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Religious Heretic
When two incompatible beliefs are advocated with equal intensity, the truth does not lie half way between them - Richard Dawkins
 

With the scientific method, nothing is true; nothing is proven.
At best all we have are theories (models) that support the evidence in the world around us.

Gravity, relativity, and evolution are all theories - with scientists hard at work trying to figure out ways to disprove them. Science can only disprove. And this constant scrutiny either strengthens the theories, or replaces them with something that better supports the evidence, and improves our understanding of the world.*

Religion and pseudoscience on the other hand, avoid scrutiny, and ask their followers to rely on faith.

It is a very important difference.

And in this important difference lies a story that was my life for 16 years.

The Serious Version:
Jehovah's Witnesses

 

The Light-hearted Version:
Sceptic Pitied

Origin of the Universe*
The intellectual and spiritual quest to understand the universe and our place in it is at the core of both science and religion.

At the beginning of the 20th century social scientists predicted that belief in God would decrease by the end of the century because of the secularization of society. In fact, the opposite happened. Never in history have so many, and such a high percentage of the population, believed in God and expressed spirituality. To find out why, science historian and social scientist Dr. Michael Shermer has undertaken a monumental study of science, spirituality, and the search for meaning through his numerous writings, presented here for the first time in workshop format.

Since humans are storytelling animals, a deeper aspect of this issue involves the origins and purposes of myth and religion in human history and culture. Why is there is an eternal return of certain mythic themes in religion, such as messiah myths, flood myths, creation myths, destruction myths, redemption myths, and end of the world myths? What do these recurring themes tell us about the workings of the human mind and culture? What can we learn from these myths beyond the moral homilies offered in their narratives? What can we glean about ourselves as we gaze into these mythic mirrors of our souls?

Humans are not only storytelling animals, we are also pattern-seeking animals, and there is a tendency to find pattern even when none exists. To most of us the pattern of the universe indicates design. For countless millennia we have taken these patterns and constructed stories about how our cosmos was designed specifically for us. For the past few centuries, however, science has presented us with a viable alternative in which we are but one among tens of millions of species, housed on but one planet among many orbiting an ordinary solar system, itself one among possibly billions of solar systems in an ordinary galaxy, located in a cluster of galaxies not so different than billions of other galaxy clusters, themselves whirling away from one another in an expanding cosmic bubble that very possibly is only one among a near infinite number of bubble universes. Is it really possible that this entire cosmological multiverse exists for one tiny subgroup of a single species on one planet in a lone galaxy in that solitary bubble universe? In this workshop, we will explore the deepest question of all: what if the universe and the world were not created for us by an intelligent designer, and instead is just one of those things that happened?

Can we discover meaning in this apparently meaningless universe? Can we still find the sacred in this age of science? The answer is YES!

"Science is not only compatible with spirituality; it is a profound source of spirituality.
When we recognize our place in an immensity of light years and in the passage of ages, when we grasp the intricacy, beauty, and subtlety of life, then that soaring feeling, that sense of elation and humility combined, is surely spiritual"

- Carl Sagan

* Of course, since scientists are only human, most problems in science are not approached in a coolly rational  manner; at least not initially. Before we are scientists we are Homo sapiens, a species that, despite its pompous name, is more often driven by emotion than by reason. We don't always carefully sort out false clues and bad assumptions, nor do we limit ourselves to the most rational techniques of problem solving. During the early development stage of a new idea we behave rather more like artists, driven by temperament and matters of taste. In other words, we start off with a hunch, a feeling, even a desire that the world be one way, and then proceed from that presentiment, often sticking with it long after data suggests we may be leading ourselves and those who trust us down a blind alley. What ultimately saves us is that at the end of the day experiment acts as the ultimate referee, settling all disputes. No matter how strong our hunch is, and how well it is articulated, at some point we will have to prove it with hard, cold facts.

 

 

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Joe Collier on being an atheist

Joe Collier is emeritus professor of medicines policy at St George’s, University of London.

16 March, 2009

My belief that a supernatural power such as a god does not exist (ie, my being an atheist), is central to the way I think and act, and also determines how I see and relate to others both as individuals and when they function as groups (as in organised religion). But this is no recent conversion. Throughout my life I have lived in an atheist environment, so both my parents were atheists, as are currently my sisters, my wife (I feel sure I could not have married a ‘believer’), my children, and the majority of my close friends.

I did not seriously ponder religion till a teenager (my “age of reason” came late) but little has changed since then. I was not persuaded that a god existed, and there seemed no logical argument for the existence of a soul or of an afterlife; I felt it was crucial that responsibility for the decisions I made was mine and mine alone (there could be no excuses, no appeal to outside forces); I felt that prayer (invoking a power to help me achieve solace or to effect things beyond my own control) was meaningless; and finally I saw organised religion as dangerous partly because it impinged on free thinking and partly because it was the source of so much civil unrest and even warfare.

Many of these ideas were private to me, although confirmed in conversation with my father, but when they were expressed publicly the theist response served merely to entrench me further. There was incredulity that I could be so blind as not to see the arguments for “intelligent design.” There were doubts that I could function without prayer, without the security of life “ever after” or without a greater being to “keep me in my place.” There was disbelief that my personal relationships could include such sentiments as love, friendship, kindness, unselfishness, honour, honesty, sadness, or that I could possibly have a moral code so recognise good, bad and evil.

Finally, there was an assumption that deep down I really did believe there was a god. Ironically, much of my behaviour in later years was aimed at exposing these fallacies.

It was inevitable that all of these issues would be integrated into a “me” living and working in an academic environment. If nowhere else, universities, and in particular medical schools, should be viewed as environments where beliefs and dogmas are challenged and reformulated, where there is freedom of thought and expression, where individuals should be personally responsible for their actions, and where there cannot afford to be (religious) bigotry.

So, in the last twenty or so years of my career as a teacher, and increasingly as a “figure” and “role model” (like it or not, these are inevitable as one gains seniority), my atheism has become part of my public persona, such that whenever circumstances would befit my stance was “in-your-face.”

I am not out to convert (although if it happens I am pleased), more to allow people (possibly waverers) to be made aware that neither atheism nor atheists are all bad, and that in an intellectual environment atheism offers real advantages. Perhaps, oddly, I fully respect the right for individuals to practice their beliefs at a personal level. So, several years ago some Muslim students cornered me to ask if I would help them obtain a dedicated prayer room in the medical school (at the time they were either using ad hoc rooms or a dedicated broom cupboard). We hatched a plan, I worked hard on their behalf, and a prayer room materialised. Oh, the luxury of paradox!

So now, as over the years, if I find myself in a “place of worship”, I would never kneel during “prayers.” If I use a literary term in a lecture or conversation that invoked god, such as “god knows,” or “god forbid,” I would immediately follow it by explaining the meaning I intended, reminding the listeners of the diverse origins of language, and point out that I am an atheist. If students asserted the idea of intelligent design, and despite the genius of my hero Charles Darwin this is not uncommon in medicine at the moment, I would make clear my atheist position and tackle the issue head on. If I overheard religious bigotry, or religious assumptions masquerading as truisms, I would publicly challenge them as an atheist - and so on.

It is clear that a large part of the public “me” strives to challenge any agenda that assumes that religion is natural, is the norm, is a given, is self evident, is the answer, is essential etc, and such challenges I make with vigour. I have long believed that it is individuals who ultimately force change and that it is the responsibility of people like me to make our views heard. Silence would indicate collusion and an endorsement of the religious ethic and this I am not prepared to contemplate.