Circular Cruises/Refusing Religion

Refusing Religion

21 August 1998

Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. I'll be your keynote speaker for tonight. Let me get my notes in order, here .... There we go.

A friend of mine, some years ago, wanted to have a T-shirt printed for himself which read

Militant Agnostic:
I don't know, and
YOU DON'T EITHER!

That doesn't have much to do with my remarks to come, but they tell speechwriters to always start with a joke.

I don't talk about religion much. Raised in the south, my mother taught me there were three subjects one never spoke to other people about:

1. religion,
2. politics, and
3. how much money you make.

I never understood number three, except in situations where it might lead to competitive jealousy. It can be abused - I strongly believe one of my past employers was using this "don't talk about money" standard to make it easier to underpay everybody.

Number two has gradually fallen by the wayside, since I love a good political discussion, even when it's an argument. I just assume that my friends are willing to forgive me my political views, most of which I don't have a huge emotional investment in anyway. In fact, I appreciate it when people tell me why they think I'm wrong, and have changed horses a number of times in the face of evidence.

But I've noticed that the same people who can cheerfully shout at each other for hours over politics will shoot each other over religion. Religion is Serious Stuff. You'll know you've found someone with an iron constitution when you can have a knock-down-drag-out argument with him or her over religion and still be friends in the morning.

Back when I was just entering high school, I made a decision, and it turned out to be a wise one. I didn't make too many smart decisions back then, so excuse me if I'm proud of the few I did make.

I had seen all manner of fiction and non-fiction which described, directly or indirectly, the horrors of religious intolerance, and the nasty things which happen when people rail against something they don't fully understand.

So I vowed that I was not going to publically or privately condemn any religion unless I was damned sure I had gotten the goods on it first. And I looked into a lot of religions closely, over the next few years. I didn't actually join any, but I looked into them.

Now, mind you, this is from the perspective of someone growing up in Louisiana. If you grew up in Minnesota or California or Maine, things were probably different for you. When I started travelling a bit and reading the papers more, my perspectives changed, and they continue to change. In fact, I'm not sure I'll ever reach a conclusion ... but I'm getting ahead of myself.

The first Catholics I met were all people who understood the pleasures of the flesh, and didn't let the fact that they'd have to repent their sins on Sunday get in the way of sinning them. The Catholics threw all the good parties. I knew, even then, that there were some people who disliked Catholics, but I didn't know why. Later, I learned that not all Catholics are as hedonistic, if you'll pardon the phrase, as the ones in South Central Louisiana ... but even the more restrained ones seemed to be good people, who would give you the shirts from their backs. While they might think your religious choices were wrong, they were at least willing to debate the issue over a glass of red wine.

Even later, I learned that I didn't like the Vatican much. While I recognize that the Pope's heart is in the right place, so far I haven't seen much in Vatican doctrine which indicates that it's prepared to admit which century it is, let alone adapt to the time period. I learned that a lot of people who had problems with the Catholics, when pressed for details, actually seemed to have problems with the Vatican. I also learned that a lot of Catholics have problems with the Vatican as well.

I avoided meeting Baptists for the longest time because I thought they were fire-and-brimstone types who were fiendishly intolerant of anything not of their religion, and of anyone who didn't walk what they defined as a straight-and-narrow moral path. If you didn't conform to their standards, then to Hell with you!

When I was forced to come into contact with them, I never talked about sex, politics, religion, or - frankly - much of anything else. I figured if I admitted to any sexual conduct, they'd stop speaking to me. Ditto my political views. Religion, they'd either damn me or try to convert me, neither of which I was in the mood for. Et cetera. Finding out someone was a Baptist had what the Supreme Court calls a "chilling effect" on my conversations with them.

To give me some credit, many of the Baptists I worked with were perfect examples of this nasty stereotype. Admittedly, the worst they ever did, once they learned of my sins, was try to preach to me - but I hate being preached to. I believe that religions and lawyers should not advertise. It's too late for the lawyer part, but I won't give up on the religion part.

It wasn't until much later that I realized, first off, that I had more of a beef with "evangelical" or "charismatic" faiths than with Baptists per se, and that there were plenty of Baptists who weren't like my stereotype. Every time I heard of something aggravating or intolerant that the Baptists did, I could generally trace it to one of the organizations of churches - like the Southern Baptist Convention. The more I hear about these groups, the more I think they're trying to be unofficial political forces. If they're going to be political action committees, then they should do like the Christian Coalition and admit it.

So, for both of the Big Religions of Louisiana, my gripes turned out not to be with the faith, but with the religion. Remember that; I'm coming back to it eventually.

There were other religions - the mainstream American faiths which seemed, even then, like they were trying to be everything to everybody. Episcopalians were like Catholics without the Latin. Methodists were bland and friendly. And so forth. None of these got much play in Louisiana.

Baton Rouge had a Unitarian church. It had a lovely huge circular window. I remember being impressed that the Unitarians quoted from everyone's scripture - not just the Bible but the Koran and Zen Buddhist tidbits and heaven knows what else. The Unitarians didn't care what you did in your bedroom, they didn't care what gender their clergy were, and they'd never try to convert you, just welcome you and hand you some inspiring thoughts. That seemed to me to be the way to run a religion for the longest time. Then, gradually, I changed my mind.

People go to religions for answers ... and they usually don't get them, but what they do get is almost as good: They get the assurance that there are answers. Now, are there really? It doesn't matter. People do not go to religion for truth. They go for reassurance.

That's not an argument against religion! On the contrary. People need reassurance, and in these times when more of us are strangers to each other than ever before, there aren't a whole lot of sources for that, if your own head isn't providing your daily allowance.

Maybe religion is a crutch. If so, it's a better crutch than some others I can think of. Religion may be equally addictive, and at its worst, equally delusionary; nonetheless I'd rather see someone take up religion than cocaine.

Getting back to the Unitarians: I finally started to feel that Unitarians were like Rogerian psychologists - they never really answer anything, they just rephrase the question and bounce it back at you. They're a mirror. The answers, they say, all lie within you, if you look in the right place. And while I suppose the stronger souls can handle that answer, I suspect that for many people, it leaves them feeling worse than before: Not only did I not get an answer, but you're telling me that I know the answer and haven't been able to find it!

Before going any further with what people do and don't use religion for, and my personal perspective on that, there are two more religions I need to mention, because they have affected my life in a major way.

I never encountered any Jews in Louisiana. I knew there were Jewish people in New Orleans; I continue to suspect there are none anywhere else in the state. But I never bore any distrust of them. In fact, with the Jewish faith I had exactly the opposite of my usual approach: I was willing to believe nothing but good of them until proven otherwise. This was probably naive.

At any rate, I didn't learn that there were intolerant Jews until I was two years into my present relationship - a relationship with a very non-practicing Jewish person, which has exposed me to the entire culture to a new degree. I have learned, just to give one example, that many older male Jews do not have the most enlightened attitudes about women. And, once again, I learned that the people who practice the faith, in general, are a lot more pleasant to me than the religion itself. More so with the Jews, who are also an ethnic group and a culture in addition to being a faith. You can take the first two and reject the third.

The only case I can think of where I am fonder of the principle than the practice - where I like the religion more than the congregation - is the set of pagan religions collectively known as Wicca. (If you don't consider that a religion, that's your right, but how do you feel about Muslims, or any other non-Christian faith?)

The Wiccan faith is a nature-oriented one. It has some items I believe in strongly: A multi-natured, male-female duality as deit(ies); the belief that the miracles of existence are ones around us which we mostly ignore, such as the changings of seasons; a healthy attitude toward sex (by which I mean they approve of it); a belief that there are more things under heaven and earth, Horatio, than our senses can tell us about; and an open mind about what happens after we die, without necessarily drawing any conclusions (although some sects do - many lean toward a reincarnation belief).

Unfortunately - I'm looking for the least nasty way to say this - nearly all of the Wiccans I've met (and, having researched Wicca pretty thoroughly, I've met a lot) are not the sort of people to inspire much confidence in their faith. They are generally, in fact, the sort of people who make people cross on the other side of the street when they pass.

My apologies to all the exceptions whom I have just insulted. I know there are a lot of you; I wish I had an opportunity to meet more of you personally.

I won't go into my theories behind this observation. Suffice to say that, were I to practice Wicca, I'd need to practice it alone, with a minimum of ritual. Ritual also bothers me; it makes me feel silly.

In fact, given my distaste for religious organizations - again, as opposed to the faiths themselves - no matter which faith I chose to practice, I'd probably want to do it alone. I think there is a part of me which insists that religion is a conversation to be undertaken privately, between a single human and his or her god(s).

I recognize that one of the benefits of churches is the sense of community they create, and I'm not knocking that. I'd like to have a group which I could belong to, actually, but I think I'd be uncomfortable as soon as the socializing stopped and the sermon began.

Anyway, now I've come to the point where I can explain to you why I don't have a religion. There are two big reasons.

1. I can't or won't pick one.
2. I apparently don't seem to need one.

The first one's easy to explain. I've looked at these religions closely. They all have their pros and cons; they all have a different set of explanations; they all have their own ideas about the way the universe does things. How can I choose?

Maybe they're all right. Maybe you get the afterlife you sincerely believe you're going to get - your beliefs shape your experiences and determine what you get out of the universe. Under that theory, if you sincerely believe there is no afterlife, your soul just disintegrates in Death's hands once you die, like in the Piers Anthony book.

Maybe they're all wrong. Maybe the truth behind the mechanisms of the universe is something we can't comprehend, much less explain, because our brains simply are not equipped to deal with that Klein-bottle shape. Yet. Under that theory, what happens to us after we die is so unlike any of our physical experiences during life that it's impossible to second-guess. You have to be there.

The point is, I can't say for sure and I don't want to pick a team. The proper answer there is to go where my instincts lead me. Unfortunately, my instincts lead me straight to reason number two:

I've never needed to ask these questions. I don't spend any time thinking about the afterlife or the existence of Higher Powers or anything like that. It just never occurred to me to do so.

And, for whatever reason - strength or ignorance or my short attention span or plain dumb luck - I've never needed much emotional support from outside sources. Sometimes I get cranky, sometimes I get depressed, but I always seem to manage to find my own way out of the Slough of Despond in a relatively short time. Go figure.

And there the matter stands. Or stood.

What prompted this speech, ladies and gentlemen, is that recently I met two people. I use "met" in the loosest sense, as I have never actually laid eyes on these humans, heard their voices, smelled their odors, touched their hands, felt the tingle of their Kirlian auras, or any other physical contact you care to mention. In fact, I have no proof these people exist except for their shadows on the wall of my computer.

(That's right, you get a John Bunyan reference and a Plato reference in the same speech! Aren't you lucky?)

One of them is what I would describe as a militant atheist. He not only thinks that there is no Higher Power, but, as he explains lucidly, he thinks it's fairly hazardous to your health to have such beliefs.

I don't think he's obnoxious about it, although I can see where others might. After all, he didn't preach to me. I went out and found his words voluntarily. He strikes me as the kind of person you could have a hot-blooded religious argument with and still be friends in the morning.

The other one belongs to a certain variety of Christian religion which, I confess, my natural impulse is to be suspicious of. I didn't know this until after my first email to him. It was about the Clinton scandal (politics and sex!) and it had some negative comments about the political schemings of the religious right (danger! danger!)

After I found out about his religion, I was sure he would never reply to my email again. But I was thankfully wrong. He talks about sex himself; he talks about politics; he is often critical of some aspects of Organized Religion, even those of his own church. He also doesn't like people who noisily try to convert others. He has obviously given this religion matter some serious thought, and arrived at his own conclusions, rather than swallowing someone else's party line. And he's not ruling out the possibility he may be wrong.

In short, I badly underestimated him and I owe him an apology. I saw that church page and immediately downgraded his ability to think for himself. I shouldn't have done that; I'm embarrassed to find that I still have some prejudices rolling around in my head.

I didn't tell him any of this at the time, nor am I going to name any names now, but he's in the audience tonight, and presumably he'll recognize himself.

Mind you, some people have even stronger biases than I apparently do. Some people will insist that belonging to a religion - any religion - means that you are being willfully deluded. The first gent I referred to, the militant atheist, would probably agree with that statement.

Not that his viewpoint is any better. In his universe, you had better live each day as if it is your last ... there is nothing else after that; there is no reason to strive for any sort of personal morality except to make our mutual existence on this planet a little more palatable. Enjoy it while you can.

So obviously I distrust both religion and lack of religion. That's kind of a problem for me, isn't it? One of them is obviously much too bleak, the other obviously too rosy. And this made me think: What do I believe?

I believe in a Higher Power. I can't say why, and I fully admit that I can't say why. Maybe it amuses me to believe that this universe has an architect, an intelligence watching all the goings-on in the Mother Of All Orreries. It doesn't make a lot of difference - deliberate creation or cosmic coincidence - because ....

I don't believe in divine intervention. Oh, I believe in some flaky stuff - sometimes I think humans have powers they mostly don't use and don't know how to use, and thus I do occasionally believe in miracles. But, in software terms, if you'll forgive me, I don't believe any updates or bug fixes have been made to the code since the system was first booted. I believe that something somewhere said fiat lux and there was a big bang, and clumps of cosmic debris then began slowly coagulating and igniting, and everything happened with vast slowness ... and that whoever started the engine running may have been watching all this time, but has not touched anything since then.

That doesn't mean I believe in a deterministic universe. I believe that we humans control our own fates, often in ways we may be unaware of. I think I like the model of universe-as-petri-dish; start the culture growing and just watch what it does.

At any rate, it doesn't matter how the universe started. It doesn't affect us either way.

I believe that the part of me that is conscious of my existence will go on to experience other events after I die. What, why, and how are questions I never bother to think about. It is pointless to try to guess.

I think it's silly to let notions of the afterlife - whatever it turns out to be - affect your behavior as a creature of the soil. If you want to behave a certain way toward your fellow humans, do it because you think it's right (or wrong), not because you think you'll be punished (or rewarded) for it after you shuffle off this mortal coil.

This means that I behave according to my own rules of moral conduct. Period. That doesn't mean I'm an utter bitch to everyone I meet! I try to be a good human; but my models for "good behavior" are generally based on emulating my peers and role models, not religion.

And as for what awaits me after I die ... well, I'll know when I get there.

Those are my beliefs. They don't have to be yours. And since one of my other beliefs is that I normally don't preach to people about my beliefs, I hope you will forgive this lapse, ladies and gentlemen ... and enjoy the rest of your evening.

Copyright © August 1998. All rights reserved.