Like many children, I thought church was extraordinarily boring. Unlike many children, I was compelled to be at church several times a week. That being the case, I couldn’t help absorbing the dogma that was reiterated in both church and home, ad nauseum. I was not raised in a complete bubble, but it was about as close as it could get short of being home-schooled. As an adult – even as a Salvation Army officer – I resolved never to let my life, or the lives of my children, become completely absorbed in evangelical Christian and – especially – Salvation Army bubbles. In hindsight, I think that resolution probably sealed my fate.
I was about 12 when I first learned that there were people who didn’t believe in god. Until then, I’d had no idea that no-god-belief was even an option. As far as I knew, everyone believed in god, and everyone I knew personally believed in god, or said they did. The medium through which I learned about atheism and agnosticism was a TV show called All in the Family and the first “out” nonbeliever I encountered, via the boob tube, was Mike Stivic, Archie Bunker’s agnostic son-in-law. All I figured out at that time was that agnostics professed not to know whether god existed, and atheists did not believe in god. I didn’t know of any way to find out more about nonbelief, so I just tucked those little bits of information into some corner of my mind. I didn’t love god. I didn’t want to “do god’s will.” And I certainly didn’t want to go to church as often as I did, but I wasn’t in a position to change that circumstance anytime soon. So, I got on with my life as best I could.
I was about 14 when we studied Greek mythology in 9th grade English class. I was greatly amused by those randy gods who couldn’t resist having sex with all those beautiful mortal women. One day, I had a weird thought: What’s the difference between those gods and dolls, and god and Mary? Wow! Stunning idea! An idea I quickly dismissed by rationalizing that god didn’t actually have sex with Mary, so it wasn’t the same thing at all.
But…that Virgin Birth thing never really sat well with me; I had a feeling there was more to that story than I was being told. I believed in god, Jesus, the whole evangelical schtick as far as I knew it, but I still didn’t love god or Jesus, and I still didn’t want to “do god’s will.” I just labeled myself a rebel and got on with my life.
I was in my mid-teens when I “got my heart right with god,” and, after graduating from high school, I attended a Christian college. Needless to say, the indoctrination process there was thorough, and I graduated completely convinced that Christianity was the True Religion, and evangelicalism was the right way to do it.
Fast forward to my mid-thirties. I’m the oldest person in my graduate school History of Education class. I’m also the only former minister. One day, as we’re examining Martin Luther’s writings on education, a student asks: What’s he talking about when he keeps saying that the devil is tempting him? I wait for the prof to field the question, then jump in when he shrugs his shoulders. I explain that all indications were that Luther believed that Satan was a real being – a spirit being, but a real entity nonetheless – who worked evil in the world and in people’s lives. She looks astonished that any adult would believe such a thing. The prof looks abashed, but doesn’t say anything. I just shrug my shoulders and think, “Yeah, it does sound pretty silly, doesn’t it.” That was the day I stopped believing in Satan.
There were other signposts along my de-conversion trail – points at which I stopped, caught my breath, and wondered whether the path I was following led anywhere at all. I’ve written about some of them before but there’s more to tell. In good cliffhanger fashion, I’ll save those stories for another day.
— the chaplain
That certainty is a function of psychology is also the conclusion of Dr. Robert Burton, a neurologist has written an entire book on this phenomenon (On Being Certain). His suggestion, to summarize briefly, is that the feeling of certainty, what he calls the feeling of knowing, is simply a mental state, a kind of unconscious mental self-assessment. We don’t really have a good word for what this is, but it’s more like an emotion than anything else. The closest analog would be the feeling of familiarity, the mental sensation of recognition that we have all the time but only become aware of when it misfires: déjà vu. Déjà vu is a feeling that something (like a situation) is familiar when, in fact, we know it is not. He suggests the brain creates these sensations as a kind of self-assessment, to help guide behavior. The feeling of knowing – certainty – is the mind’s unconscious assessment of its confidence in its conclusions. It is something like the way some search engines give you a list of results with a percentage estimate of how close it calculates the match to be (yet, of course, can often fail to turn up what you’re looking for, despite a high-probability assessment). Certainty, then, is a feeling. It is not, somehow, some epistemological guarantor of truth.
Burton has a lot more to say about this, including the neurochemical basis for this sensation. He suggests that similar to the way some people are more prone than others to getting a mental “high” from gambling that makes it, for them, very rewarding/reinforcing (and for some, even addicting), perhaps some people are just wired to be more rewarded by, or even addicted to, this feeling. Maybe some people are just wired to “need” the feeling of certainty more, or at least, to find it more irresistible. It’s a fascinating idea, and I think the core of his explanation here is excellent.
To me, though, it does leave some important connections unexplored. I can’t help but notice that certainty seems to come part-and-parcel with strong ideologies, like religion, or “purist” political movements. I don’t think this is accidental. So I will here add my own suggestion to account for this and then let the matter alone. In the next article, the third of three, I want to talk about practical issues involved in dealing with uncertainty, which is more straightforward and more directly germane to de-conversion. Learning how to manage uncertainty anxiety does not directly depend on understanding where such certainty came from in the first place. But for what food for thought it might provide, here is my suggestion about the origin of this striking phenomenon of certainty within fundamentalism:
Many observers have noted the phenomenon known as splitting, or (in cognitive psychology) dichotomous thinking that seems pervasive in fundamentalism: the division of the world, and the self, into good parts and bad parts. In fundamentalism, such divisions are rampant. The world is a battleground between Good and Evil, there are clear good guys and bad guys, there are clear moral Absolutes, and “spiritual warfare” is often taken quite seriously. And importantly, one’s own self is understood in pre-conversion and post-conversion terms. Before conversion, corruption, sin and death were rampant. Post-conversion, the self is purified, regenerate, and redeemed. The contrast is sharp and clear.
(Notably, this is not unique to fundamentalism or even religion. Those on the extreme right or left, those that have been part of political ideologies such as Marxism, or Nazism, and those that partake of conspiracy theories all “split” every bit as much.)
The organization of experience by drawing stark good/bad distinctions is common, and it seems to be built into our psyche, at least to a degree. Young children almost universally do this, and it is only gradually that they come to realize – and, importantly, be able to tolerate – the idea that the world is more complex and nuanced than that. It has been suggested that beneath even our “primary” emotions (love, fear, anger, etc), are two even more basic ones: good/bad, and important/unimportant.
Nuance, complexity, and ambiguity create anxiety. They are thus difficult to tolerate. It is difficult to be faced with a complex moral issue about which there is no good, clear, unambiguous answer, only a set of tradeoffs and gray areas. Without a world full of good guys and bad guys it is hard to know who to trust. Without moral absolutes it is hard to know what is right. It means that one has no choice but to fall back on one’s own resources, to think it through as best one can, and make an imperfect decision, fully aware that it may turn out to be wrong. It is frightening, and not to mention very sad, to realize that all we have is a world full of struggling, imperfect people, not larger-than-life Heroes.
Splitting (which is, obviously, unconscious) alleviates all this confusion and anxiety. It means that even if you are faced with mixed, contradictory, confusing, or complicated information, if you can just figure out who to trust – or, as works equally well, who not to trust – you can proceed with confidence. It means you never have to be unsure about whether there is a morally right answer or not. Even if your decision turns out to have undesirable consequences, at least you can rest assured you did the right thing.
Splitting/dichotomous thinking is thus a way to quickly sort out two of the most fundamental questions in living: (1) What is true? (2) What is good? It is thus a way to make sense of a complex and uncertain world. It is in part, however, that very uncertainty that is in the world – knowing what is true, or what is right – that is the problem. Retreating to this more primitive (developmentally) way of experiencing the world is an extremely effective solution to this problem. Splitting eliminates doubt, fear, confusion, and the need to autonomous decision making (also a source of anxiety) – and thus creates, or at least allows, feelings of certainty: the world makes sense again.
A corollary to this idea is that splitting thus explains the way ideologues view their opponents. Think of the way Pat Robertson sees secular humanists, or the way Rush Limbaugh sees liberals. They do not see them as reasonable, conscientious, well-informed people with whom they happen to disagree. They see them, instead, as at best stupid, more likely actively malicious. Haters of the Good.
This is no accident. If the world has been rendered stark and clear, then there must be some reason why not everyone agrees with you. It can’t be because the issues are complex and there is room for rational and moral disagreement, because there isn’t; that’s the point. It can’t be because reasonable people differ. To see someone else disagree with your most passionate beliefs, and conclude that this person must have reasonable cause to do so, implies that your passionate belief is not as clear and certain as you want it to be, as you are trying to make it be, as you need it to be. Splitting thus involves an inability to truly step inside the worldview of another and see what might be valid reasons for their conclusions. You cannot see other’s complexity, because, simply, it makes the whole world too threatening. This explains the cartoon quality that characterizes the worldviews of religious extremists – their worlds are filled with Heroes and Villains – Villains who must be defeated, because they are enemies of the Good. Someone who has, with certainty, banished all complexity from the Cosmic Order can see the world no other way.
Thus, my stab at the certainty question is to suggest that certainty is the intellectual and cognitive concomitant to the splitting that is basic to the way fundamentalism deals with the anxieties of being human. Fundamentalists must deal somehow with the anxiety that is due to being frail, limited human beings in a world we cannot control, and they do so by dividing the world into good and bad – or, more accurately, Good and Bad. To be uncertain is to feel vulnerable and potentially guilty of wrongdoing or morally directionless. To split the world into a Manichean battleground, and then to align oneself with the forces of Good, is to no longer feel vulnerable or fear violating group norms. And hence, is to be certain.
So much for armchair models. That an $4.95 will get you a Venti iced vanilla mocha at Starbuck’s. Now, let’s look at what someone in the midst of deconversion can actually do to start making her or his peace with this grayness and uncertainty that is, despite our sometime best efforts, an inescapable part of human life.
Ask any former fundamentalist Christian what was the hardest thing about giving up the faith, and many of them are likely to tell you that at least part of it was the loss of certainty: a fundamentalist knows, not believes, but knows, beyond all possibility of doubt or error, what the Truth is. Those who have never been tempted by fundamentalism are often mystified by this aspect of it, for nowhere else in human experience is this degree of certainty thought possible or even necessary. For them, this way of thinking is probably so alien as to be unable to be taken seriously as an option. We can all be wrong, about anything. Everybody knows that.
But not everybody. Certainty is near to the heart of most if not all fundamentalisms, and it’s intuitive appeal is not hard to see. To know for sure what is true about the world and where it is headed, and moreover, where oneself is headed, to know for sure one’s purpose in life, and to know with perfect knowledge that one is loved and adored and will be protected in perfect bliss forever – all this needs no apologist to make it appealing.
For those of us who leave fundamentalism, learning to deal with doubt and uncertainty – which suddenly and in a most unwelcome way take up permanent residence in our psyches – can be wrenching indeed. It is a much harder way to live. Why is it harder? Well, for one, it is not exactly galvanizing to raise up ones fist with a crusader’s fervency and chant: “We’re Not Sure!” But there is an even better answer, I think. Certainty is, I suggest, at the center of the fundamentalist psyche because it serves to ward off the primal dread, helplessness – the gut sense of human limitation and vulnerability that is our biological heritage as physically weak and therefore interdependent social primates. This anxiety, basic to life, is both ordinary and terrifying. We are frail creatures, really. Each of us knows this. What better way to prop up our flagging courage than telling ourselves extraordinary stories of Specialness and Rescue? And what good are the stories if they are mere stories, or, just as bad, if they are merely probable? When one is alone in the dark, the prospect of probable rescue doesn’t steel the nerve much. Only certainty can do that.
So how does one learn live with uncertainty about life? How do we make our peace with our vast limitations, individually and collectively, in what we can know, predict, accomplish, or ward off? How do we accept the horrifying and everpresent possibility of being wrong, even and especially about things that are important – our ethics, our meanings, our ultimate fate? These are the questions I want to explore here.
I have my own proposal for why certainty exists in fundamentalism. It has to do with the basic psychology that I think drives the fundamentalist psyche. This model is my own construction, though it is drawn together from various other (perhaps more reputable…) psychological sources. From what I can tell, no one really knows why such rigid and weird certainty is claimed by so many adherents of so many different religious fundamentalisms.
Its not epistemological, that much is clear. Certainty exists very infrequently within most accounts of knowledge. Generally speaking, it occurs only within what is formally known as deductive logic, the kind of logical reasoning wherein the conclusion is in a sense “contained” within the premises. For instance, consider the classic syllogism: “Socrates is a man, all men are mortal, therefore Socrates is mortal.” If the first two statements are true, you know that the third, the conclusion, must be true. It is certain because it is essentially just a rearrangement of the premises.
The overwhelming majority of everyday and scientific reasoning is not like that. Most of the time we employ what is known as inductive reasoning, where the conclusion is supported by the premises, but not guaranteed by it. “The early bird usually gets the worm, here is an early bird, therefore he is likely to be well-fed” would be a (somewhat silly) example. The conclusions follows, but only probabilistically – not certainly – from the premises. Perhaps there have been no worms available recently.
Again, it is important to emphasize that virtually all scientific and historical theories overwhelmingly use inductive reasoning. Few scientific theories could ever be properly said to be certain, no matter how much evidence accrues in their support. Not even Newton’s Laws are certain – any honest scientist will tell you they are open to empirical revision if such data comes in.
Moreover, certainty has been claimed by many religious and ideological adherents, as well as every conspiracy theorist on the planet. Logically, they can’t all be right. Logically, in fact, it must be the case that the majority of people who claim perfect certainty in their conclusions, are in fact wrong, and their feeling of being certain must be just that – a feeling. A feeling, that does not feel like a feeling; that feels, rather, like an accurate assessment of the world.
So, it is not epistemological, it is a psychological. Believers have something going on inside their emotional and psychic lives that makes them feel so strikingly sure. But whatever it is, its not rational. In the next installment of this three part series, I’ll look at some possible explanations for this psychological curiosity.
I want to take a moment to put before our community here an issue that has come up for me recently. It’s a small question, but I think ties into something bigger. I’d love to hear everyone’s thoughts.
I just recently entered the 21st century, and joined Facebook. The last filaments of my SNL (Social Networking Luddite) resistance eroded away as I decided that, [huffily] okay fine, it really is a pretty good way to keep up with friends and family whom I would otherwise rarely see.
So, now I’m on Facebook. My family, too, is on Facebook. My saved, Bible-believing, churchgoing, Christian-rock-listenin’, Sarah-Palin-lovin’, Obama-can’t-standin’, fundamentalist family. And you can be sure of that, because their profile (not to mention “status” updates) say so.
Me…. well, now, not so much. Now, my FB profile could – could – if written for full disclosure, accurately say something like (one could mix and match here, so take your pick): secular, atheist-leaning agnostic, humanist, religious naturalist, and liberal/progressive, existentialist, militant agnostic (“I don’t know and neither do you”), and, of course, Arrested Development fan.
There are more contrasts to be had, too, when you get to the likes and dislikes sections. I do not have a favorite book of devotionals or apologetics. I do not watch Fox. Ever. I do not write “Happy Birthday Jesus” on Christmas day. I dislike C. S. Lewis and have no favorite scripture. Instead, my favorite quote (or one of them) would be from Nietzsche:
But I am one who can bless and say Yes, if only you are about me, pure and light, you abyss of light; then I carry the blessings of my Yes into all abysses. I have become one who blesses and says Yes; and I fought long for that and was a fighter that I might one day get my hands free to bless. But this is my blessing: to stand over every single thing as its own heaven, as its round roof, its azure bell, and eternal security; and blessed is he who blesses thus.
My profile could say these things. But it does not. Nor do I put up posts and updates about something exciting I just read from Carl Sagan or Richard Dawkins, or something interesting I learned from Bart Ehrman or Robert Price. I deliberately stay away from anything strongly religious or political. I do not link to anything I write on this blog. I know that, essentially, when on FB you are in mixed company. Many people will see what you write. Given the intensity of their views, and, frankly, the prickliness of their views, many of my family and friends would be very upset indeed at the sort of things I have to say. So I restrain myself. I try to keep it light, try not to offend. Even if it means downplaying who I am and what I really think. I hold back.
But they don’t. My family and extended family put up religious (and political – strongly conservative) posts all the time. They make not the slightest pretense of holding back.
Now, it doesn’t bother me so much what their views are. It’s not the content, in other words. I know what they believe and I expect lots of Jesus-this and Jesus-that. The rub for me is that it does not seem even to occur to them to refrain, as I do, for the sake of not ruffling feathers. They know, broadly at least, what I think and what my opinions are, and in person we have an unspoken agreement to simply not talk about sensitive matters. But on FB, it’s damn the torpedoes, full creed ahead.
So my question is simply this: they do not make any effort to downplay or even tone down their views for my sake. Should I? So far, I am of two minds about this. One the one hand, part of me feels I shouldn’t tone down, anything, at all, beyond what one might normally do in a public forum. Just be me and write whatever I think, whether it’s religious, anti-religious, political, gallows humor, or none of the above. It may cause friction, and if so we’ll either work that out or we won’t, but regardless, being a secular humanist, atheist/agnostic, or whatever is nothing to be ashamed of and I should not treat it as such.
On the other hand, just who am I trying to model myself after here? Why should I aim deliberately to mimic this wear-one’s-ideology-on-one’s –sleeve mentality that I, frankly, can’t stand? Being an atheist is not the most important thing about me. It is the absence of theistic belief, not an organizing theme for a life. Besides, I kind of suspect that those who feel the need to publically, and over and over, affirm their beliefs are too wrapped up in (and insecure about) their own identity. Why go around declaring yourself to be this or that? That’s insecurity, and it’s off-putting to others, and it’s kind of pointless. It’s like saying, “Don’t forget – I’m a Christian!! Don’t forget!!” And moreover, I do think it’s kind of incumbent upon liberals – valuing tolerance and pluralism as we do – to be more sensitive to these matters and to make a greater effort to avoid pointless, arbitrary divisiveness and tribalism.
Now, I know that FB is not such a big deal. It doesn’t really matter whether I put a Nietzsche quote in my profile or not. But it does have to do, I think, with how we present ourselves, as atheists, agnostics, and humanists, as nonbelievers, as deconverts, to our families and to the world. If we hold back for the sake of peace, are we confident and mature, with a healthy dose of perspective, or merely lacking in resolve? Conversely, if we let it all hang out, are we simply being true to ourselves and claiming our rightful place in this pluralistic society, or are we being somewhat self-centered jerks, more interested in spouting off about me, me, me, than we are in our lives and our relationships and the things that really matter?
I don’t know the answer. What say you?
“Perplexed About His Profile”
Religious people often make the case that people like being atheists, agnostic, or just non-believing because then they can “do whatever they want”. The idea is simple: if there is no god, there is no one watching you when you are alone and therefore there are no consequences as long as you can get away with something. In other words, atheists can turn a blind eye to their own actions.
The last couple of years I have watched in utter astonishment as “True Christian” after “True Christian” have on the one hand turned their eye to corruption around them and on the other self-righteously and tirelessly stood up for their favorite principles. It seems as if turning the blind eye is completely subjective and is not limited to the atheists. It is a human problem.
Along with this observation, I have had another question floating around in the back of my mind: why is it that some of us leave and some stay Christian? How is it that tiny details can drive one person to leave their faith while others can simply ignore them completely and act as if they are honestly no big deal?
For example, it may bother a good Christian woman endlessly to hear a swear word or be in the company of someone who is drinking alcohol but when it comes to sending troops to die in Iraq for what might be a trumped-up war… she can honestly act like it is not her problem and that they are serving the Lord by giving their lives up. A person can whine about a little wine and praise Jesus over a dead relative in battle?
For secularists things like this bother us enormously. We feel a sense that overwhelming injustice is being done by our fellow humans.Vote for a Christian Republican who supports creationism and refuses to even read the evidence for evolution? Be against abortion even in the case of rape? Teach the Bible is inerrant when there are so many “obvious” errors? Support Palin?
Young people aren’t walking away from the church—they’re sprinting. According to a recent study by Ranier Research, 70 percent of youth leave church by the time they are 22 years old. Barna Group estimates that 80 percent of those reared in the church will be “disengaged” by the time they are 29 years old. Unlike earlier generations of church dropouts, these “leavers” are unlikely to seek out alternative forms of Christian community such as home churches and small groups. When they leave church, many leave the faith as well.
Thus opens the publicity blurb for a book entitled, Generation Ex-Christian: Why Young Adults are Leaving the Church and How to Bring Them Back. In an interview published by Christianity Today, author Drew Dyck made this observation:
No two “leavers” are exactly the same, but some patterns did emerge. “Postmodern” leavers reject Christianity because of its exclusive truth claims and moral absolutes. For them, Christian faith is just too narrow. “Recoilers” leave because they were hurt in the church. They suffered some form of abuse at the hands of someone they saw as a spiritual authority. God was guilty by association. “Modernists” completely reject supernatural claims. God is a delusion. Any truth beyond science is dismissed as superstition. “Neo-pagans” are those who left for earth-based religions such as Wicca. Not all of these actually cast spells or perform pagan rituals, but they deny a transcendent God, and see earth as the locus of true spirituality. Spiritual “Rebels” flee the faith to indulge in behavior that was incompatible with their faith. They also value autonomy and don’t want anyone—especially a superintending deity—telling them what to do. “Drifters” do not suffer intellectual crises or consciously leave the faith; they simply drift away. Over time God becomes less and less important until one day he’s no longer part of their lives.
These groupings were not meant to be scientifically precise; their value was diagnostic and utilitarian. I wanted to help people understand why young people abandon the faith and equip Christians to engage leavers in meaningful conversations about God.
I’ll list Dyck’s categories below to facilitate my consideration of them:
I don’t think much needs to be said about the “Postmodern” category, as Dyck appears to have described that mindset adequately. I am offended, however, by his glib dismissal of the “Recoilers:” people failed and God was blamed unfairly. Uh, no, Drew – people failed and God did not do what he was reasonably expected to do, either
a) protect the victims who were hurt, or
b) prevent the perpetrators from hurting them.
In other words, Drew, God reneged on two of his key responsibilities: delivering people from evil (which is doubly evil when it’s done at the hands of so-called “godly” people or, even worse, in the name, and on behalf, of a god), and enabling his followers to be good, kind and honest, rather than nasty, brutish and devious. I consider divine protection and divine prevention (or intervention) reasonable expectations because both of those functions are ascribed to the Christian god in the Bible and in church doctrine. Therefore, when a god does not perform as promised, it’s reasonable to wonder if he/she/it does anything at all, including merely existing, and to reject a god that doesn’t live up to its billing.
Dyck’s characterization of “Modernist” church-leavers renders that category as little more than a stick-figure. Since his book is an example of social scientific research, one would presume that his concept of “science” goes beyond the “hard,” physical sciences that often come to mind when the term “science” is used in casual conversation. Readers who understand Dyck’s use of the term in that narrow sense may miss the fact that many, if not most, Modernist atheists are informed by insights gained through the natural sciences, the social sciences, the humanities, and the arts. We are not geeks with our eyes glued to microscopes, and pens and calculators sagging in our shirt pockets. We are multi-faceted people with multi-faceted interests who think in multi-faceted ways, characteristics that Dyck’s categorization appears to miss, or dismiss, completely.
The author’s final two categories seem adequate. I went through a period of spiritual rebellion as a teen, and I’ll admit that his description captures quite accurately the attitude I had then. And many of us can probably think of people who are Drifters.
I briefly considered getting Dyck’s book, just for shits and giggles, but I’ve decided to keep my money in my wallet. The bottom line is, I’m not going to waste my time reading a book that
…equips and inspires parents, church leaders, and everyday Christians to reawaken the prodigal’s desire for God and set him or her back on the road to a dynamic faith…. identifies six different kinds of leavers…and offers practical advice for how to connect with each type. Shrewd tips also intersperse the chapters alerting readers to opportunities for engagement, and to hidden landmines they must sidestep to effectively reach leavers.
The reason I’m not interested in reading this book is that Dyck has misidentified the problem at hand. His view is that people who leave churches are problems. I don’t agree with him. In my view, the people who leave churches are not problems. Rather, churches themselves are problems. The problem is not that so many people are leaving the church. The problem is that too many of them are staying.
— the chaplain
You’ve been lied to before. But never with the audacity of this candidate for top office Richard Supreme who is again campaigning for your vote. His promises are bold. He invokes the highest authority. He emotionally tugs at your insecurities to ensure your allegiance.
Just last week he unequivocally stated “If you ask me to do something, I will do it.”1 He added no qualifiers. There were no stipulations. It was the ultimate campaign promise. And that is not the first time he’s made it.
He has also previously stated…
Again, I’m not joking! If any two of you agree about anything they ask for, it will be done.2
He gave no conditions. Again there were no stipulations. Unquestionably a great way to win votes.
But Richard does not stop there. He actually suggests that even the most minuscule amount of confidence in him would be enough for him to mount a major public works project if you merely asked him to. Here is his clear statement.
If you had even an ounce of confidence in me, I would have an entire mountain removed for you if you’d only ask.3
Again there are no qualifiers or stipulations attached to his promise.
This is where Richard’s press agent James Spinner stepped in a couple days ago to make a “clarification”.
You ask Richard for something and don’t get it only because you’re selfish and merely want to satisfy your own desires.4
Hold on there, James! Did Richard make a promise or did he not? This is not a clarification; it is at best a distortion, and at worse insulting our intelligence. If James is claiming to be a spokesperson for Richard, then Richard is reneging on his unconditional promise. The promises were made in an official speech with plenty of opportunity for Richard to insert his own conditions. He did not.
What is James afraid of? Is James afraid that Richard cannot come through on his promises? So it seems.
There have been countless numbers of cases in which genuinely needy constituents within Richard’s district have petitioned him for help, and there has been absolutely nothing done. In these cases, James is always there suggesting the broken promises of Richard are merely apparent, and that the petition was invalidated due to the petitioner’s selfishness, even in cases where a mother is simply asking for the medical attention that will save her dying child’s life. Who here is the most despicable? Richard for making promises he cannot keep, or James for the audacity in claiming the petition was selfish?
The facts are clear. Richard Supreme is a liar and either can not or chooses not to deliver as promised, and James Spinner is his unscrupulous apologist attempting to place the blame for failed promises on the motives of the earnest constituents.
And James Spinner is not the only defender of the lies of Richard. Substantial pockets of supporters swear Richard keeps his promises. When pressed to supply evidence that constituents loyal to Richard receive any superior intervention in their lives, they offer merely anecdotal accounts that cannot be validated with either statistics or other tools of scientific validation. They simply repeat over and over “Richard would never lie” and “Richard has just a mysterious way of keeping his promises.” No “evidence” they offer can be traced to the signature of Richard, but rather maps precisely to what probabilities would have us expect. These supporters actually then accuse those who take Richard’s statements at face-value of distorting truth or suggest they are incapable of “properly” understanding uncomplicated statements such as “If you ask me to do something, I will do it.”
It must be noted that Richard Supreme also promises to eternally torture anyone who might claim he is a mendacious breaker of campaign promises. I’d like to suggest that this may be a contributing factor to the loyal base of supporters he currently enjoys.
Have the courage and integrity to vote “NO” wherever you see this promise-breaking and fear-mongering Richard Supreme on the ballot.
Words of Jesus
1. John 14:14
If ye shall ask any thing in my name, I will do it.
2. Matthew 18:19
Again I say unto you, That if two of you shall agree on earth as touching any thing that they shall ask, it shall be done for them of my Father which is in heaven.
3. Matthew 17:20
And Jesus said unto them, Because of your unbelief: for verily I say unto you, If ye have faith as a grain of mustard seed, ye shall say unto this mountain, Remove hence to yonder place; and it shall remove; and nothing shall be impossible unto you.
Words of James
4. James 4:3
Ye ask, and receive not, because ye ask amiss, that ye may consume it upon your lusts.