On Belief: My Great Protest

My dear readers,

I've been too busy to write here, but I have not been away from blogging. I won't steer you toward what I've been up to -- elsewhere -- but I will say that I am tired. My fatigue is not the kind one feels after some arduous task or struggle; rather, it is the kind one feels from spending too much time in one's head.

Suffice it to say, I am tired of trying to sound convincing.

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Why do any of us believe what we do believe?

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A Tangent

A few questions come to mind. They emerge randomly to me; they carry no import of any expedience. They just merely show up, bowing their heads while standing atop a ball: ?????

• If Jesus the Christ is real, and if He was a blogger, what would He blog about? What tone would He take?
  
• If Christ accepted comments at His blog, what would be the first question you'd ask?
• If Satan is real and he had a blog, what would he write about? What question would you ask him?
• If there is a God, does He love Satan? If so, why? If not, why not?

Ahh, the questions seem so silly once I write them down. They do not hit me as being more than the ruminations of a sophomore. But I wonder.

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THE QUESTION EXPLORED

Why DO we believe what we do? Is it not a matter of desire, of will? Do I believe in Christ merely because it is my desire to do so? Is belief nothing more than an act, a choice, a decision?

My non-believing friends, be they atheists or agnostics or materialists or empiricists, inform me that the cosmos possesses no inherent "meaning." In other words, there is nothing of religious import -- or the equivalent -- in the universe that exists independent of human consciousness. Moreover, there is no meaning or purpose not only intrinsic or extrinsic to the universe, there is no equivalent in human consciousness: there is nothing in your thought-life that impels you -- by force of law, rule or precept -- to think certain ways. You can, pretty much, do whatever you believe is right, meaningful and purposive. Ultimate meaning and purpose is up to you: the object of your adoration, worship or motivation is yours to create, and you need not even create a thing.

This, at least to me, is the materialist/atheist worldview in a nutshell. It is an idealism of mammoth proportions, for it only exists in the human mind and that mind is the only place it can ever exist.

And yet ...

I wonder if it's true? For I note that now that I've written down this great truth about the cosmos -- that no truth exists independent of the mind who creates or at least affirms it -- there seems to be some possibility -- however remote -- that the very act of communicating this truth -- by merely writing it down -- renders the truth false. The proposition "All minds find meaning on their own terms" appears to this writer as something quite like an absolute that transcends any individual mind, for it is meant to apply as the law of all minds. In other words, there is something extrinsic that binds humans together: Humans must create. There is no exception. You have no choice in the matter. And I communicate this to you: you do not find it for yourself.

That seems rather problematic.

Moreover, if I say that morality is always evolving, that an individual's personal ethics are shaped by the expectation of any social group in which an individual exists, I must admit that morality is absolutely always evolving, mustn't I? And if I admit that, then I must admit other absolutes, like what was once preferred is not now preferable; what was once good is now not; humans must change; standards are dynamic and never static. Of course there is something static, e.g., humanity, evolution, society (as a concept), and choice: humans (static) evolve (static) in society (static) willingly (static).

Have I, as I wrestle through all of this, merely mangled my arithmetic? If humans MUST create, then there is no choice; if humans evolve by willing to create, then choice is real. Irrespective of my apparent fallaciousness, the assumptions are meant absolutely: they are not created.

But none of this matters. What matters is that I do not see how to explain why a person believes what he or she does independent of that person's will. I can never, ever present a case for the truth of Christianity that could be described as irresistible. I think such a thing impossible. And I note that those who aim to discredit Christianity or theism cannot possibly argue from a position of absolute compulsion, either. There is nothing any of us can say to each other that can change another's heart. We believe, and belief is a choice.

Perhaps, then, a good question in debating another person about God's existence or non-existence is to ask what it is our interlocutor desires? What does he or she want to believe? What sort of universe do they want to accept? For if an atheist, for example, says to me that he wants his beliefs in the universe to conform to what the universe is as described and defined by science, then he is admitting that his beliefs come from outside him: he is saying that something that he did not create defines his beliefs: he can't help but submit to reason and the hard, brute facts afforded him by his senses and the scientific method. But surely this is utterly unhelpful, because now we are back where we started: we do not create meaning. Instead, the universe gives it to us -- and we submit. Absolutely. Or, so we should.

Have you ever been stymied by that person who tells you that all truth, logic and meaning are subjective, and then berates you for being a Christian, calling Christianity a "lie?" I sure have. And I am quick to note that if all truth is subjective, then, it follows that Christianity is -- at least for me -- one of those subjective truths. And if it is a subjective truth, then why is my subjectivist interlocutor critical of my choice? Or does his subjective quest for meaning include his right to be critical: he derives further meaning by berating my freely chosen worldview? How, pray tell, can my choice be wrong or even inferior? What, does it fail to correspond to some objective truth? What is that truth, how do we know it, and why are we discussing subjectivism if there is in fact an objective truth?

Such puzzles.

I am left, of course, nauseous, just like Mr. Sartre, as I consider these conundrums. But despite the nausea, I fight, nay, I WILL to believe in a universe that is fundamentally rooted in purpose, the purpose of love. I choose to believe in a universe that can and will answer our deepest questions; I choose to believe in a universe where all goodness, beauty, joy, bliss, art, genius, justice, laughter, music, color, taste -- and so many more lovely things -- are not crushed into oblivion. I choose to believe like Friedrich Nietzsche that suffering makes humanity heroic; and I believe with him that life is everlasting. But unlike that great atheist, I refuse to believe that human heroism ends in nothingness, crushed in the vast emptiness forever forsaken, cast into some unconscionable hell; nor do I believe that life recurs in some endless and vicious circularity, where we can live out our futility ad infinitum in Nietzsche's "Eternal Recurrence."

I recall once reading in The Boston Globe a review of the lovely film about Sts. Francis and Claire, "Brother Sun, Sister Moon." The capsule review, wherein the film was given one star, included this: "A film only a saint could love." I remember sneering at the reviewer's smug and ridiculous words. For latent in the remark was nothing but disdain for the holy. I retorted, "What sort of person would not want to be a saint? What sort of person gives the pursuit of holiness but one star?"

In a meaningless universe, where holiness means nothing, where love is but a dream and a whim, I protest with all due rebellion: "This is my pride -- to believe in a lie that is more beautiful than the truth! I shall be a saint!"

The empty universe does not deserve such a compliment.

Peace to you, this day, and forever.

BG

©Bill Gnade 2007/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.

Speaking In Parables

[After reading Friedrich Nietzsche's Beyond Good and Evil earlier this summer, I wrote the following short story.]

Julie Cannon was a theology student with a cause: she wanted to live a life of gratitude. And she was walking through Harvard Square at a pace that meant she set out to prove it. But she also wanted to live a life worthy of those who called themselves followers of Christ, even if it meant acting crazy from time to time.

“I don’t understand why you should have a problem with this, Thomas. You’re the one who is always telling me about how grateful you are. Weren't you boasting about your grateful spirit just the other day? Why can’t I do this my way?”

“I am not saying you can’t do it your way, you little imp. I am telling you that it is just sort of weird.”

Thomas Lesser, too, was a theology student. He and Julie were second-year students at Harvard Divinity School. Today he found himself curiously furious with her: she was gorgeous and wildly desirable (he had attempted to ask Julie out several times, but failed for want of courage); she was his closest female friend in Cambridge, and yet here she was with thank-you notes to, well, whatever, and she was fixed on her task -- without affect -- in a way that perplexed him to no end and, for the first time since they met nearly two years ago, he did not know how to take her.

“Are you telling me,” Thomas said, trying to restrain his incredulity and nascent anger, “that you have thirteen more cards to hand out, and that we have twenty more things to thank beyond that? Really, two is enough already. One for the trees by Church Street, and one for the bench by All Creeds…I am down with that. But I had no idea you had a whole day of this planned.”

“What? Are you not thankful, too?” asked Julie, her voice slightly crimped by shortness of breath.

“I am, Jules, but –“

“buuuuuuttt, what? You do have a problem, don’t you, and yet you won’t come out and say it. Oops! Too late. We are here. Come!”

Thomas - reluctantly - followed his Beatrice into Algiers, a place he knew Julie adored. He adored it too, perhaps because he knew it was so dear to Julie. He looked straight overhead as he walked in: He loved the vaulted ceilings of this café, and he loved all its nooks and crannies. The smell of roasting coffee beans blasted his nose.

“No, no, I am not here to order anything,” Julie said to the barista. She took a moment to sigh deeply, to catch her breath and gather her wits for an important task. “I merely want to thank the espresso machine. No, uh, what? … no, no. I was wondering if I could have a minute with your espresso machine. As you know, I LOVE the espresso here, and, well, I was just thinking last night that I needed to ‘overflow with thanksgiving.’ So I want to thank the espresso machine, and even the coffee beans, for giving me so much pleasure.”

Thomas dropped his gaze to the group of baristas gathering behind the counter. He could feel himself shifting from foot to foot and shaking his head ever so slightly. And he could feel blood rush to his face. Here we are, Thomas thought, and everybody here knows we are div students; we sit here for hours – Julie, me, Chad, Liam, Valli – talking God and exegesis and Greek, and now Julie has the temerity to ask if she could speak to a machine…she wants to thank it.

He could see from the baristas' faces that they were befuddled, and yet were too tolerant of so familiar a face, and a face so beautiful.

One undergrad - known by Thomas and Julie merely as Rafe - spoke up, his face broad with a knowing smile.

“Sure, Julie. Come behind the counter and have at it.”

Rafe looked at his colleagues and then at Thomas. He gave them a little smile and a quick shrug as if to say, “What can I do?”

Julie squeezed through the gap between countertops and walked up to the copper-plated espresso machine. She nodded before it, touched it lovingly – she’s caressing it, Thomas noted – and then said something no one could hear. She was behind the counter for no more than sixty seconds. But to Thomas it was a minute too long.

“Well, that was kind of you all,” Julie said as she made her way toward the door. “But I am wondering if you could give the coffee roaster this little card. It’s a thank-you note.”

The only barista to speak spoke again.

“But we all roast the beans, Julie,” Rafe said, looking at each of his colleagues. In unison, each barista nodded his head in agreement.

“I know that, you goofs. I want you to give the note to the actual roaster, the actual machine. You know, the big one you have out back.” Julie tilted her head back, inhaled deeply through her nose, and then raised a hand for dramatic effect. “I can smell it now. Ahhh!”

Julie handed the card to Rafe who, along with his fellow baristas, stood dumbfounded.

"I don’t... what? Uh..."

Thomas, unable to contain either his impatience or his blushing, spoke to Rafe as Julie turned to go.

“Just…please. Humor her. She has a fistful of thank you notes to THINGS! And she has her whole day planned around this happy little idea of thanking things for…for their… thingness…or…whatever!”

Julie turned as Thomas approached exasperation. She looked at him quizzically. “You do think I’m crazy, don’t you? Well, you’ve not seen anything yet! Come!”

At that, Julie flew down the stairs. Thomas muttered something toward the young men behind the counter, but he knew they could not hear him. He dropped his head and followed Julie.

But once outside, Julie immediately stopped. Quickly, she knelt on the sidewalk and lowered her face: Thomas thought of Muslim prayer. She’s doing salat, and she’s prostrate in the first sajdah!

“Thank you sidewalk!” shouted Julie.

“Julie, please!” Thomas shouted, concerned that someone might think she was mocking Islam. He moved toward her head to block pedestrians from crashing into her. But as suddenly as she had knelt, she was up and walking toward the corner.

“You remember last month when Pim, my cat, was lost?” she asked, shouting over her shoulder, her pace suddenly brisk and direct. “Well, I had put up posters around the Square urging people to be on the lookout. So there is a pole I have to see.”

After ten strides Julie stopped abruptly, with Thomas nearly crashing into her.

“Here it is.”

Thomas, now so perplexed that he could not hide his anger, looked around.

“Here’s what?!” he shouted.

Julie looked at him with a look of pain.

“Here’s what?” Thomas asked, the tone and volume of his voice lowered to levels approaching courtesy. “I see nothing here.”

“Yes, but I do,” Julie continued without so much as a pause in enthusiasm, “and I am glad I do. This pole, right here, was where I put one of Pim’s posters! Thank you, thank you, my dear pole. Oh! And look! The FedEx box. I use that box! Thank you, box!”

Thomas was appalled. What has happened to her? What am I doing here? He watched as Julie wrapped her arms around the metal box, as best she could. She’s hugging it! And now she’s up again!

“Look! A curb! You know, there have been many times I've leapt onto a curb to avoid getting hit by a taxi or some crazy cyclist. I have even used this curb. Thank you curb! And look! A picture of a dog! I had a dog once. Thank you, picture! Thank you, dogs! And look at – thank you sky, thank you clouds! And –“

“Julie Cannon!” Thomas knew he could shout loud, but was surprised he could shout that loud. Rage was settling in. “What the hell is going on here? If you think I’m spending my day while you traipse through Cambridge thanking things, then you are out of your freaking mind! I would be out of my mind to follow you – I have THINGS TO DO!”

Suddenly, Julie’s whole face changed. Her frenzy seemed to abate at Thomas’ words. She smiled softly, her eyes full of understanding. She walked slowly up to him, her eyes pouring into his. She stopped close to him, reaching out a hand to caress his arm.

“Tom, Tom. Let’s go back to Algiers. There is something I want to tell you.”

“More things to thank, Julie? No thanks. I’ve got things to do?”

“Come, Tom. Give me just a few minutes. I promise, no more thanking things. Not that I should stop on account of your anger, but I will stop on account of your embarrassment. So, you think it crazy of me to do all this. Why?”

Tom looked skyward, rolled his eyes and tilted his head to the right, and then brought his gaze back down to Julie. “Because you don’t thank things, Julie, you thank people, sentient, animate people."

“Hmm,” cooed Julie. “Come, coffee’s on me. Twenty minutes, tops!”

With a tug of her hands and a knee-buckling smile, Julie was able to get Thomas to walk a few steps, open a door, order a latte and sit in the downstairs corner of Algiers. Julie had made a joke with the baristas upon entering, saying something about “playing nutty and all.”

“Plain and simple, Thomas. Do you want to know what this was all about?”

Thomas looked unsure.

“I guess. I mean, only if it makes sense and does not bore me to tears, or piss me off," he answered. "And I guess I don’t want some sort of tragic news, like that you have a brain tumor and just days to live or something equally dreadful.”

Julie looked down at the coffee cup in her hands. She seemed to Thomas to be weighing what he had just said; there was a look of grave concern that passed over her face. But then that look passed with a brilliant smile. Thomas’ momentary anxiety slipped from him like snow on a metal roof in spring.

“Dearest Tom. You have to know me better by now…I’d never drop something tragic on you in this manner, nor would I ever be so gauche as to harass you for no good reason. I mean, I don’t think you’ve ever found me boring. Lord knows I’ve never had a dull moment with you.”

Thomas could feel himself blush. He squirmed in his seat, sat upright, and put both hands around his coffee mug. He did not want to give too much away.

Julie looked out the window and said, “You’ve got to know that I was very troubled during Religious Epistemology last week. You know, when you and Dr. Urns were talking atheism? I mean, the whole Nietzsche section has been fascinating."

Julie withdrew her gaze from the window. She looked right into Thomas's eyes.

"Don’t get me wrong, that crazy atheist makes me think. But when you agreed with Urns, that you even admitted you recently became an atheist – well, I guess I am fine with that sort of statement if it is meant as a confession of doubt, because we all have doubts – but when you, well, when you agreed with him that you could be an atheist and live a meaningful life, one filled with gratitude and joy, well, it really felt empty to me, so hol—“

“But Julie, it is my choice to – “

Thomas stopped himself. He could feel that he was somehow blindsided here; something was coming and yet he could neither see it nor control its effect. Yes, it was true what Julie was saying; in fact, he was like probably too many div-students – he had become an atheist studying for “ministry.” Yes, this was a change for him, since he came from a United Church of Christ background, one with an evangelical flavor (at least while his old youth pastor worked at his family's church during his commuting days at Brompton Prep). And he knew in his heart that it was wrong not to have told Julie this until he announced it in class to Dr. Urns, who was also an atheist. For Julie was devout: she had more faith, even certainty, than anyone he had ever met.

“I’m sorry, “ he said. “Go on.”

Julie continued.

“It all just felt hollow and contrived. So what I did today was try to show you the absurdity of your position. Forgive me for pointing this out, but you pointed out the absurdity of your position. You JUST scolded me outside by declaring - with the conviction of a true believer - that it was absurd to thank things. And my point was to show you exactly that – that it is impossible to live a life of thanks and gratitude as an atheist, for the atheist can only thank things. There is no person, no ‘sentience,’ to steal your word, to be grateful to.”

Thomas could feel heat pour into his face. He knew he had been caught in a…seeming?…contradiction, one that he had created, and yet he could not just concede. How could he? He had been adamant in his opinions with Dr. Urns; he had enjoyed connecting with the professor so fully and uniquely. And now he could feel all that sentiment slip away as so much nothing.

“Well, I suppose I could be thankful to the universe," Thomas offered with conciliation in his tone, "though you would counter that it, too, is a mere thing. So perhaps I could say that I am grateful for having been born, that I am glad my parents met and decided to have me.”

“But you know full well your parents made no such decision," Julie rejoined. "At best, they chose to have a baby, but they had no choice who you would be. Besides, who are they grateful to for their existence -- their parents? Well, what about the first parents? Who are they grateful to? Plus, as you know, most atheism is entirely mechanical in its ontology: this is all a machine and no one really has any choice at all ... your parents, then, had no choice in even meeting, let alone having a child. Think eternal recurrence, for that Nietzschean belief is rooted entirely in determinism. I mean, if we ain’t got choice, then we can’t thank each other for anything. Oh, sure we can say we are thankful for beauty or health or wealth or Brahms or brie or this coffee. But we don't thank the gift, we thank the giver. So either we thank God for these gifts -- God being at least a conscious, willing, sentient Being -- or we have nothing to thank at all.”

Thomas felt stumped, though he held on to the suspicion that Julie’s argument had to be superficial and fallacious. He knew she was right – absolutely right – about one thing: He had said what he said, and he had felt it, too. It was absurd to thank things. It was absurd to be grateful to inanimate objects or even creatures who had no choice being what they were. And he could feel the power of Julie’s challenge, that it was impossible to be a grateful atheist in the sense he had used it with Dr. Urns. 'Yes, he said so enthusiastically to Urns, 'I can live a life filled with as much gratitude as any Christian’s.' And now he knew he couldn’t defend that sort of position at all. But he knew he had to say something.

"I can always thank you, for bringing me here, for allowing me the privilege of your beauty and friendship and even this insight, can't I? I mean, I can always thank people? So I can live a life of gratitude, no?"

Thomas couldn't say more. He had admitted too much -- "the privilege of your beauty" was too revealing. Besides, there was something hollow -- just as Julie had said -- to the position he was attempting to defend: he was still thanking things, and he knew it to be futile. But he quickly forgot himself as he looked into Julie's eyes.

"'So, the 'privilege of your beauty,' eh?" Julie said, her eyes full of love and joy. "Don't you know, Thomas, that I can't help myself at all?"

©Bill Gnade 2007/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.