Atheism in Antiquity: A Review of Tim Whitmarsh's "Battling the Gods"

Over the past decade or so, much screen space has been consumed by hand-wringing over the “New Atheist” movement. This cabal, so goes the trope, led by the late Christopher Hitchens, Richard Dawkins, and Sam Harris, is injecting a novel and venomous form of atheism into our discussion about religious faith. I have my own problems with the most outspoken and prominent atheists all being privileged white Western men, but I don’t buy into most of the critique of the “New Atheist” movement. 

Atheism is as old as the hills. But atheism evolves as time goes on, due in some part to the fact that scientists are constantly making new discoveries that fill the gaping holes left by vapid religious explanations. Lighting used to be the realm of the divine; meteorology snuffed that out. Disease was once God-inflicted; now we have germ theory. Neuroscience shows us all sorts of fascinating things about how we incorporate new ideas into existing paradigms. Contrast this with theology, the only –ogy field of study that never receives new data. Theologians riff on other theologians’ take on other theologians’ take on Holy Scriptures. But it’s all copies of copies of copies. Nothing new, just the same things said in (sometimes) novel ways. 

Maybe atheism seems “new” because more and more people are stepping out of the shadows and saying publicly (and, yes, sometimes loudly), “No. I don’t buy this.” 

I’ve been fascinated by skepticism for many years, and I’ve often wondered what it would’ve been like to be a doubter, a skeptic, an atheist in ancient times. Sure we have Enlightenment thinkers, who faced their own tribulations, but what about further back? Like way back — Ancient Greece, perhaps? 

This is where Tim Whitmarsh’s book “Battling the Gods: Atheism in the Ancient World” comes in. It is a fascinating foray into the ancient roots of skepticism and atheism. Whitmarsh is a professor of Greek Culture at Cambridge, and this is where he focuses his dissection of religious disbelief. “This book thus represents a kind of archaeology of religious skepticism,” he writes. And it’s a wonderful archaeological dig.   

According to Whitmarsh, the notion that atheism is new is a “modernist vanity.” 

The history of atheism matters because, as Whitmarsh puts it: “History confers authority and legitimacy.” He continues: “The deep history of atheism is then in part a human rights issue: it is about recognizing atheists as real people deserving of respect, tolerance, and the opportunity to live their lives unmolested.” 

I like Whitmarsh’s nuanced approach in almost everything he analyzes. He seems like a seasoned explorer posing questions to Greek history and trying to answer them as best he can, as opposed to someone vigorously defending a thesis and cherry-picking evidence to support it. As far as the scope of his analysis, Whitmarsh kicks off with pre-Socratic philosophers and ends around the Third Century AD. He deals largely with partial first-sources (recordkeeping of ancient atheism wasn’t very good) and secondary sources. 

Much of the book focuses on how atheists relate to the fluid belief systems of Greek polytheism. These Olympian views, he explains, were diverse and maintained unique regional qualities, leaving much open to interpretation and, also, dissent. Greek polytheism, he says, was “not designed for personal communion with the divine,” and, “legal judgment was never theologized in Ancient Greece.” 

Contrast this with the theocratic monotheism of later Christendom, which “puts up firm barriers between insider and outsider: the one god demands absolute loyalty.” Only in Christian late antiquity did atheism begin to be, “constructed in systematically antithetical terms, as the inverse of popular religion.”’ 

Epic poems of Homer and Odysseus were revered but were not considered scripture; they were hotly debated and playfully satirized. This led to the freedom to explore the texts without fear of blasphemy or state-sponsored retribution for heresy. Whitmarsh explains how, “the nonscriptural nature of Greek epic poems had a significant effect on the development of logical thought,” as Greeks felt free to doubt the historicity of some of the more unrealistic elements of the myth. But all was not well for religious doubters. There was definitely some pushback from religious and state institutions, although nothing like the persecution that would be meted out by Christendom. Whitmarsh writes: “What the Athenian example shows is that even within Greek polytheism, a flexible and adaptive system, the mixture of religion, law, and imperialism was a potentially toxic one.” 

It’s impossible to label the first prominent atheist, but Whitmarsh offers up more than a few suggestions of Greek skeptics, doubters, and those who question the existence of the gods. The pre-Socratic philosopher Hippo of Samos certainly gained a reputation as an atheist. (Aristotle blasted him for being a strict materialist.) The Skeptic Sextus is fascinating, and Whitmarsh claims he supplied the, “most important evidence for a sustained, coherent attack on the existence of gods in intiquity.” Lucretius the Epicurean was a strict naturalist and pointed out that heinous acts committed in the name of religion would be condemned in any other area of life. Lucian came later (AD 120-180) and skewered and mocked the new cult of Christianity. All of these free-thinking heroes offer modern-day atheists a lot to ponder.
 
“By the second century AD atheism, in the full, modern sense had acquired full legitimacy as a philosophical idea,” the author writes. 

Unfortunately, this trend toward more open criticism of religion would be crushed. Constantine did his part to make the Roman Empire a Christian one, while later emperors like Theodosius I forced all Romans to worship in the specific Nicaean Christian context. “The Christianization of the Roman Empire,” writes Whitmarsh, “put an end to serious philosophical atheism for over a millennium.” 

Over the next centuries, there were surely countless skeptics, doubters, blasphemers and other rabble-rousers who did their part to fight back against authoritarian theocracy. But they likely did not survive; the same goes for any of their writings. 

And this is where Whitmarsh ends his analysis. I’ll leave him to finish off with a closing remark: 

“Individuals surely experienced doubt and disbelief, just as they always have in all cultures, but they were invisible to dominant society and so have left no trace in the historical record. It is this blind spot that has sustained the illusion that disbelief outside of the post-Enlightenment West is unthinkable. The apparent rise of atheism in the last two centuries, however, is not a historical anomaly; viewed from the longer perspective of ancient history, what is anomalous is the global dominance of monotheistic religions and the resultant inability to acknowledge the existence of disbelievers.”

I highly recommend this book to both theists and atheists with curiosity in these matters.

New Essay on Losing My Faith on the Mission Field

I have a new essay up on The Good Men Project about coming of age on the mission field.

It was while my parents were on missionary duty in Europe that I began to embrace my skepticism and disbelief.


I tell the full story here. Thanks for reading!

New Essay: I Pray My Daughter Never Believes in Sin

I have a new essay up on The Good Men Project today called "I Pray My Daughter Never Believes in Sin."

I mean no offense to anyone of any religious persuasion, but I've been thinking a lot about what kind of values I want to teach my daughter, and what kind of ideas I hope she rejects. In this piece, I try to explain my hopes of raising my daughter with a morality based in empathy and human dignity.

Thanks for stopping by this blog, and I hope you'll check out the piece. Cheers!

Skepticism 101 With Dr. Carl Sagan

I first read Carl Sagan’s classic book “The Demon Haunted World: Science as a Candle in the Dark” after returning to the United States from a Christian missionary boarding school in Germany. I had been there for two years and, before starting my journalism studies, I needed to inject a healthy dose of skepticism in my worldview diet.

Sagan’s book struck me like a lungful of fresh ocean air. There are many thinkers who inspire me with their poetic praise of skepticism and rational thinking (Thomas Paine and Baruch Spinoza come to mind). Sagan was perhaps the 20th Century’s greatest advocate of reason.

I recently revisited Sagan’s book over Christmas vacation, and I was impressed yet again by the beauty of the prose, the precision of the arguments and the staying power of a science book first published in 1997.

Sagan advocates the application of the scientific method to the majority (if not entirety) of problems and propositions that face us. He maintains that the method of science is applicable to those big questions that have been traditionally viewed as the territory of religion and God. But Sagan’s approach is not a cold, surgical one. His skepticism is inflected with wonder. “Skepticism must be a component of the explorer’s toolkit, or we will lose our way, ” Sagan writes. “There are wonders enough out there without our inventing any.”

Anyone who has read Sagan or watched his epic “Cosmos” show knows that Sagan was a man in awe of the Universe. Speaking of his parents, Sagan writes, “in introducing me simultaneously to skepticism and to wonder, they taught me the two uneasily cohabitating modes of thought that are central to the scientific method.”

Sagan has a great talent for boiling down complex and sometimes conflicting information and offering up a clear, cohesive idea. The idea that sticks with me most (and I think it's the core of Sagan's thesis) is as follows:

“At the heart of science is an essential balance between two seemingly contradictory attitudes – an openness to new ideas, no matter how bizarre or counterintuitive, and the most ruthlessly skeptical scrutiny of all ideas, old and new. This is how deep truths are winnowed from deep nonsense.”

In a different passage, he offers up this wisdom:

“If you’re only skeptical, then no new ideas make it through to you. You never learn anything. You become a crotchety misanthrope convinced that nonsense is ruling the world. (There is, of course, much data to support you.)” But, Sagan argues: “At the same time, science requires the most vigorous and uncompromising skepticism, because the vast majority of ideas are simply wrong, and the only way to winnow the wheat from the chaff is by critical experiment and analysis.”

I won’t attempt to break down and analyze the book bit by bit — that would be a fool’s errand. But this book continues to have a lasting impact on science writing, skepticism and rational thinking.

Anyone who grew up learning about intelligent design should give this a read. Anyone who claims to be a “climate skeptic” should crack open this book immediately. Anyone who thinks crop circles are evidence of extraterrestrial meddling, ditto.
There are a host of pressing issues facing humankind in the 21st Century. Climate change, depletion of natural resources, diseases, food security, clean water supply, space exploration, etc., etc., etc. These challenges are best met with the full force of a scientifically literate public. I’m no scientist and, odds are, neither are you. But for those of us concerned with these challenges, this book is a great place to start.

On Jerry Coyne's New Book "Faith vs. Fact"

Evolutionary biologist Jerry Coyne lays out a straightforward premise in the title of his new book, “Faith vs. Fact: Why Science and Religion are Incompatible.”

He gets right to the point with his thesis: “… religion and science compete in many ways to describe reality — they both make ‘existence claims’ about what is real – but use different tools to meet this goal. And I argue that the toolkit of science, based on reason and empirical study, is reliable, while that of religion — including faith, dogma, and revelation – is unreliable and leads to incorrect, untestable, or conflicting conclusions. Indeed, by relying on faith rather than evidence, religion rends itself incapable of finding truth.”

The conflict between science and religion is a pressing issue in American culture, one that will not subside any time soon. And this conflict has real-life consequences. When children are taught that evolution by natural selection is not true because their ancient text says otherwise, they grow up with an inability to differentiate between evidence and conjecture. Rejecting climate change on purely religious grounds (in defiance of all evidence) makes it much harder for the rest of us to move forward and address a very real crisis.

What’s important to note about faith-based rejections of science is this: Theists don’t disregard science because they have assessed the evidence and found it lacking, rather, they disregard science because they believe it contradicts their faith. Coyne cites a 2006 Time Magazine/Roper Center poll that found, “if science showed that one of their religious beliefs was wrong, nearly two-thirds of the respondents (64 percent) said they’d reject the findings of science in favor of their religion.”

Moderate theists accept science as the best way to achieve knowledge about how the world works, but these same people push back against the authority of scientific evidence when it challenges their religious faith. Coyne objects to the notion that science and faith are simply different “ways of knowing,” different ways of answering different questions. Instead, Coyne points out that “most religions are grounded in claims that can be regarded as scientific.”

Perhaps science and religious faith could be segregated into different ontological realms if the religious faith in question is pantheist, pagan or, as Coyne says, some kind of watery deism where the purported god doesn’t intervene in the universe. But the theist believes that god intervenes in the universe. The creationist claims Noah’s ark as an historical reality. The evangelical claims Jesus rose from the dead in a physical sense. The average Christian believes intercessory prayer actually works. The theistic evolutionist believes God guides the evolutionary process. Coyne argues (very well, in my opinion) that such claims are not outside the realm of science. Rather, these assertions are made with the certainty of scientific fact and they should be subject to scientific scrutiny. Most religious claims are empirical claims about reality and, as such, they should be scrutinized like any other claim, such as, “This medicine works to solve this problem,” or “This chemical is harmful to the respiratory system.” These assertions must be tested if we are to determine their validity.

“[A]lthough some may be hard to test,” Coyne admits, “they must, like all claims about reality, be defended with a combination of evidence and reason. If we find no credible evidence, no good reasons to believe, then those claims should be disregarded.”

Coyne spends a lot of the book contrasting not only the means of acquiring scientific vs. religious knowledge, but the nature of these different types of knowledge. He explains, “scientific knowledge is often transitory: some (but not all) of what we find is eventually made obsolete, or even falsified, by new findings. That is not a weakness but a strength.” On the other hand, religious knowledge is, “incapable of being revised with advances in data and human thinking [and] does not deserve the name of knowledge.” Quoting Michael Sherman, Coyne says science is “a testable body of knowledge open to rejection or confirmation.”  Coyne explains: “The doubt and criticality of science… prevent us from believing what we’d like to be true,” which is, “precisely the opposite of how religion finds truth.”

Coyne’s argument is both complex and easily understood. Essentially, "scientific truth is never absolute, but always provisional.” While some theists try to exploit this reality as a weakness of the scientific method, as Coyne says, it is a strength because knowledge must always be open to reexamination in light of new evidence. Religious “knowledge” on the other hand, claims the status of absolute certainty, a knowledge complete and incapable of disruption by evidence and reason. “Living with uncertainty is hard for many people, and is one of the reasons why people prefer religious truths that are presented as absolute.”

In a growing field of atheist and biologist thinkers, Coyne speaks in his own unique voice. This book isn’t about attacking religion (although Coyne rightfully takes on many weaknesses of theistic arguments), rather I view this book as an apologetic of the scientific method, a defense of evidence and reason. Coyne makes cogent arguments, lays them out with precision, and has enough wit to make age-old questions appear renewed and relevant. I thought this book was a fantastic read.

On C.S. Lewis' "Mere Christianity"

When I was a teenager growing up in an evangelical Christian culture, I heard many people praise C.S. Lewis’ book Mere Christianity. My family, youth pastors and evangelical peers who had read it encouraged me to give it a shot. Although these people differed widely, when they spoke of the book they all referred to it in reverential language, similar to the way punk fans describe the Ramones’ self-titled album. I remember a pastor once suggesting Christians read the book once a year, every year — it was that good.

In my late teens and early twenties, I was trying to figure out why exactly I didn’t believe this whole Christianity thing, why I felt like a black sheep in an evangelical flock. I tried to talk myself into believing Christian doctrines, hoping that would alleviate the sense of alienation. When that didn’t work, I tried to convince myself that, despite my sincere doubt, I actually did believe. I was really a Christian, I just didn’t realize it yet. So I snagged a worn paperback copy from my dad’s bookshelf and dove in. (After all, the Chronicles of Narnia was a pretty cool series — and that Reepicheep dude was bad-ass.) Perhaps I wanted Lewis to convince me of something, although I wasn’t sure what. I read the book closely, and, in anti-climactic fashion, not much happened. I finished feeling no more Christian than before.

Fast-forward about a dozen years. Two months before my wife was expected to give birth to our daughter, we moved to a different neighborhood in DC. I was boxing up all my books when, stuffed between a P.D. James mystery and some random haiku collection, I spotted that worn old paperback copy of Mere Christianity.

I prepared to toss it in the donate pile, but paused, and began flipping through the pages. Passages jumped out at me and caused me to react more than I had expected. The language flowed beautifully, but the arguments grabbed me and instilled a strong desire to respond.

Lewis was, and still seems to be, the most widely-respected Christian apologist of the 20^th Century, and Mere Christianity is his seminal work. Written in the 1950s, the language is more engaging than any Sunday morning sermon I’ve heard. Lewis is a far superior writer than any other Christian apologist I’ve come across, and he shows a respect for language that I find lacking in most Christian apologetics. So, I read the same copy of this book again. And, like many books I read, I engaged with the text by writing a response. In this lengthy blog post, I will share my thoughts about the text.

“When We Were On Fire” - Talking Evangelical with Addie Zierman

I recently caught up with my old friend Addie Zierman to talk about her new memoir “When We Were on Fire: A Memoir of Consuming Faith, Tangled Love, and Starting Over.” Addie frequently discusses her faith, family and writing on her blog, “How to Talk Evangelical.” If you’re a Christian, it’s a must-read. If you’re one of the lost, Addie’s work is still very interesting and worthy of your contemplation.

Addie Zierman. Credit: Shane Long.

Addie and I agreed to swap books. I’d read hers and she’d read my new novel Broken Bones. Then we’d chat about the experience. On the surface, it seems our books couldn’t be more dissimilar. Hers is a memoir of struggling through the American evangelical subculture, and mine is a novel based on the month I spent stuck in a psychiatric ward for people with eating disorders. But they’re both about personal struggles, alienation, self-discovery, all that good stuff. I figured this exchange could be fun and educational. Mission accomplished.

Addie and I go way back. We crossed paths in our early teens when we both attended an Evangelical Free Church in Deerfield, Illinois. She was a local girl, immersed in all the church activities, and I was the new kid. A Jersey boy, I was frustrated and depressed that my parents had chosen to abandon our beach bum haven for this bland slice of the Midwest. My father had just begun attending Trinity Evangelical Divinity School nearby. They were missionaries, “called” by Christ to spread the gospel. I felt like luggage.

Christianity wasn’t new to me when I met Addie. I was baptized as a baby at St. James Episcopal Church, a small chapel on the Jersey Shore. I have only positive memories of that church and the time I spent there. I remember the intricate stained glass portraits of the saints, the dried sponge feel of the communion wafers, the bitter red wine, Father Ken’s flowing purple robe, the gentle strength of his hand as he placed it on my head and blessed me. 

Perhaps I was too young to develop moral and philosophical qualms with the Episcopal Church, but as my parents transitioned into evangelicalism, and I entered my teens, things began to change. I became uneasy at the church Addie and I attended. I’d be listening to a pastor’s sermon and my stomach would knot up. I’d feel an intense pressure in my chest. I had to get out of there.

The sweeping proclamations about God and Jesus and how we should live inspired not awe or reverence but anxiety. The doctrines and statements of faith sounded random and unreasonable. The more I actually read the Bible, the more it struck me as a mess of bad advice and shady characters. I listened to the pastors speak and I couldn’t help but think: How could they possibly know what they are claiming to know? Many a sermon drove me to the brink of a screaming fit, but for the most part I just bit my tongue, doodled on my church program and longed for the day when I was old enough to leave and never come back. As the firstborn son of new missionaries, however, I didn’t have much of a choice. So I played the part. I stepped warily around the edges of this evangelical pool, waiting. 

Addie, however, was the most enthusiastic young fan of Jesus I’d ever met. And while our feelings for the church didn’t line up, I couldn’t help but feel attracted to her passion and energy. It was like nothing I’d ever experienced. She was as stoked about Jesus as I was about surfing. But, as detailed in her memoir, faith wasn’t easy for Addie either. 

Addie and I parted ways before my junior year of high school, when my parents moved to Ukraine and I attended a missionary boarding school in Germany. After high school, Addie sought out Christian colleges and churches and community groups. I wanted nothing to do with Christian institutions. Addie needed connection with other evangelicals who shared her values. I needed to connect with people who wanted nothing to do with the church. 

Today, I think it’s safe to say that Addie and I would disagree on almost all propositions about the Christian God and church doctrine. But we also have a lot in common. We both enjoy devouring good books. We both admire Jesus’ message of peace and reconciliation. And we both love honest conversation.

Say What? Joe Wenke's Satirical Take on the Bible

As the son of evangelical Christian missionaries, the Bible played a large role in my youth. But the Bible and I have always had a complicated relationship. On Sundays, as I was reading the holy book along with a teacher or a pastor, I was frequently filled not with a peace that passes all understanding, but with an anxious, wrenching feeling. Older and (presumably) smarter people were always telling me this book was truthful, good, the basis of morality and justice, something I should use to guide my decisions.  But when I read the book, the actual words and stories troubled me.

I’ve read the Bible many times, and I still come to the conclusion that the god of the Bible is a jerk. In many cases, he’s the exact opposite of all I consider to be “good.” Despite his ultimate power, he’s petty and desperate for love. The sadistic violence he unleashes upon other tribes makes the film Braveheart look tame. The Old Testament god seems utterly obsessed with violence and slaughter. In book after book, he commands his followers to kill women and children. (When it comes to honoring religious texts, the killing women and children is a deal-breaker for me.) He promotes slavery.  (Another deal-breaker). He inflicts group punishment on innocent people. (I’m going to stop listing the deal-breakers at this point.) Women are treated as spoils of war. In the case of Job, God even turns his back on one of his own followers, as he submits Job to torture and conspires with Satan to kill Job’s family. And that’s just part of the Old Testament. The gospels as a whole are great — the ravings of the Apostle Paul not so much. 

 

But those Sunday school teachers and pastors from my youth seemd like decent, kind and loving people. I have fond memories of them and, for the most part, I think they were genuinely concerned with doing good in the world. So why on earth did they revere this god? Why did they pray to him asking for advice when his book was full of terrible advice? These questions tore me up for a long time. They still do.

Apparently Dr. Joe Wenke struggled along a similar path. His satirical book of essays, You Got to Be Kidding! The Cultural Arsonist’s Satirical Reading of The Bible, is his way of confronting these same questions. You know what you’re getting into as soon as you look at the cover, and if you’re still not sure what Wenke is after, his dedication page may help clear that up: “For Thomas Paine and Christopher Hitchens.”

In writing this book, Wenke, who grew up Catholic, read the Bible all the way through and wrote humorous snippets about whatever stood out to him. Wenke covers both Old and New Testaments, offering thoughts on the text and posing questions about what he reads. He examines the disturbing sections of the Bible and riffs on them with snappy, satirical language. His critique speaks for itself, but I appreciate how Wenke includes a blatant statement of purpose in his book. I’m sure many Christians would be angered if they read this book and, rightfully, they may ask: Why would this man write a book just to mock the Bible? Good question. Wenke answers it: “I’m very passionate about this. Bigots use the Bible all the time to justify their bigotry against gay and transgender people. They also use it to defend the subordination of women to men.”

Wenke is angered by religious-inspired hatred, the most venomous of which is reserved for LGBT people. To combat this ignorance, he chose to combat one of its main sources: the language of The Word itself. “Bible-believing haters do have a point,” Wenke writes. “The Bible, the inspired word of God, is hateful toward gay and transgender people, but that doesn’t impress me. I say just because God is a bigot doesn’t make it right. We all need to stand up against people who use the Bible and religion to justify their own hatred and bigotry.” I say, preach it, brother.

The cover of the book itself is a slap in the face of transphobia, and I give Wenke serious credit for featuring a transgendered woman on the face of his book. Dressed up in what looks like a Catholic robe, her big beautiful eyes looking skyward, the woman gives off a sense of strength and pride.

Rastafarianism Revealed: a Review of Leonard E. Barrett’s Classic Study

“These are the words of the Rastas. A people politically, socially, and historically aware of their reason for being.”

Sure, you could check out Wikipedia’s page on Rastafarianism or search the internet for articles on the history of Rastas. But I doubt there is any other medium that captures the essence of Rastafarianism better than this book. Decades after it hit shelves, Leonard E. Barrett’s book The Rastafarians is still in print. In short, it’s an epic work.

The quality of the historical research is impressive. Barrett has the eye of a journalist and the dedication of an anthropologist. He does a great job explaining the colonial history of Jamaica, the slavery and exploitation of the black population, and the many rebellions and grassroots movements that emerged from this environment.

I had no idea the roots of Rastafarianism went so far back in time, but the messianic-millenarian movements that came to be known as Rastafarianism have a long history. “Today’s Rastafarians have come a long way from their ‘birds of passage’ existence in the 1930s,” writes Barrett. “Rastafarians now occupy enviable positions in Jamaica. There are Rasta physicians, pharmacists, professors, journalists, pilots, teachers, nurses, bus drivers, technicians, mail carriers, photographers, city council members, mechanics, carpenters…”

Part of the joy of reading this book comes from glimpses into Barrett’s research process. Sometimes referring to himself in the third-person (“the author” or “the writer”) and sometimes in the first-person, Barrett inserts himself into the story in various ways. Rather than detracting from his subject, the noticeable presence of the author enriches understanding of the subject. For example, when Barrett is interviewing some remote Rastafarian villagers, he explains the trouble he has getting people to talk. He writes: “There were some objections to taping the interview, but this was finally permitted upon the presentation of a few dollars.”

Barrett is a serious researcher and a serious religious historian, and I appreciate the way he analyzes Rastafarianism as a serious religion. It seems Rastafarianism is frequently portrayed as something of a joke, not a real religion. The dress, the dreadlocks, the use of marijuana, these cultural and religious practices are mocked as somehow not deserving of the same recognized status of other religious sects. I realize that some of the specific religious beliefs of certain Rastafarians are quite ridiculous (for example, the belief that Ethiopian monarch Haile Selassie was god), but they are no more ridiculous than the beliefs of, say, Mormons, Seventh-Day Adventists or other religious sects. In all these systems of belief, people ignore reason and science in favor of fanciful claims about god and the nature of the universe.

While keenly focused on the specifics of certain people at certain times, Barrett extrapolates on his findings and attempts to draw larger historical conclusions. His subject is Rastafarianism in Jamaica, but the underlying themes are universal. For example, Barrett analyzes Rastafarian myths in a way that is relevant to other religious myths: “By their very nature, myths remain outside the realm of truth or falsehood, being subject neither to the rules of logic nor to the techniques of scientific investigation. A religious myth such as Rastafarianism, then, claims for itself an immunity from logic not granted to any other kind of knowledge system…”

There's No Such Thing as Hell, but You Can Make It If You Try: A Review of Rob Bell's Book "Love Wins"

“There’s no such thing as hell, but you can make it if you try.” So says Greg Graffin, singer-songwriter of the L.A. punk band Bad Religion. Those lyrics came to mind more than once as I was reading Rob Bell’s book “Love Wins: A Book About Heaven, Hell, and the Fate of Every Person Who Ever Lived.”

This Rob Bell guy is an interesting fellow. He’s definitely a Christian, and I’d call him an evangelical Christian, because he clearly wants to spread the message of Jesus. But Bell displays a sense of skepticism and a questioning mind that is incredibly rare among evangelical Christian writers.

Basically, Bell wants to let self-identified followers of Jesus to know that it’s OK to doubt or disbelieve the conventional Christian notions of the afterlife. He doesn’t reject heaven and hell outright, he just pokes holes in the mainstream conceptions of these two “places.” 

“Somewhere along the way [Christians] were taught that the only option when it comes to Christian faith is to clearly declare that a few, committed Christians will go to heaven when they die and everyone else will not, the matter is settled at death, and that’s it.” Bell continues: “Not all Christians have believed this, and you don’t have to believe it to be a Christian. The Christian faith is big enough, wide enough, and generous enough to handle that vast a range of perspectives.”

Wait… What?

But Bell is right. Heaven and hell are concepts that have evolved over long periods of time within various Christian communities. By quoting extensively from the Bible, Bell shows that the prophets, Jesus, the Apostle Paul and others have all sorts of different perspectives on heaven and hell, none of which are perfectly clear.

Bell’s questioning continues: “Have billions of people been created only to spend eternity in conscious punishment and torment, suffering infinitely for the finite sins they committed in the few years they spent on earth?”  

See, I’ve never believed in hell, neither fire, nor brimstone. I grew up in the Episcopalian Church, and I honestly cannot remember ever sitting in the pew hearing Father Ken preach about damnation and torture. There was a lot about the Sermon on the Mount, and a lot about grace and forgiveness, but not eternal punishment. Later, when my parents moved into a Baptist church, and even later into non-denominational evangelical churches, I heard more and more about this notion that most people I knew would end up being tortured for eternity. Death, darkness, misery, fire, gnashing of teeth…  stuck forever in a world like the cover of a Cannibal Corpse album.

For a long time I’ve believed that if a specific faith cannot survive without the element of eternal punishment for nonbelievers, then that faith is misguided. I’ve got plenty of rational reasons not to believe what I was taught in Sunday school. But on an emotional — let’s even call it spiritual, level — I’m sickened by the idea of a god and his followers forever rejoicing while nonbelievers are damned to perpetual misery. If my only problem with Christianity was that it requires damnation for its opponents, that alone would be enough for me to reject the faith entirely. I don’t respond well to threats. (Of course, there’s no evidence of an afterlife, no evidence that consciousness extends past death and the deterioration of the brain, so my point isn’t much of a point.)

Bell also rejects the idea of hell as a place of eternal damnation: “Telling a story in which billions of people spend forever somewhere in the universe trapped in a black hole of endless torment and misery with no way out isn’t a very good story.” Preach it, brother! “Telling a story about a God who inflicts unrelenting punishment on people  because they didn’t do or say or believe the correct things in a brief window of time called life isn’t a good story.” Bell, who is prone to repeating himself, tells readers many times to reject the image of god as vengeful arbiter of damnation. That god, if he existed, would not be deserving of praise or admiration, but scorn.

Missionary Mayhem in "The Poisonwood Bible"

“The Poisonwood Bible” – a novel by Barbara Kingsolver 

“We constructed our lives around a misunderstanding, and if ever I tried to pull it out and fix it now I would fall down flat. Misunderstanding is my cornerstone. It’s everyone’s come to think of it. Illusions mistaken for truth are the pavement under out feet.” 

I’ll get right to the point: this is one of the best novels I’ve ever read. It may be a 500-plus-page behemoth, but it’s near perfect in every way.

At its core, “The Poisonwood Bible” is the story of five women, a wife and her four daughters, and the ruler of the family, Nathan Price, the husband, father and Baptist minister. It’s 1961 and Nathan Price decides that his family must leave their home in rural Georgia and move to a remote village in the Congo jungle to share Jesus with the locals.

The village, Kilanga, is a tiny smattering of thatched huts buried deep in the darkest part of Africa, so remote that it is unimaginable to a Western mind like mine. The only way into the village is by propeller plane, and the only man who can fly the Price family in and out also moonlights as a diamond smuggler. What the village lacks in charm, food and clean water it makes up for in snakes, mosquitoes and parasites. And war, both local and international, is on the horizon. If it sounds like a disaster waiting to happen, well, then Barbara Kingsolver does a damn good job of setting the scene.  

The scope of this novel is ambitious indeed. It spans three decades and the entirety of the African continent, and all the warzones, graveyards and floodplains therein. Portions of the novel are also set in the United States, when Orleanna Price, the mother, and some of her daughters return from Africa. The narrators rotate between Orleanna and her four daughters: Rachel, who is the oldest at 17; Leah and her disabled twin Ada, who are in their mid-teens; and Ruth May, who is five. Kingsolver weaves together these different narrators, times and settings into a true work of art. With such high aspirations, Kingsolver actually delivers. The book flows smoothly from one narrator to the next, and each one of the Price women have a distinct and unique voice.

In the early 1960s, the Belgian imperial kleptocracy in Congo is being challenged by a surge of nationalism. Patrice Lumumba is gaining popularity, and his message of anti-imperialism and self-determination reaches even to the depths of the jungle. The Belgians are leaving, and change is coming.

The convergence of family and political upheaval is integrated seamlessly into the story. The shifting political stage creates a rift between Nathan Price, the pro-Belgian self-appointed savior of the lost people, and ordinary Congolese who are trying to understand what it might mean to actually govern themselves.

Rachel, the oldest and most cynical of the Price girls, doesn’t see the sense of Lumumba’s rise. “So Mr. Patrice will be the Prime Minister of the Congo now and it won’t be the Belgian Congo anymore, it will be the Republic of Congo. And do you think anybody in this hip town we live in is actually going to notice? Oh, sure. They’ll all have to go out and get their drivers’ licenses changed. In the year two million that is, when they build a road to here and somebody gets a car.” After all, with no food, water, money or infrastructure, can independence actually exist in a meaningful way?

Of course, anyone who knows anything about Congo and international relations knows the powers that be (Belgium, America, multinational mining corporations, diamond-hungry white mercenaries) would never let the Congolese figure out this answer on their own. Congo is one of the most mineral-rich places on the planet, and the Western powers refuse to give it up to a bunch of nationalists. Kingsolver does a terrific job of accurately portraying the rise of Lumumba, the hope he inspires in the Congolese people, and his subsequent demise at the hands of the CIA death squads.

Against this backdrop, the Price girls are just trying to survive. Whatever childish notions of life the Price girls had coming into Congo are dismantled by the bitter realities of life in the Congolese jungle. Leah writes: “… in Congo there’s only two ages of people: babies that have to be carried, and people that stand up and fend for themselves. No in-between phase. No childhood.”

And in this harshest of worlds, Orleanna and her daughters must do without the love and support of Nathan Price. Possibly one of the most despicable fictional characters I’ve come across, Nathan Price prides himself with undertaking his god-given duty of converting the savages. He rules his family with that good Old Testament brutality. He loves doling out orders, but loves punishment even more. Nathan Price has a supercharged Protestant punishment fetish, and in his mind suffering is nothing more than a reward for doing god’s work. Yet, when he is thrust into the jungle, he is both unable and unwilling to act like a man and provide for his family. He doesn’t hunt or cook, and seems fine with his wife and daughters starving to death as he rampages around the village upsetting everyone with his firebrand speeches. His wife and daughters resent him for all his chest pounding and male dominance, while he neglects the most sacred of his duties: caring for his family.

As I wrote earlier, this is a 500-page book, and a proper literary analysis would require thousands and thousands of words. So here are some of high points: malaria-induced insanity, families breaking up and reforming, murder, green mambas, Mobutu, diamonds, more murder, love between American girls and locals, and some of the most beautiful descriptions of motherly and sisterly love I’ve ever read.

My grandparents were missionaries in Kenya for more than a quarter century. My mother and father worked as missionaries in Ukraine, and many of my aunts, uncles and cousins have conducted missionary work in places like Uganda, Yemen and Albania. So the ethical complexities and moral quandaries of Western missionary work are not new to me. I myself am writing a novel based on my experiences at a missionary boarding school in Germany. As an agnostic, I’ve always struggled with idea of a Americans (particularly white and male) spreading narrow religious customs to other nations and indigenous cultures. It seems impossible to separate religious conversion from Western imperial dominance, especially in a place like Congo that has been raped by foreigners for centuries.

While I’ve spent years thinking about these issues, “The Poisonwood Bible” is clearly the best analysis of these moral and ethical complexities. As Orleanna puts it, missionaries are, “messengers of goodwill adrift on a sea of mistaken intentions.”

After finishing the last page of this massive novel, I only wanted more. I cannot give this novel any higher praise than that.

Old Fashioned Religious Satire With an Edge

Review of "Beware of God: Stories" by Shalom Auslander

This book of short stories is filled with hilarity of a uniquely dark, absurd and blasphemous variety. Shalom Auslander pokes fun at the ridiculous religious environment of the 21st Century, and while sparing no self-appointed prophet or vengeful deity from ridicule, Auslander manages to keep his stories funny and insightful. I couldn't put this down, and ended up finishing it in a day.

Each story is so unique, but this bizarre compilation somehow works as a whole, as each story deals with some sort of thematic commonality: God, sin, death, the afterlife, the relationship between humans and animals. And a warning to those easily offended or holders of religious sensitivity: Some of this stuff is really edgy. In this day and age, it’s hard to shock a reader, but Auslander shocks even me with some of his stories. Sex, masturbation, the Holocaust, it’s all in there. And it’s all somehow funny. Auslander’s prose occasionally reminds me of Terry Pratchett. His literary sci-fi-humor reminds me of some of Kurt Vonnegut’s work. Coming from one of the biggest Vonnegut fans ever, that’s really saying something. But Auslander has an incisive wit and a sense of pop-culture awareness that is purely his own.

The first story is one of the best. It’s about an aging Jewish couple obsessed with the afterlife to the point that they can't function in real life. Bitter, stuck in a sexless marriage, they end up trying to get each other to sin. They both want the other to end up in a deeper level of hell. She feeds him bacon and nonkosher wines. The wife drives herself crazy trying to figure out how to get her husband to sin without getting herself sent to hell in the process. This is just one example of the absurdity of the whole scheme: “Of course, if the total punishment of causing a sin is a sin of causation plus the sin of the sin that is being caused, then shouldn't causing a commandment to be fulfilled result in both the reward for the commandment of causing a positive commandment to be fulfilled plus the reward for the positive commandment she was causing to be fulfilled.” The mathematics of sin and punishment are absurd, and Auslander shows that beautifully through this chaotic short story.

In another story a man scheduled for death escapes because his Volvo has good side impact safety features. God, Lucifer and Death are all in it together to kill him, but they don’t take the car’s safety features into account, and therefore botch the operation. The man becomes convinced God is after him and tries to go about his days hiding. The rabbi’s advice for this man who believes God is after him? “Do what He says any nobody gets hurt.” As God devises more ways to kill man, man just comes up with a way of slowing down God’s death-dealing. Cancer patients now have chemotherapy. Cars now don’t explode as easily. It’s an arms race between God and man, and it makes for a very funny story.

The awkwardly hilarious story “Holocaust Tips for Kids” features one child writing down all the advice he can think of on how to fight back against Nazis when (not if) another Holocaust happens. These tips include things like pretending to be dead in firing lines, to building bombs out of tennis balls and match heads and throwing salt packets in Nazis’ eyes. While it may be a bit sadistic, Auslander has written a hilarious story about a child’s crazy Nazi-killing fantasies.

Then there’s a story told from the perspective of two hamsters: one religious and one skeptic. I will say this is probably the first piece of fiction I’ve read written from a hamster’s perspective. And it’s just as funny and ridiculous as it sounds. The most hilarious part is when one hamster tries to defend the writer James Patterson to the other hamster, who is a literary snob and completely baffled that his friend enjoys reading that crap.

A man goes to Israel and finds the oldest version of the Old Testament ever recorded. Only thing is that it is prefaced by the following statement: “The following is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.” But no one wants to hear about this new, old, Old Testament because they’re all so engrained in their own religious structures. “Whatever they believed was unbelievably right, and whatever everybody else believed was unbelievably wrong. Piety and passion were in great supply… Arms dealers had never been busier.”

There’s also a story of religious war told through the characters from Schultz’ Peanuts: (Charlie Brown, Lucy, Snoopy, Schroeder) that made me laugh aloud while I was reading it on the train.

In an era of political correctness when extremist religious beliefs frequently pass by without question or critical doubt, this book is a breath of fresh air. No doubt, many people will consider it offensive blasphemy. But even if you’re religious, as long as you have a sense of humor, this book will crack you up. And, more importantly, it will make you think.