our sin, is will-full-ness. Self-will, according to Lewis, is the original original sin. It is what got Lucifer kicked out of heaven – when he said, I will become like the Most High…. rather than, as Jesus said, “Thy will be done.” Self-will means to make the self the center of the self-rather than God. It is a wish to disengage from this endless cycle of self-giving, and thereby keep for the self and thereby expand the self. All that is created is good, Lewis teaches, but Man has corrupted his self and the world by putting otherwise natural, good things to selfish ends.

Lewis teaches that the pure Christian heart wants only and is satisfied only with God. Any other want or aim or desire or wish or even feeling is a perversion of something good. Our goal as fallen creatures is to become fully aware that only in God is our satisfaction to be found. To seek satisfaction anywhere else is to put that goal before God. This, too, is a form of corruption.

This is what sin is, according to Lewis. Now, even Lewis says that Christianity has nothing to say to someone who is not first convinced he is a sinner. So priority number one of the apologist is to accomplish just this. How does Lewis go about it?

I suggest he has three tactics. First, he defines sin broadly – so broadly everyone who has ever lived cannot help but qualify as a sinner. Secondly, he teaches that your deepest feelings of guilt and shame and failure and weakness are your truest feelings, the most accurate reflection of what you really are. Finally, he shows you what it would mean to be sinless, which I suggest involves a human psychologically impossible task, as well as a paradox. Thus, it necessarily follows that you cannot help yourself, you cannot stop sinning on your own.

Now, of course, Christians are unabashed in believing and teaching just these things: we all sin, and we cannot save ourselves. But Lewis, using the rhetoric of his apologetic, gets you to feel it and thereby brings you in a new emotional state: a feeling of helplessness. Feeling helpless, the prospective believer then has no choice, of course, but to accept the ministrations offered by the apologist – i.e., convert, accept Jesus, and be saved. So with this background, let me walk through these steps in turn.

Broadening sin

Lewis’ teachings on what constitutes sin follow directly from the teachings of Jesus himself, e.g., Matthew 5:28. Sin includes, in other words, emotions. Certain emotions are themselves defined as sin, such as (here) lust and, in certain contexts, anger. Lewis’ contribution is to explain why this is so: such emotions are a reflection of the kind of creature one is. Which is to say, a wicked, corrupt, selfish one. Now, in our more sober moments, we realize pretty clearly that no one can control what they feel. We can influence our emotions, perhaps, but not dictate them. So, if we accept that sin includes what we feel, then, obviously, no one can escape being a sinner.

He also implicitly raises the bar. Jesus said we are to be “perfect”, and this is understood by fundamentalism to mean: no sinful thoughts or feelings (or behaviors), ever. To sin even once in life is worth eternal separation from God. So everyone deserves hell, on this view, because of emotions and thoughts that are not under voluntary control. A wider broadening of “sin” would be hard to imagine.

Going even further, Lewis offers a rather perverse theodicy. He suggests that suffering itself is sin, or at least the result of sin. After all, a true Christian, in harmony with God, is satisfied with God. Therefore, any suffering you feel is the result of wanting or experiencing something that is disrupting that blissful harmony that is yours for the asking. In other words, you are letting something matter to you more than your communion with God. It is taking God’s rightful place as the center of your thoughts. That is, of course, sin.

Now, fundamentalist Christians do not quite go so far as to teach that Christians will necessarily be happy or never face adversity; quite the contrary. But they are equally quite straightforward about their teaching that when one is in harmony with God, submitted to His will, one will experience unlimited peace and joy in the face of adversity. The implication here, then, is that if you fail to experience peace and joy in the face of adversity – that is, if you suffer – it is your fault, because you are sinning. Again, the definition is broadened – no one escapes being a sinner.

Amplifying sin

Lewis’ next move is to take this newly-acquired sense that sin really is universal and make it seem bad – really bad. Cosmically bad, in fact. He does this by appealing to the worst feelings you have ever had about yourself. He asserts: “But unless Christianity is wholly false, the perception of ourselves which we have in moments of shame must be the only true one…” (PP, p.57). Here, he directs your focus to your worst feelings of guilt, shame, and failure, and tells you that this is the most true and accurate reflection of who and what you are: a corrupt, unregenerate sinner. It is your conscience functioning correctly, or at least partly so, and he moreover suggests that this is just the tip of the iceberg. I.e., you don’t really know how bad you are, yet. You just get glimpses of it in your worst moments. There is no irrational, unjustified, displaced, disproportionate, or neurotic guilt, for Lewis. Your worst self is your truest.

This can be powerfully persuasive. Everyone has experienced guilt and shame, as part of our psychological make-up as social animals. We are wired by evolution and our individual upbringings to care what others think of us and to care how we behave. Furthermore, (as mentioned in part two) if the psychoanalysts are right, as young children we have no sense of our self as being distinct from what we feel. Young children’s emotions are thought to have a raw, global, overwhelming quality, and thus they have a lot of trouble telling the difference between feeling bad and being bad. Learning to manage those negative emotions that are a ubiquitous part of life is the hard-won core of emotional health. Only with maturity can we get some distance from painful feelings and can thus say, “I may feel bad because of guilt or anger right now, but it is not all of who I am”.

Lewis is trying to re-obliterate that distinction, and erode the many layers of defense mechanisms we all employ to contain pain, sadness, guilt, anger, and shame. He seeks to tap in to those reservoirs, and thus teaches explicitly that there is no difference between your feelings and your very being. Since we all spent our youngest, formative years experiencing life that way anyway, he is able to succeed at this. We are all too ready to believe it.

So, by now Lewis has us convinced we are pervasively sinful and, furthermore, our sin is far deeper than we imagine – cosmically bad, in fact. Lewis pulls no punches in this: he says we are a “horror to God.” One the believer has accepted these “truths” about himself, the way is paved for Lewis’ coup de grace, the picture he paints of our goal, the sinless life. It involves the paradox of selflessness.

The goal of sinlessness/selflessness

I have already laid out in part two of this series the paradox of submission of the will – i.e., that one must assert the will in order to deny it – so I will not repeat that here, and will instead only note that that paradox would have to be solved in order for a believer to really, truly submit his will in the way that is required of him. In addition to this, the believer is then set with another obstacle in his goal of restoring his harmony with God. For, again, Christianity teaches that to seek or want anything else, other than God, is part of sin. Again, Lewis: “Now God designed the human machine to run on Himself. …God cannot give us a happiness and peace apart from Himself, because it is not there. There is no such thing.” (MC, p.54). The implications here are sweeping: in the end, human need itself is defined as sin. To want to be loved, to want friendship, or security, or grandchildren, or respect, or sex, or to be remembered, or not to be lonely – any of the thousands of things human beings want that does not have God as its object – all of it is sin. We are to want only God, to seek our satisfaction only in God. Effectively, we are thus instructed so cease to want, and content ourselves with our relationship with God. But it is of course impossible to cease to want. And that is exactly the point.

Sin is thus shown to be a terrifying problem with no solution, or at least no solution the believer can accomplish by himself. He has finally, in the end, been brought into a state of helplessness. And helplessness is, I believe, key to the fundamentalist Christian schema. If the apologist has done his job, then someone following the rhetoric this far will have had his room to maneuver narrowed down to a single point, the singularity of the fundamentalist Christian psychology. He has but one choice before him: submit, or rebel. His critical thought and autonomy have been undermined, he “sees” for himself the “horror” that he is, and feels his helplessness to better himself by any effort of his own. Conviction of his sin has utterly vanquished him.

- Richard

Evangelical Christian theologies differ on what exactly happens, and how, when salvation is attained, but they largely agree on at least three main basics: (1) that the proper relationship of creature to Creator is one of submission; what God says, goes. (2) That humans are corrupted through and through, and the ability to love God, choose the Good, and lead moral lives are all entirely lacking. And finally (3) voluntary submission of the will to God is required for salvation.  I will address each of these in turn.

The human-God relationship  

With regards to the first item, it should be pointed out that this particular “model” of relationship – submission –  is almost always assumed, rather than argued.  Doing what God says unquestioningly by submitting one’s will to God’s is considered axiomatically good.  We might presume most Christians feel this to be self-evident, and have probably never even considered questioning it.

Yet if we take the metaphor of “God the Father” seriously, it becomes much less clear that abject submission is so clearly a virtue.  That is, after all, not what we earthly fathers wish for our own children.  We do not want them to do what is right because we tell them to; we want them to internalize the basic values and figure the rest out for themselves.  We want them to be, in other words, ethically and intellectually mature.  For my part I would consider that I had failed, as a father, if my own children forever sought to replace their will with my own.  A Christian could reply, at this point, of course, that obviously I am not God, so the analogy does not hold.  But it should be noted that even in other, nearby traditions, this model of the human-Divine relationship does not necessarily hold.

Liberal Christianity generally posits a “kinder, gentler” God, one less concerned with submission and more concerned with love, ethical growth, human dignity, and doing good for its own sake.  And going back even further, there is a minor but distinct stream of thought within Rabbinic Judaism that suggests that humans have an intrinsic dignity, as beings created imago Dei, so much that we can, at times, call even God to account.  Abraham and Moses both argue with God, Job demands answers from God, and a Talmudic legend even depicts God’s testimony as being dismissed during a rabbinic dispute over a point of Law when God tries to intercede. Delightfully, God is later shown laughing, saying “My children have defeated me!”

My point is not to argue for any particular alternative “model”.  My point, rather, is that it is not at all a given that servile submission to a god is self-evidently the proper stance to take.  It is not obviously crazy to see human beings as having some standing, even before the Almighty.  When evangelicals treat it as obvious that we must simply passively do what God (allegedly) says, the unwary target is not likely to think to take issue with this assumption. 

I suggest that this works by triggering in susceptible individuals a natural impulse to submit. This impulse is an echo of the last time in the individual’s life that such a relationship held – namely, when he was a young child.  Young children (under 4-5) regard their parent’s authority as absolute, and yet, as every parent knows, they do rebel.  This “rebellion” (e.g., the “terrible twos”) are normal and healthy and critical for development, of course.  But it is not easy for them.  Children must struggle for years to be able to manage the difficult feelings – guilt, fear, anxiety, shame, anger  – that come with self-assertion, with saying “no”. Children that age have a poorly developed sense of self and thus cannot distinguish between feeling bad, and being bad.  Eventually they come to make that distinction, but the memory of that relationship dynamic – of anxiously saying “no” to an absolute authority, and feeling bad as the result – becomes embedded in their unconscious. The evangelical apologist taps into this memory, and that is why their assumptions seem so natural. It is easy for us to feel rebellious, and equally easy to feel obedience is proper.

The evangelical thus can say: if God said it, you must obey it, like it or not.  And many people are likely to accept the implicit assumption that God’s authority is indeed beyond question.  But this, as I have shown, is a false assumption, for there are other possible models of relationship.  Calling authority to account is not necessarily “rebellion.”

Human corruption  

Human beings are fallen creatures, according to Christians.  Not only does that make us unable to live good lives on our own, some thinkers have even argued that sin impairs the very ability to reason.  This borders closely with the concept of total depravity.  In this context it is called the “noetic” effects of sin, noetic meaning “having to do with the intellect.”  It means that our primary duty is to believe and be saved and submit ourselves to “God’s Word”, whatever our reason may tell us, because our reason is corrupt and faulty just like the rest of us. Thus, we cannot reason our way to God, or not reliably.  If our reason does happen to point us to the conclusion that Christianity is true, then so much the better.  But if it does not, we are to believe in the Bible and in Jesus, and ignore the false-god of our reason.  To do otherwise is to make the self, or an aspect of the self (reason, human judgment), one’s “standard of truth”, and thus, one’s god.  This, precisely, is pride, self-will, and therefore sin.  And therefore rebellion.

This is insidious for two reasons.  One, it attacks the very foundation of critical thinking, our autonomous reason.  This is the only tool which might potentially, if allowed to work, enable a believer to examine fairly the claims of his faith system – and, potentially, to reject them.  He is, in effect, instructed that he is morally culpable if he does not short-circuit his rationality if and when it begins to reach conclusions contrary to those of the creed.  It effectively pits guilt (and fear) against rationality —- and since we were emotional creatures for many evolutionary eons before we were reasoning ones, guilt wins every time.

Secondly, claiming that humans make errors in their reasoning because of sin means that those who reject Christianity for allegedly “rational” reasons are really sinning, which is to say that are making willful – i.e., rebellious – decisions to run from God.  Christians teach that man by nature hates God, runs and hides from God (like Adam), and does not want to face his “Judge”.  Calvin taught all humans have a sensus divinitatus, an innate awareness of God, and thus no one has an excuse not to believe. There is no “inculpable nonbelief” for these guys.  There is no rational, objective evaluation of Christianity – there is only submission or rebellion.

But, weirdly, this idea (the noetic effects of sin) has the effect of serving for the Christian as a kind of empirical test of this “God-and-rebellious-Man” theory of the world. For that theory essentially predicts that there will be many people in the world who do not wish to face the “Truth”, even though they “really” recognize it as “Truth” when they hear it (despite their claim to disbelieve).  In effect, it predicts that many people will disagree with the apologist.  Which, of course, they do.  But from the Christian perceptive, this very disagreement is seen to confirm the truth of the theory!  It is, after all, exactly what you would expect to see if it were true.  Thus to disagree with a Christian is, in his eyes, to prove him right.  “Of course you disagree – but that’s only because you are making your puny, flawed ‘reason’ your god.  Isn’t that impudent and prideful?  Are you saying you disagree with God?? You’re not ‘disagreeing’. You’re rebelling!”

Submission of the will

Finally, once the prospective target has accepted the idea that submitting his will to God is the only proper response he can make, and utterly necessary because of his corruption, and he finally sets about to doing it, he straightaway finds another problem.  A paradox, really, but one designed to break the will of the believer by setting him to an impossible task. 

For the goal is to empty oneself of one’s particular will and thus allow God to fill you with His will, and thus bring your soul back into alignment with God.  But how can one choose, and enact by effort, to evacuate one’s own will?  How can one, by force of will, stop willing? In trying to deny the will, one inevitably asserts the will.  This is like pulling oneself up by the bootstraps.  So, of course, the believer must necessarily fail at this.  He cannot succeed in this task upon which, he has become convinced, his eternal life depends. In effect: he cannot, by his own decision, stop rebelling, because to do so he would have to stop wanting anything and want only what God wants. He realizes his helplessness to save himself.

This is, of course, exactly the position the apologist wants him to be in.  For the potential convert is hereby broken.  He now “sees” the truth of the Christian doctrine that you cannot save yourself.  No one can be righteous, of course, because the standard is perfection, and because to do so would involve solving this unsolvable paradox.  The target’s will is broken: he is convinced he is corrupt and that he faces a Judge, his capacity for critical thinking has been undermined, and his guilt has been brought to bear against his autonomy.  And he sees no choice but to submit – indeed, cling to for dear life – to whatever salvation is presented to him.

- Richard

Apologists often present themselves as just defending their faith – rational argumentation – but I suggest their activity is better understood as a form of the ancient Greek art of rhetoric. I.e., they do make arguments, but ones specifically designed to get people to change and make decisions. Apologists are indeed quite (pun intended) unapologetic about this. Their goal is, if not to convince you to convert (only God can do that, they say), then at least remove any intellectual barriers that may be holding you back from conversion. In other words, they don’t just want to persuade you they are correct in their assertions; they want to win your soul.

Accordingly, their arguments are designed to have psychological force, not just (or even mainly) logical force, and this is what I would like to address in this article and the ones that follow. It has been very helpful in my own de-conversion to bracket aside the issue of trying to refute them and instead look at why these arguments can get under your skin so effectively – to vivisect them and look at their psychological and rhetorical innards, as it were. That way, it seems to me, can effectively de-fang them in a way that just answering them can’t.

This approach also avoids what I think is the main weakness of more “traditional” counter-apologetics (e.g., pointing out Biblical contradictions, or using comparative mythology to show the derivative nature of Judeo-Christian myths), which is what we might call a cognitive bias. In some atheistic writings there is an implicit assumption that religious belief formation is simply a matter of correct vs. incorrect assessments about what is rational. Point out the errors, and you correct the mistaken belief.

If only it were so simple! This approach wholly fails to take into account the emotional and rhetorical nature of apologetics. It cannot, for example, account for why religious beliefs are hung on to with such tenacity. But if you understand what’s going on as rhetoric, not just logical fallacy, you can understand better why apologists can be so successful. Apologists get you to feel it. And that is what must be countered, I suggest. In other words, it is one thing to point out Biblical contradictions. It is quite another to understand, on a deep level, exactly why someone would want the Bible to be inerrant in the first place.

So in the next few articles, I will look at some of these tactics. From the beginning, I will assume a naturalistic stance. That is to say, I will assume, not argue, that the various Christian doctrines under discussion are untrue, and focus instead on the way in which they might be made to seem compelling, to an the unwary target of evangelical efforts.

Furthermore, it will be understood, I hope, that when I refer to “Christian” and “Christianity” I am always (unless indicated) referring to evangelical and fundamentalist Christianity. In liberal Christianity – and indeed in virtually any non-fundamentalist religion – I do not believe these same dynamics usually apply.

Third, it should be also understood that I am not in any way suggesting that the sorts of dynamics I lay out apply to all fundamentalist Christians equally and in the precisely same way. Everyone’s story of involvement with religion is different, and everyone’s particular set of needs and drives that got him there are also different. Thus, I am painting, in broad strokes, a picture that I think can often apply, but I would never suggest that everyone fits into this schema equally (or at all). Theories are always general, whereas people are unique. My hope is to give prospective and established de-converts tools to understand at least some of their experience. So, cherry-pick away! – take what seems to apply to you and leave the rest.

Finally, though I always try to write my articles with an eye toward brevity, these in particular have been hard to construct in such a way as to do justice to the topic with those usual constraints. Accordingly, they are longer than usual. Most of them amount to about three printed pages. I hope the interested reader will indulge this bit of license, as I think this is a fruitful and unexplored area.

I plan to publish an article every few days, giving whatever discussion that emerges from it time to run its course, and also giving other contributors a chance to publish their articles as well (I don’t want to hog the blog space!) My thoughts in this series are based on my own experience with fundamentalist Christian theology, which was heavily influence by C. S. Lewis. If anyone has had particular apologetic experiences of their own – arguments that they found especially emotionally and rhetorically powerful, hard to let go of – I would love to hear about it! So, beginning in the next post, the first topic is that of rebellion.

- Richard