The Questioning Christian

One More Thing to Like About Our New Presiding Bishop

From Sarah Dylan Breuer in The Witness magazine:

... Katharine Jefferts Schori is not just the first female Primate of the Anglican Communion; she is a bishop who believes with all her heart that a church of empowered laity living intentionally into Baptismal ministry just might change the world, and that in itself could be revolutionary.

I first caught a glimpse of that conviction in her on the day we met in 2002, on the first day of meetings at the Camp Allen retreat center of the Diocese of Texas for the expanded 20/20 Task Force.   ... [A] fellow team member was asking her how she preferred to be addressed. "Call me Katharine," I recall her saying; "my Baptismal name is my highest title." ...

(Emphasis added.)

A Cordial Conversation with an Atheist

Over at TitusOneNine I've been having a conversation about the existence of a Creator, with an intelligent and very cordial atheist who goes by the nom de blogue of "Just Passing By."   Along the way, I noted that apart from our participation, the thread seemed to have played itself out.  JPB suggested we move the discussion elsewhere.  He (?) had previously said he was checking out this blog, so I'm responding here to a couple of his points in the hope that he finds my response.

I wrote:

I also hope you’d agree that the notion of a Creator is at least consistent with (1) the fact of our existence; (2) the apparent fine-tuning of the universe’s physical constants,[*] and (3) the increasing orderliness of at least our corner of the universe.[**] The existence of a Creator may not be compelled by these things, but it’s certainly coherent with them.  [Italics in original, bold-faced emphasis added.]

[*]  In a previous posting, I explained:

If any of a number of things such as the force of gravity or the nuclear force had been just an infinitesimal bit different, the universe would not have come to be, certainly not in the way we know it. (The Wikipedia article on the Anthropic Principle is pretty good.)

[**] In a "footnote" paragraph, I explained a point JPB had challenged:

By “the increasing orderliness of the universe,” I mean the cosmic progression starting with the Big-Bang release of energy, which cooled into subatomic particles; some of which particles bonded as hydrogen and helium atoms; some of which atoms gravitationally coalesced into gas clouds; some of which clouds coalesced further and ignited as stars; which stars manufactured other elements; some of which stars collapsed and exploded as supernovae, thereby manufacturing and scattering all kinds of debris including heavier elements; some of which debris gravitationally coalesced as planets; on at least one of which planets the materials and conditions for life were present and on which life did in fact emerge; eventually resulting in our own human species emerging; and we humans have been organizing ourselves and our surroundings ever since — sometimes making terrible mistakes along the way, to be sure.

Anyway, JPB responded to my bold-faced comment above with a follow-up question:

IOW, a Creator is possible?  Very well, [so] stipulated.

I think I missed the “And therefore …& part of the argument. Could you repeat it for me please? How is a Creator likely based on those points?  [Italics in original, bold-faced emphasis added.]

I'm not sure I understand what JPB is missing here.  I'm saying that in my own judgment, which is informed by my education, experience, values, biases, etc., the evidence I mentioned makes it at least more probable than not that a Creator exists.  Depending on what I'm being asked to do on the basis of that belief, I may or may not conclude that the evidence is sufficient to justify the proposed action.  (I explain this position in more detail in the previous post.) 

Others evaluate the same evidence differently.  It will always be thus, at least until someone comes up with irrefutable evidence one way or another.  (And even then there will still be people who aren't persuaded, just as there are still people who believe the earth is flat.)

Do You Believe in God? That's Only Half the Question

I've been having a very enjoyable on-line conversation with an atheist on the subject of whether a Creator does or does not exist.  I'm coming to realize that this is only half the question, because we're unlikely to know the answer with "scientific certainty" any time soon. The other half of the question is a lot more complicated:  What do we propose to do as a result of our belief (or unbelief)?  What action do we propose to take or not take, and what are the potential risks and benefits of our choice?

Belief and Action Are Epistemologically Joined at the Hip

From an epistemological perspective, beliefs and actions are inextricably linked.  Perhaps the most important fact about our belief that Proposition P is true is that it make us comfortable, to a greater or lesser degree, that if we take (or don't take) a particular Action A, we're likely to like (or dislike) the result.   

FOOTNOTE:  Here's a trivial example.  My wife fixed a casserole for dinner last night.  I was reasonably confident it would taste good.  I was also reasonably confident she would be hurt if I spurned her cooking.  So I ate the casserole (and sure enough, it was delicious).

Epistemology comes into play when we ask, how much corroborating evidence do we need to satisfy ourselves that Belief X is true?   Too many theologians miss an important point here:   

The amount of corroborating evidence we should demand about any particular belief will depend on the action (or inaction) that will proceed from the belief. 

This is an everyday truth:  the more consequential the action might be, the more corroborating evidence we're going to want about the underlying belief.  Here are some hypothetical examples: 

Scenario 1:  During a routine physical exam, my doctor notices a small skin tag on my inner thigh.  Belief:  The doctor says the skin tag is likely to rub on my clothing when I work out and might start to bleed.  Proposed Action:  The doctor suggests that I let him snip off the skin tag, cauterize the tiny blood vessel, and put a Band-Aid on it, right then and there, without my having to come back for another appointment.  Analysis:  I hadn't noticed the skin tag before, and have no idea whether the doctor is right about possible future irritation.  What he wants to do isn't especially consequential, however; I quickly decide it's not worth spending any time investigating further.  I've got an easy schedule that morning, so I let the doctor snip the skin tag as he suggests.   If I had been in a hurry to get to another commitment, the analysis might have come out differently.

Scenario 2:  During the same routine physical exam, my doctor looks over my arms, legs, chest, back, and head.  Belief:  The doctor says he thinks I have a tumor in my leg.  He thinks it's a particularly nasty kind of cancer that is spreading aggressively and will soon metastasize to the rest of my body.  Proposed Action:  The doctor asks for permission to amputate my leg; he says it's the only treatment that will give me a chance of survival.   Analysis:  The potential consequences of the decision are pretty serious either way.  I'm going to want to know a lot more about the underlying reasons for the doctor's opinion.  I'm also going to want a second opinion, and will do some on-line research of my own as well.   

FOOTNOTE:  In other circumstances, the analysis might have been different.   Suppose the reason for the proposed amputation was different:  Imagine I'm an infantryman in Iraq whose leg was severely damaged by an IED explosion.  The battlefield surgeons believe they could save my leg if they had the time to work on me, but other wounded troops are in just as bad shape as I am and need attention too.  And so, to save not just my life but those of the others, the docs cut off my leg and move on the next guy.  (I understand that military medicine has made dramatic progress in recent decades, and so this kind of dilemna doesn't happen very often.)

Scenario 3: While on foot patrol downtown, a police officer sees me walking on the sidewalk.  Belief:  The police officer thinks I might be a missing murder suspect whose "Wanted" poster he saw at the station that morning at roll call.  Proposed Action:  The officer wants to stop me for a couple of minutes to ask me some questions.  Analysis:  The officer is legally allowed to do so; as long as he stops me for only a brief period, the law deems that society's need to have the police investigate crimes takes precedence over the minimal inconvenience to me.   

FOOTNOTE:  The analysis would be very different for another proposed action:  The police officer asks me to stay where I am; he calls the state prison and says, I think I may have the missing murderer here; please come get him and lock him up for 25 years to life.  The officer's proposed action is extremely consequential (to me, at least).  The law prohibits the taking the proposed action without the state first producing corroborating evidence that establishes my guilt beyond a reasonable doubt.

FOOTNOTE:  This graduated approach to proof in criminal cases goes back as far as the Pentateuch, which, for example, prohibits putting someone to death except on the testimony of two witnesses.

Rethinking the Concept of "Proof" of Religious Beliefs

In assessing how confident we are in our religious beliefs, our focus should be on the actions we propose to take (or not take) on the basis of those beliefs, at least as much as on the beliefs themselves.  This is especially true for beliefs that are inherently incapable of being rationally resolved one way or another, of which Christianity has its fair share.

Example:  Like billions of other people, I'm persuaded that the universe came into being as the work product of a Creator (who may or may not be like the God depicted in the Bible).   I'm also persuaded that following the Great Commandment and Summary of the Law that Jesus stressed is the best way to live one's life.  Analysis:  There's sufficient corroborating evidence of these things that I'm entirely comfortable participating in the Episcopal Church's liturgy (most of it, at least), donating to charity, saying grace before meals, etc.  On the other hand, the corroborating evidence is nowhere near sufficient to convince me that, for example, I should take up arms in an effort to conquer the world militarily for God.   

Example:  Traditionalist Christians say that God consists of three Persons in one Godhead.  I mentally shrug my shoulders and think, fine — what are you proposing to do in reliance on your belief?   Analysis:  I certainly won’t object if these trads want to end their prayers with “through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, forever and ever.”  I certainly will object if they seek to burn unitarians and other heretics at the stake.  I'll even have a problem if they merely try to expel non-trinitarians from the fellowship of the church or disqualify them from leadership positions.  The corroborating evidence concerning the Trinity, such as it is, simply isn't sufficient to justify inflicting that kind of harm on people who believe differently.

Example:  Traditionalist Christians claim that the Bible is the definitive revelation of God's will.  Two of their resulting proposed actions are to prohibit priests from blessing committed same-sex unions and to disqualify noncelibate gay men and lesbian from becoming bishops.  Analysis:  The evidence corroborating the trads' claim about the Bible's definitive authority is slim to nonexistent (the contrary evidence is far more impressive).   The corroborating evidence certainly isn't sufficient to justify the proposed actions.   

*  *  *

In our endless fights about matters theological, I wish we'd remember that we have plenty of God's work to do.  I wish we'd give more consideration to how beliefs and actions are epistemologically entangled.  Maybe that would convince us to agree to disagree; praise God; and get back to work, together.

God of the Gaps

Many atheists brand the notion of a Creator as a resort to a God of the gaps. I disagree.

It's a fallacy to insist that abjuring God-of-the-gaps necessarily means abjuring all theistic explanations. That's a seriously false dichotomy; it throws out what very well might be a baby along with the bathwater.

The Great Commandment and Evolutionary Success

This posting is adapted from a response I posted to a pseudonymous atheist's question at TitusOneNine.  It's long, so here's a summary:

• The Great Commandment — that we must love God and our neighbor — was Jesus' core message.

• But we can't will ourselves into emotional love; so how can we obey the Great Commandment?

• We can "love" God by humbly facing the facts ("it is what it is").

• We can "love" our neighbors by seeking the best for them:  which goes hand in hand with trusting that all will be well.

• These forms of "love" are also sound evolutionary strategies.

• The Great Commandment is a powerful engine of the continuing creation.

We Don't Ask Bishops to Be String Theorists, or Astrologers; Why Expect Them to Be Theologians?

At Jim Naughton's the Daily Episcopalian blog, traditionalist commenter "Widening Gyre" suggests that new Presiding Bishop Katharine Jefferts Schori, in recent press interviews, proved she is no theologian.  He asks whether we really ought to be surprised by this:

... can we agree that not all bishops are great theologians and that (gasp) some of them should not even be considered theologians?   Therefore, we shouldn't be surprised over their answers to extremely difficult theological questions.[1]

This insight leads to another question:  Does it even matter if a bishop, even the presiding bishop, is not a theologian?  I think not, for at least two reasons.

1.  A Bishop's Job is Like That of a Hospital Administrator

Demanding that a bishop be a theologian is like insisting that the chief administrator of a hospital be a leading medical researcher himself.  We'd all agree that medical research is important; many hospitals do a lot of it.  But a hospital administrator's job is to keep the hospital running, so that its staff can carry out the primary mission of treating the sick.  Certainly an administrator needs a basic understanding of medical research to be able to do his job.  But he need not be a cutting-edge researcher himself.[2]

Theology is likewise important to the church, in much the same way that medical research is important to a hospital.  In the church, a bishop certainly needs to have a basic understanding of theology.  But her job isn't to do theology herself; it's to keep the church running so its members can carry out the primary mission of treating the spiritually sick.[3]  The bishop doesn't need to be a cutting-edge theologian to function well in her job, any more than she needs to be, say, a human-resources expert or a civil engineer or a certified public accountant.

2.  (Most) Theology is Like String Theory — or Astrology

There's an even better reason not to get upset if a bishop isn't a theologian:  Like string theory, most theology amounts to speculation and conjecture, lacking any testable evidentiary foundation.[4]   

In fact, most theology might as well be astrology.  Think about the similarities:  In both "disciplines," theorists learnedly debate each other; their discussions are often passionate, even vehement.  But there's seldom any way to assess how well their views stand up to observational evidence from the real world that the Creator actually wrought.   Even worse:  Many theologians, like many astrologers, confronted with evidence inconvenient to their views, dismiss it with an airy wave of the hand, or simply pretend it doesn't exist.[5]

This isn't to say we shouldn't honor past practitioners of theology and astrology for their inquisitiveness; for their urge to try to explain the universe; for their quest for understanding.  These attitudes are all laudable, vital elements of humanity's modest success.  To steal from Sir Isaac Newton, if we moderns have managed to see a little farther, it has been by standing on the shoulders of giants — even though in hindsight those giants themselves happened to be looking in the wrong direction.

But giving theologians and astrologers full marks for effort doesn't mean we should be enslaved to their ways of thinking.  We should hardly be upset that our new presiding bishop spent her early career doing science, not theology.  I wish all our religious leaders had done the same. 

---

Notes

[1]   Both the Daily Episcopalian and Widening Gyre referred to ++KJS's recent interview with Time magazine in which she insightfully said, in effect, it's not for us to decree whom God does or does not save:

We who practice the Christian tradition understand him [Jesus] as our vehicle to the divine. But for us to assume that God could not act in other ways is, I think, to put God in an awfully small box.

[2]  I infer that hospital administrators need not be physicians or medical researchers from knowing that a parish acquaintance, who is neither, served as the chief administrator of our diocesan hospital system until his retirement.

[3]  After I thought of the hospital-administrator analogy, I remembered the old saw that indeed the church is a hospital for sinners, not a country club for saints.

[4] For example, it's not clear why we should take the various scriptural authors' word for it, or that of other human authorities, on any of the following points:

• God consists of three persons in one Godhead — not two; not four; not four thousand; but exactly three.
• Muslims who died for their faith are in Paradise.
• Mary was a virgin who conceived Jesus without sexual intercourse.
• God wants Jews to keep kosher.
• The only way to achieve eternal happiness is to accept that Jesus' death on the cross wiped away the sin of mankind.

The question that naturally comes to mind for all of the above assertions, and many more like them, is "And how exactly do you know that?" 

There is a small set of core theological principles that appears to be intellectually defensible.  Those principles seem to be consistent with the available evidence, while not trying to explain too much or go too far out on a limb.  Regular readers will recognize them:

• The universe seems likely to be the work of a Creator. 
• The universe has been taking form for billions of years, and continues to do so before our eyes. 
• On the whole, we like what the universe is becoming.  In part, this is because in fits and starts, and often making terrible mistakes along the way, we've had a hand in making the universe what it is. 
• We seem to be most effective in our universe-building work when we follow the basic teachings that Jesus (among others) stressed:  Face the facts; seek the best for others as you would for yourself; continuously amend your life as you find better directions for it.
• if past trends are any indicator, and they often are, the end result of all this universe-forming activity is likely to be unimaginably wonderful.

[5] See, e.g., some of the postings listed in the left-hand column of this blog, such as:

• Reasons to Question the Reliability of Scripture
• Serious Inconsistencies in the New Testament Writings:
  Six Reasons for Skepticism About the Traditionalist Account
• The Apostles' Teaching Didn't Seem to Include a Divine Jesus
• Is Jesus Coming Again? The Predictors' Track Record Doesn't Inspire Confidence

I Am the Way and the Truth and the Life: Jesus Uses Familiar Metaphors to Support His "Sales Pitch"

In the Fourth Gospel, Jesus makes various I-am-[something] statements — I am the bread of life; I am the true vine; I am the good shepherd; I am the way and the truth and the life.  In context, the meaning of these statements is clear.  Jesus is not coolly delivering academic pronouncements about how we get to God.   No, he is importuning the skeptical crowds (and sometimes his skeptical disciples) with familiar metaphors; he is portraying himself in terms that might catch his audience's attention, the better to bolster his claim of legitimacy and authority.

Jesus' approach here isn't unlike the way many Republicans' campaign ads trumpet how conservative they are.  And Jesus uses this approach for a similar purpose:  it's part of his effort convince people that he is something they approve of, and so they should pay attention to him and do as he is urging.

In effect, Jesus is saying:  "OK, you're all wondering:  Who is this guy?   Well, you know these good things I've been describing?  The bread of life, the true vine, the good shepherd, the way and the truth and the life?   That's what you get with me; I'm the real deal, not just some itinerant trickster from Nazareth."

The Bread-of-Life Metaphor:  Importuning the Crowd 

For example, take the bread-of-life passage in John 6.25-60. Jesus gets his disciples to feed the 5,000, but then heads for the mountain, because the crowd was going to make him king by force.

The crowd doesn't hold still for this.  If you're going to have a king, a guy who can miraculously feed 5,000 people should certainly be a good candidate.   The next day, the crowd tracks down Jesus on the other side of the lake.

Jesus dresses them down: You've got it all wrong, people.  It's not about the earthly bread I just gave you.  It's about the eternal life that I'm bringing you, with the approval of God himself.

The crowd responds:  Yeah?  So what do we need to do, to do what God requires?

Jesus says:  You must believe in the one he sent.  (He means himself, of course.)

The crowd reacts skeptically:  Whoa!  Sure, you gave us bread and fish, but eternal life, just from believing in you? That's something else entirely, pal.  Why should we believe you?  Show us some kind of sign — some corroborating evidence, the way God gave our forefathers manna from heaven. (Evidently the crowd didn't think the mass feeding was enough, which says something in itself.)

Jesus responds: You're getting a sign already — God is giving you bread from heaven that gives life to the world.

The crowd, still skeptical (and still focused on what they want), demands: Fine; from now on, give us that bread.

Jesus responds:  You still don't get it, do you?  Open your eyes, people; I am that bread!  What you get with me is precisely what you say you're looking for.

The crowd doesn't buy it. They grumble and say:  Wait just a minute.  This is Jesus from the block, the son of Joseph. We know this guy.

Jesus continues to argue his case.  The bread of life, he says? It's me.  But even his disciples gripe about how hard a teaching it is.  They ask each other who — and by implication, who in his right mind — can accept the teaching.

The Way-Truth-Life Metaphor in Context:  Jesus Was Wrapping Himself in the Father's Mantle

Now consider the way-truth-life saying in John 14. Look at it in context. Is Jesus teaching a lesson about who he was? No. Is he preaching a sermon about salvation? No.

What Jesus is doing here is trying to give his disciples a pep talk.  It happens at the Last Supper.  That must not have been a particularly happy occasion.  "The Jews" had recently tried to stone Jesus (Jn 11); that had to have been frightening for everyone involved.  To make matters worse, Jesus knows what's soon going to happen to him; he's troubled in spirit about his upcoming betrayal; and the disciples are obviously perturbed too (Jn 13).  It sounds like a pretty depressing dinner, doesn't it? 

Jesus tries to buck up his followers:  Don't let your hearts be troubled; trust in God, and in me too. I'm going to prepare a place for them in his Father's house, where he'll bring them after he returns. You know the way to where I'm going, he says.

The skeptical Thomas challenges Jesus (as he would do again a little more than a week later): We don't know where you're going, boss; how can we know the way?

Jesus snaps back with a peremptory assertion of his authority: I am the way and the truth and the life.  No one comes to the Father except through me. 

But notice what comes immediately afterwards:  A defense of his legitimacy by painting himself in terms of the Father.  If you really knew me, you'd know my Father as well, because the words I've been saying and the things I've been doing aren't just mine, they're the Father's words and deeds in me.  From now on, you do know the Father, and you've seen him — got it?

(Emphasis is mine of course. And while we have no record of Jesus saying, "got it?" it certainly fits the general tenor of the Fourth Gospel's account. We can imagine Jesus angrily jabbing his finger at Thomas.)

Philip puts forth an olive branch: Just show us the Father, Lord; that'll be enough for us. Jesus turns and tears a strip off of Philip's hide too:  Don't you know me, Philip, after I've been among you such a long time? How can you say, show us the Father — don't you believe I'm in the Father, and the Father is in me?

This isn't a Jesus who is dispassionately announcing a technical point about salvation. This is a Jesus who is passionately trying to prove his legitimacy and authority; who is trying to hold his disciples together, to keep them from drifting away in the middle of an incredibly stressful situation.

So what about Jesus' claim that no one comes to the Father except through him?  If we read it in context, it's clear we shouldn't take it literally.  At most, we should read it metaphorically:   When Jesus has been preaching and working miracles, it's been the Father acting through him; and that which he has been preaching — loving God above all, loving one's neighbor as one's self, and amending one's life when necessary — is the only way to the Father.  That's considerably different than the traditionalist Christian claim that the only path to salvation is supposedly "believing in Jesus," whatever that means.

(All this assumes, arguendo, that Jesus actually said these things in the first place. That's not at all convincingly established by the evidence.)

Windows Live Writer blog authoring tool

I'm doing a test post using Windows Live Writer.  It's supposed to be a WYSIWYG blog-authoring tool that detects how your blog actually looks so that it can do the WYSIWYG thing.

It looks pretty slick, actually.  For example, even when I expand the program's window, the editing margin stays the same.  It appears that the software knows what I use for a column margin on the blog.

It also has a Web Preview mode that shows exactly what the posting will look like when I publish it.