So does it matter?

If I don’t believe in the concept of a caring god, what does that mean for my life? Does that mean I live out my days in despair? Does it mean I feel free to commit horrible crimes against humanity? No and no. Of course not.

Funny thing about agnostics: They tend to be pretty peaceful people. They don’t generally invade various holy lands or try to exterminate entire races. Hitler was a Lutheran. (To see what got him going, check out Martin Luther’s treatise, On the Jews and Their Lies.) The Serbs in Bosnia and Kosovo – whose genocidal handiwork I had the unfortunate opportunity to witness first hand – are Eastern Orthodox. And we know all too well what fundamentalist Islam has brought the world, though it still pales in comparison to the crusades and inquisition perpetrated by the Roman Catholic church. Atheists don’t murder abortion doctors or savagely beat gay college students. Protestants do that. They’re also the greatest proponents of racism and capital punishment in the United States. Meanwhile, deliberate agnostics like Albert Einstein and Charles Darwin spend their lives in peaceful study, doing their best to make the world a better place.

To me, the reason for this is obvious. Agnostics (and atheists) do not treat life as a dress rehearsal. This is the real thing. Right here, right now. It takes an awful lot of guts to hold yourself accountable for everything you do, and recognize that the actions you take actually matter. If you screwed up, you screwed up. There’s no god to wipe the slate clean, no pastor to tell you that you’ll be forgiven. The thoughtful agnostic understands that.

At this point, I think I should clarify that I’m not talking about people who just can’t be bothered going to church. We’re all agnostic by default; the practice of religion has to be ingrained in us or we revert to our natural godless state. It’s no accomplishment to lapse out of religious practice because you’d rather watch football or sleep in on Sunday. Dogs and rabbits and hummingbirds are atheists, but ignorance or laziness isn’t the same as leading a purposeful, well-examined life without a god. I know the difference between right and wrong, and I do my best to make good choices without the threat of punishment or the hope of reward in the afterlife. I do the right thing simply because it’s the right thing to do. It’s what’s best for humanity in general, and what’s best for my life (and the lives of those important to me) specifically. You need moral courage to make the right decisions even when nobody – and I mean nobody – is watching, and that goes double when you know you don't get any second chances.

Contrary to popular belief, the concepts of right and wrong are not intrinsically linked to religion. They’re linked to civilization. Secular civilization. Civilization’s need to distinguish between them is what created religion, not the other way around. The oldest civilizations predate the oldest religions by millennia. And, as is always – always – the case with organized religion, the message got caught up in its own self-importance and veered off course.

"Whenever we read the obscene stories, the voluptuous debaucheries, the cruel and torturous executions, the unrelenting vindictiveness with which more than half the Bible is filled, it would be more consistent that we called it the word of a demon than the word of God. It is a history of wickedness that has served to corrupt and brutalize mankind." – Thomas Paine, 1794

Playing Mad Libs With God

Although I was raised Baptist, I’ve considered myself agnostic for many years. That is to say I’m willing to allow for the possibility that there is some sort of deity (or pantheon) that created and/or controls our collective universe. I’m willing to allow for it the same way I’m willing to allow for the possible existence of aliens and abominable snowmen; I haven’t seen a single convincing piece of evidence of their existence, but I know the lack of evidence does not necessarily constitute evidence against them. I reserve judgment. “The substance of things hoped for…” et cetera.

What I am not willing to concede is the existence of a god that is both caring and all-powerful. Actually, I’m even willing to concede the possibility that, once upon a time, there was a god like that. Maybe.

Maybe he (forgive the sexist choice of pronoun) lost interest and moved on to another galaxy.

Maybe he’s resting for a minute (a minute which, according to some creationism apologists, might be equivalent to a few thousand Earth years).

Maybe he’s dead. (Being inconceivably powerful doesn’t necessarily equate to true immortality. To an amoeba, I am powerful beyond all comprehension. I heedlessly kill thousands of them with every step I take. But I’ll still die someday. Nothing to be ashamed of.) It does not logically follow that if a being created the universe he must therefore be immortal. The two are completely unrelated, except that they’d both be pretty sweet superpowers.

By the same token, it doesn’t logically follow that a creator must be able to control his creation indefinitely. There are countless instances of inventions far exceeding the abilities of their inventors. In the book of Esther, Haman was hanged on the very gallows he himself had built. And even when things go exactly as designed, there is always a point of no return. Once Little Boy was whistling through the sky toward Hiroshima, there was nothing Oppenheimer could do to pull it back.

So we know it’s not logical to assume that our alleged creator is still alive, let alone still in control, but for now we’ll proceed based on the assumption that he is both. Considering the state of the world, there’s only one sensible conclusion:

He doesn’t care what you think.

You can put whatever kind of religious spin you want on it, but in the end that’s what it boils down to. It could be that he has a plan; a good agnostic like myself wouldn’t deny the possibility. But if he does have a plan, and if he is all-powerful, then his plan is not going to be derailed by your mewling little cries at bedtime or just before supper.

Let’s say I’m an expert navigator. Not just an expert; the expert. I’m driving a route I’ve mapped out from New York to California. You’re a hitchhiker I picked up somewhere on the New Jersey Turnpike. You don’t know exactly where I’m going, but you know I’m a master navigator and you have faith that I’ve mapped out the perfect route. Besides which, even if you don’t have faith, no matter what I decide to do you can’t get out of the car and you can’t take control (because I’m all powerful). Is there any point, then, in suggesting alternate routes? Asking me to slow down? Recommending a particular rest area? No, because there are only two possibilities: 1) Your suggestion is good, and therefore I already thought of it, right down to the time and place you’ll need to take a pee break; or 2) Your suggestion is not in keeping with my will, and therefore I’ll ignore it. Either way, there’s no point bothering me about it. Just shut the hell up and look out the window.

In that way, requesting something through prayer actually demonstrates a lack of faith; it assumes your god isn’t aware of a particular situation and needs you to point out the flaw. Or that he is aware but enjoys hearing you beg. At the very least, it assumes your god wasn’t aware of your feelings on the subject or that he was - for some unknown reason - waiting for your input before proceeding with the plan he already had scheduled anyway. Supreme mercy, ultimate power, and omniscience simply can’t coexist with the status quo.

And don’t talk to me about trials. We put our loved ones through trials by giving them a moral choice and hoping they earn our trust by making the right decision. We don’t test the people we love by destroying their lives and seeing how they manage to keep crawling along in spite of it all. If god is just a kid pulling the wings off flies, then what obligation do the flies have toward the kid? Will they improve their situation by kowtowing?

Back to the hitchhiker. Except now let’s say God’s the all-knowing driver. And instead of hitchhikers, we’re all passengers on a bus. As you ride along on the bus, you have the good sense to entertain yourself. Maybe you had the foresight to bring a book, or some Mad Libs. Or, as previously suggested, you shut the hell up and look out the window. But the whole time the bus is cruising along, other people are constantly pestering the driver with critiques and suggestions. And complaints. And special requests. They don’t seem to notice he’s oblivious to them; what’s worse, every so often his planned route happens to coincide with a passenger’s request, making everyone think they actually do have some say in the schedule. So they holler all the more. The cacophony gets so bad you can barely concentrate on your Mad Libs, and the bus actually fills up with so much bullshit that it’s impossible to see whether the driver is even still up there. But each passenger just keeps pulling the bell cord and hoping that, even though the driver hasn’t been seen or heard from for awhile, maybe he’ll suddenly reappear and grant their special wish. And, as if that wasn’t enough, the other passengers start criticizing you for not yelling along with them. You’d kind of like everyone to wake up and realize nobody’s listening - that there might not even be anyone driving the bus - but, on second thought, maybe it’s just as well if the whole damned thing goes right off a cliff. Either way, those Mad Libs are pretty tempting and you’d like to enjoy them in peace while you can.

Now, instead of you, imagine I’m the guy with the Mad Libs. Except it’s not Mad Libs. It’s my LIFE. And it’s hard to concentrate on it when everyone around me is shouting at a bus driver who might not even be there. If he is there, he doesn’t care what you think. If he isn’t there, he can’t hear you anyway.

Does that mean I despair of salvation, of meaning in my life? On the contrary. More to come on that, but for now I’m going to get on with my Mad Libs.