June 27, 2009

The Big Lie

Why does an irrational belief continue to dominate our populace? What is it about human nature that allows the myth of theistic religion to gain ground even as the general level of education continues to rise?

These two questions continue to pester me. I suppose that’s natural when you are always in the minority. But sometimes I wonder why it’s such a big deal to me. Why waste my ever-dwindling mental capacity on something that will not change?

I am very fortunate to have friends who are intelligent, compassionate, and progressive thinkers. Many of them are also life-long Christians. Never-the-less we can discuss a range of subjects together, including politics, science, literature and sometimes even religion. While not always in agreement, we share our differences openly and with respect. But we have to do so carefully—the issue is just too emotional to let our guards completely down.

Occasionally my own passions get the best of me and whenever that happens I’m very tempted to lob a ‘rationality bomb’ towards them. This is done by taking an example from religious mythology and placing it in a modern context. I like to use Santa, but we atheist have many such devices, the best known among them being the Flying Spaghetti Monster.

Such arguments bring a smile or too but they never work. Often the only ones smiling are the non-believers; while the believers are deeply insulted or at the very least, feeling hurt. What seems to be happening is that our attempt at rational comparison is backfiring. Religion is one of those areas that seems to get an exemption from rational evaluation.

I know I’m stating the obvious here, but why is that? How can smart people selectively exclude an entire block of their day-to-day life from critical thinking?

I think it’s obvious we atheist spend way too much time debating existence and probability when we really need to focus more effort on this fundamental question. We are not going to out argue believers with facts or rational thinking or deep philosophical reasoning. Maybe it is time to concentrate on why people believe—more importantly, why intelligent, otherwise rational people choose to believe?

Which brings me to the big lie. This term refers to a propaganda technique most notably associated with the Nazi’s and first articulated by Hitler himself. Joseph Goebbels went on to refine it a bit, stating something like this:

“If you tell a lie big enough and keep repeating it, people will eventually come to believe it.”

Hitler’s propaganda machine certainly used the big lie to evil advantage, but they did not invent it—if anything they simply kicked it into mass production. It was the priesthood that perfected it. After all, filtering, control and manipulation of information has always been the most effective tool of organized religion—starting with tribal shamans; carefully honed by the catholic church; and continuing today around the world—take Iran for example.

The Judeo/Christian myth certainly fulfills ‘big lie’ criteria. First, it’s about as audacious as you can get. A series of brutal, often magical stories designed to spark the imagination of an ignorant and illiterate population. Taken individually these are no more than gross fairy tales. But give them official status and they become unassailable truths.

Repetition is the key to making untruth into doctrine, and doctrine into law. And for most societies I know that repetition starts shortly after birth and continues throughout life. First you hear it from those you love and trust the most, then it’s re-enforced via many channels—from the religious institution itself, but also by the community at large and of course by our governments: local, state and federal.

The big lie is a recipe, not an explanation. It provides a high level methodology for ingraining a belief (rational or irrational) into a populace. But it doesn’t give us a clean way to cut the cord. We’ve no idea how to free ourselves from the situation we are now in. To do that we need to understand why the recipe works so damned well. What is it about this mixture of voodoo, neurons and synapses that give it power? We need an Alton Brown of cognition—someone who can take the recipe and help us understand it—preferably with images of cows and chickens, but that’s just me.

As we understand cognition better we are starting to get an idea of how the rational and emotional minds work together. Imaging technologies are providing glimpses of the brain in action. We are finally able to ’see’ the mechanisms of reward, motivation and pleasure. Today scientist are using this technology on subjects who are actively undergoing what they believe to be religious experiences—from simple prayer to speaking in tongues.

The research is young and far from conclusive. But it’s clear that many of the same cognitive reward mechanisms involved in deep emotional experiences are also evident during religious episodes. It would not surprise me to find that first among these is love. I’m saying that it may be likely that the reason religion is able to be so engrained within human psychology is because at a cognitive level, we are dealing with the same forces that invoke love.

And as we all know far too well—love is blind.

This scares me. Because it shakes my hope that this sociological cancer can be cured with education and rational thinking. It shakes my irrational and emotionally held faith that religion can be outgrown.

Make no mistake, as a whole, I believe religion is bad for humanity. It is a negative manifestation of our evolutionary mind and it continues to be responsible for untold death and sorrow. But were we able to remove religion from our brains, we may also find we have removed the essence of our humanity.

For atheist like myself, the big truth may be that our disbelief is no more rational than their belief. We are both just following King Dopamine down the cognitive happy trail—looking for whatever makes us feel the best, if only for a little while.

© 2009 by Rodney Gleghorn. All rights reserved.

May 30, 2009

The Claus Delusion

I’m often asked by religious friends to reconsider my atheism. I tell them that I’m certainly willing to go back to believing in a personal god, just as soon as they go back to believing in Santa Claus.

Why not? Isn’t belief in one supernatural being pretty much the same as belief in another? Why don’t we all just shuck the god of Abraham for this kinder, gentler god of consumption and joy?

 
Think of the basic premise: that all of us are both good and evil and that we all must sit upon his lap of judgment in order to receive a substantial, yeah even tax deductable reward.

 
To doubt the existence of Santa would be to doubt the word of God. His elves and reindeer are his saints and angels. Mall Santa’s are his priest. But unlike that other god, the Lord Santa has not abandoned the physical world. Santa is benevolent, Santa is vengeful and most importantly, Santa pays dividends on an annual basis. Living among us throughout the year and dispersing his judgment to true believers at year’s end.

 
I’m sure we can explain away his amazing annual journey with science: anti gravity fields, inertia dampening, and near light speed velocities. It’s hard to sanction breaking and entering—especially on such a scale. But for the most part the dude is invited in and it is said that he gets his fat ass down that chimney using nanotechnology.

 
Is this myth really any harder to buy than creationism?

 
The point of course is that you can never go back. Once you’ve seen through a lie; once you’ve built up enough understanding of your world to countermand the mythology; once you’ve discovered all those toys hidden on the top shelf of your mother’s closet. Well, you may be able to pretend you believe, but you are really just going through the motions in order to gain the obvious benefits.

 
With Santa, you can do that until your friends start to call you out. With religion, you can get away with it forever.

 
© 2009 by Rodney Gleghorn. All rights reserved.

 

February 10, 2009

Longing

I chose to come to Shemya because I felt it would keep me out of trouble. If you have to do a year away from everyone you love, then it made sense to spend that time in a place where I could not wallow in self destruction? Right? Just a thousand or so new friends on a tiny island, 1500 miles at sea. What could possibly go wrong?

On the surface, the whole rational was logical, sensible, and smart. But that’s the nature of all rationalizations—even when, as is usually the case, they are complete and utter bullshit.

In truth I was running, once again. Running away from the new obligations this life was attempting to lay upon my pale, skinny shoulders. I was 26 and scared to the marrow. Frightened of being a husband and father.

But of course the minute I set foot on that island I began to understand just how important my family really was to me. That basic tribal pull of intimate companionship hit me full force. I resolved to make it through the year and return to them as a re-born Mr. Domestic.

Thus the year of 1985 became a melody of time killing stratagems: work many hours. Hike and beach comb whenever I could not work. Work some more. And fill the remaining void with the only thing I could truly feel: longing, dark and deep.

It was the first time I’d ever really missed any one. For three years I’d lived in the Philippines and never thought once of my parents. My brother had rarely entered my consciousness in the last 15 years. But now I could barely make it through an hour without straining to hear my son’s gurgling babble or even the sweet, discordant call from my daughter’s clarinet.

Of course it was the emptiness of my bed I felt the most. I missed the feel of Ada next to me in the night. Like a teenager, I longed for silly things like the curve of her fingers in mine. Sometimes while walking the beach, I’d find myself talking to her—pointing something out as though she were standing next to me. Though cold and dark, Shemya could also be a wondrous place and there were so many things I knew she would have enjoyed.

I saw many affairs of course. Many. Shemya was an island of lonely people jammed together by circumstance, duty and—for some like me—a need to escape. I found myself often remembering the words of an old buddy from the PI. When asked why he rarely went for the local bar girls, he said: “It’s just masturbating in someone else’s body”.

But damn! I wanted to remind my friend that sometimes jacking off—no matter how fleeting—was just the right prescription. And if masturbation is OK (and we all tell our children that it is), then would it really be so wrong to seek a small measure of comfort in the arms of another lonely soul?

I found my prescription about two weeks into my second month. She was another airman, much in the same boat as I. Young, separated from her husband and working hard just to make it through the cold, cold year. I am ashamed to say I cannot remember her name. But I can tell you that she looked very much like the actress, Shelly Duvall. I’m sure she ever knew how much she meant to me. After all, I was one of many and she was just fulfilling a basic physical need. It was a contract: thirty minutes, twice per month; with no long-term commitments. Just a basic formula of trust, muted conversation, talcum, soap, and the gentle sound of scissors and comb.

And her touch. Her simple, human-to-human touch. The warm feel of her fingers running through my hair, the gentle pressure of her hands guiding my head. The glorious sense of contact with another person. It was at once intimate, but never sexual. And I can tell you that I found more in this small platonic service than I would have ever found in an affair.

My little grooming ritual became an outlet for a simple desire, a basic human need fulfilled in the most innocuous way possible. I’ve had many other haircuts over the last 24 years. As haircuts are measured, most were better than Shelly’s. Many were outright pleasant. But none of them have meant as much to me. In 1985, my barber’s touch became my reset button on life.

It was a good year. A lot started for me on that little skid mark of an island. It was the beginning of a new sense of confidence that would carry me through college and the remainder of my military career. Good momentum.

It would be nice to tell you the motion is still there and the personal growth continues to be just as profound. I’d like to say I no longer feel the urge to run away. It would be even better to say that I no longer act on it. Instead, it will have to be enough for me to say that I’m still learning. And still longing, dark and deep.

September 1, 2008

Fat Vampire

One of the few things Ann Rice got right is that vampires never change—physically, that is. We can cut our nails, trim our hair, shave our ass, but it’s all for naught. Wake up the next evening and the nails are long, the head is scruffy, and there’s enough hair on the your ass to make an army blanket.

This is why I can’t lose weight.

I didn’t ask to be a vampire. My only sin was stopping at the BP for gas and a hot dog (man…I used to love those hot dogs). So I was not looking for this to happen to me like the groupies do. But there I was, the perfect slovenly prey for a greedy juvenile bitch who was hitching a ride north to the darkness of the arctic (I hope she hung around too long and fried on the ice cap).

So now it’s four years later and here I am. A fledgling hunter, commuting from the burp’s to the inner city. I still have my job, the condo, and a civilian life. To most people, I’m still the anonymous suburban presence you see at the gas station or Costco. Only now instead of eating at the bar in Applebee’s, I’m searching the alleys for stray dogs, rats, or a cracked up hooker I can take a sample from.

Don’t give me that superior look. It’s honest work; it doesn’t kill anyone; and it keeps me out of jail.

The world is a dangerous place for us. A vampire with enough means will move to the developing world where he or she still remain relatively undetected. But the lower middle class American vampire is typically stuck in a dead-end night shift job with a mortgage, nutritional challenges, and little or nothing to show for our hard work.

I’m, hoping Obama can change all of this.

I should point out that we are all in the same nutritional boat. You people eat without regard to your own health, and in the process you are killing off more than just your own species. Many vampires look fit, but their bodies are just as full of fucked up stuff as the general population. Our diets these days are rich in cholesterol, antidepressants, alcohol and Zantac. We are losing strength and agility. Our complexions are worse than ever and just forget about a good day’s sleep!

Being forced to feed on the marginalized population does not help. Nutrition in the inner city is much worse than the suburbs. Most of my prey are forced to buy what passes for groceries at a quickie mart or the pharmacy. The children are overweight by the time they reach their teens—what should be a prime age for harvest.

There is a small niche market in the suburbs—the anorexics. They are perfect for exploitation as they are typically starry-eyed teenage females—half delirious with a potent cocktail of raging hormones and low blood sugar. No one is really surprised when one of them dies.

I have a friend, Sally, who does very well with the ana’s. She works three or four at a time, they never know each other and most of them rarely realize this is more than a torrid little love affair with a slightly older woman.

Plus she practices catch and release. In the end, she falls in love with them; helps them to get over their condition (she’s even paid for counseling); and then lets them go with nary a clue as to how close to death they ever were.

But it’s not something I can pull off. It takes a special skill set to work the anorexics. First you need to be thin, and second you have to look fairly young. The whole Goth persona is just not going to work for a fat middle aged guy like me.

So I will continue my commute. The factory is downtown anyway (thus I can pick up a bite on the way home, and I should have another 20 years here before I’m forced to retire.

Maybe by then I’ll be able to afford liposuction.

 

© 2008 by Rodney Gleghorn. All rights reserved.