That religion has the capacity to elevate mood is hardly interesting to atheists, as we readily acknowledge that it can soothe people for non-spiritual reasons. We’ve already explored many of these elsewhere in this book. First and foremost, religion helps people believe in some sort of immortality. Second, closely tied to the first, it provides a purpose when one can otherwise not find one, that is, serving a god to earn that aforementioned immortality. Third, religion teaches people that the universe is not as chaotic and apathetic as it appears, but that it is instead under some sort of meaningful control. Fourth, a religion offers its followers a sense of some of that control (that is, via prayer). And even when prayer does not work, at least it lends an ear when no one else will listen or if what we have to say is too private for human consumption. Finally, regardless of whether one attends church, religion provides a social community or culture that shares one’s worldview, helping him to feel a part of something bigger than himself.
Contemplating these benefits (I’m sure there are more), it may seem surprising that the research doesn’t show stronger positive effects for religion—even given the assumption that the spirituality behind it is an illusion!
I suspect that one critical problem can, to some degree, undermine each of the benefits in the list: doubt. That is, many people who identify as religious simply are not as convinced as they appear. Part of them knows deep down that there was no meaning behind 9/11, the 2004 Indian Ocean Tsunami, and the Sandy Hook shootings. Their defense mechanisms are not that strong, so doubt ensues. Doubting the meaning of suffering on that scale must be insidious, raising doubt about the meaning of less salient but more personal catastrophes, and even the prospect of immortality, and so on. As we explored in chapter 6, defense mechanisms only work so well. When being defensive, we say things we want to believe, but our deepest reaches know they’re not true, which creates a separate tension all its own. Religiosity is probably less likely to produce its benefits when it’s superficial and forced—which it must be at times, when reality overwhelms it. Perhaps there’s even something more tormenting about trying to cling than just letting go altogether. There may have been for me. I have to entertain that clinging was at least contributing to the debilitating panic attacks I had for five very long years, given that they went away around the same time I gave up God.
Other large-scale, carefully designed and implemented—but surprisingly elegant—research has shown that prayer specifically can have a paradoxically toxic effect, at least on those receiving it following major heart surgery.15 This study was gigantic: Sixteen authors (including MDs, RNs, and PhDs) plus support staff studied 1800 patients at six hospitals across the country, the entire study taking years to complete. Patients were randomly assigned to treatment groups (receiving prayer or not) and their resulting complications were assessed blindly (that is, by professionals unaware of who was assigned to which group). The main result, again, not surprising to us atheists: “Intercessory prayer itself had no effect on complication-free recovery from CABG” (coronary artery bypass graft surgery). However—in an obscenely cruel twist that even I don’t think is funny—people who knew they were receiving prayers had more complications than those who were unsure whether they were receiving prayers! In the paper, the authors don’t offer a possible explanation for this latter finding, but Richard Dawkins says that one of them has speculated elsewhere that perhaps those who knew they were being prayed for became distressed because they felt some sort of pressure, that is, akin to “performance anxiety.”16 All is not lost, however. Other legitimate research has shown that prayer can help the person who is praying, for example, by reducing his anger.17 Of course, religious affiliation doesn’t matter, nor does church attendance; it’s simply the act of praying that provides the benefit. Findings such as this suggest that prayer may be nothing more than meditation, which is not a terrible thing, as long as you don’t demand too much from it.
Besides doubt and its potentially deleterious effects, some people argue that religiosity may actively stifle us in ways that could also sabotage some of its potential benefits.
For someone writing a book with Nihilism in the title, I’ve read very little of Nietzche. However, I have read a book about him, What Nietzche Really Said. Scholars Robert Solomon and Kathleen Higgins explain that the philosopher held that
believers exchange an active stance toward their environment for the reactive stance of a pet or a victim. Instead of actively engaging with their problems, they treat their lived experiences like hieroglyphics whose real significance is decipherable only on a different—supernatural—plane … this shift of focus amounts to a complete falsification of our actual circumstances … For Nietzche, this outlook is damaging to one’s ability to function and flourish in one’s life. It obstructs one’s view of the real world, addles one’s ability to see the real forces at work in one’s life, and destroys one’s ability to recognize how best to address them.18
In other words, faith—like other defense mechanisms—can rob one of her agency. Responding to conflict by asserting “I’m gonna put it in God’s hands” is often just an emotionally defensive maneuver to ignore the actual problem. It turns out that the “real forces at work” may not be as mysterious as they seem, but instead stem from the faithful person’s own bad choices or personality/emotional dysfunction. These personal problems need to be acknowledged and worked through, but faith provides an excuse to avoid self-exploration and conflict resolution.
In The Nature of Existence, American multi-talent Julia Sweeney specifically criticizes prayer in this regard, pointing out that it is not just a cop-out, it’s a deceptive cop-out because it gives the illusion that we’re doing something significant. Prayer is necessarily a compelling experience—we believe, on some level, that we are communicating with God and therefore affecting the universe! But if, in reality, prayer doesn’t work, we’ve done nothing, or perhaps even done some damage via our complacency. Our spiritual cultures encourage us to pray and applaud us for doing so, but they may simply be teaching us to shun insight, agency, and growth.
For the moment, let’s just consider everyday opportunities to engage the world actively and to mature emotionally (which can turn out to be much more profound than “everyday” would suggest). For example, I recently had an interpersonal conflict with a more seasoned colleague who was effectively my supervisor at the time. Ours felt like nonsensical tension, the type of head-butting that is commonplace in all sorts of workplace environments. We were quietly at each other’s throats but the precise source of the problem was not perfectly clear. In general, it just seemed unnecessary and neurotic, on both of our accounts. It does take two to tango.
Now, if I had still been a religious person, I probably would have conceptualized the situation as some sort of Test from Above. I definitely would have prayed, at the very least asking God for the strength to endure my insufferable colleague. And I probably would have found that strength, because I’m good at being “strong” like that, as I’ve never been a confrontational person, especially towards any semblance of authority. If I had dared to pray for a specific solution or plan of action, I probably would have just seen signs instructing me to do what I wanted to do, which was nothing and I would have indeed just trudged through it. Regardless, because the supervisory relationship was temporary, I ultimately would have survived it and then chalked the “success” up to His Grace and whatnot. In the event the situation had escalated and crashed and burned into a more dramatic falling-out, then I would have seen it as God’s method to deliver me from that evil, and I would have just accepted those new developments and moved on, praying all the way. But I would have learned nothing, nor would I have bettered myself.
Instead, as someone who sees no design whatsoever behind interpersonal conflicts such as this, I knew that if I wanted the situation to change I’d have to change it myself. Simply being strong and trudging through it remained an option, but a less desirable one, in a secular life. Somehow, t
he prospect of taking charge became irresistible, despite how frightening it was for me. Finally, one day as we were winding down a routine consultation, he asked me (a bit stuffily and impatiently, as usual), “Is there anything else we need to cover?”
I was exceedingly nervous but responded, “Yes, actually there’s something somewhat unrelated I need to talk about.” After breaking the ice, I felt more confident than anticipated, and it all came out with uncanny coherence: “I’ve been feeling some sort of tension between us, and it’s really been getting to me lately. I don’t know where it’s coming from, but I just want to know what I can do to help make it go away.”
He kinda froze for a moment, making it clear that he knew exactly what I was talking about. Then, he snapped out of it and rambled a bit; I honestly don’t recall what he said in response, except that it was somewhat vacuous, just a cordial filler for the uncomfortable empty space. But the content didn’t matter: The problem was solved simply by putting it on the table in a non-confrontational way (“disarming” was the word one of my therapy supervisors used to use that I have since adopted myself). From that moment onward, our relationship has felt transformed for the best. We even have some sort of bond now, having had that ridiculous, toxic experience together—and having addressed it, just a little bit, but directly.
I’m quite sure that this panned out in a much more productive and substantial manner than if I had taken the prayer route. Without the crutch of prayer, I was forced to examine myself and see how I was contributing to the problem (by being passive aggressive). I had to swallow my pride and take a risk that was very outside my normal repertoire of behaviors. I had to utilize an approach that I didn’t learn from the Bible, but one that I learned from my secular education. As a result, I ended up connecting with someone in a way that was wholly unexpected. Plus, I grew because I learned that I have the capacity to make peace, all on my own. I don’t have to endure interpersonal conflict; I can work through it. If my attempt fails even if I address it appropriately as such, well, I’ve still learned a lot and made progress. I’ve learned that the other person is not emotionally mature enough to truly negotiate, and now I realize (no longer assume!) that this may be a situation that simply must be endured. But at least I can now do so in relative peace, knowing that I’ve done what I could and the problem’s not about me, it’s about the other person. Now I can move on and nurture other relationships with people who can negotiate.
Certainly, there is a time and place for surrender. Sometimes, putting our suffering in God’s hands, whether we believe in Him or not, may be the only real choice we have. Sometimes, conflict and suffering are wholly inevitable and the only dignified way to proceed is with acceptance. The tricky part is tapping “the wisdom to know the difference” between suffering that is truly out of our control and suffering that we are indulging—if not fostering.19 As a psychologist who is finally starting to feel somewhat seasoned, I agree with Nietzche and Julia Sweeney that religion (if not spirituality in general) can have the paradoxical effect of lending us to passivity and, as a result, stagnation and frustration. We’ll continue to get by, sure, but we may be more empty and conflicted than we advertise.
When the problem at hand is a childish power struggle with our supervisors, we (and our supervisors) may be the only victims of prayer. But sometimes the repercussions are much more significant, such as in Julia’s example of praying for the hungry. Here, it’s no longer a private problem: Complacency becomes a global issue, with potentially catastrophic effects. Obviously, lots of people have been praying to end hunger in Africa for an ample amount of time, but not enough of those prayers have been answered. The hungry don’t need prayer; they need palpable actions, such as donations, volunteers, and global public policy development. Sure, we can still pray, but we need to do more. We need to see God’s signs telling us to act.
Harvard humanist chaplain Greg Epstein explains that the issue reaches far beyond hungry Africa and even has consequences for obese America. In a call to the non-religious population to step up to the plate and address global concerns (such as natural resources, war, and economy), Greg quotes his former professor, theologian Gordon Kaufman: “This [ecological crisis] is a different kind of issue than Christians (or any other humans) have ever faced, and continuing to worship a God thought of as the omnipotent savior from all the evils of life may even impair our ability to see clearly its depths and significance …”20 I’m hearing the words of Nietzche, applied not to the individual but to the world at large, and now with cosmic repercussions. To put it simply, if we rely on God to save the earth, the earth is doomed. (I’m gonna leave it at that and not start ranting again.)
In the documentary The God Who Wasn’t There, author Richard Carrier shares an enlightening insight: He explains that he couldn’t indulge the wonders of Heaven if he were to make the cut because it would be unbearable to know that countless others are suffering in Hell—including people he had known, and maybe even loved.21 Of course, we couldn’t possibly be so childish to assume that everyone we have loved could have done everything so right as to get into Heaven. Knowing, sharing your life with—even loving—a Christian is not sufficient. The deceased has to believe.
I, David Landers, am obviously going to Hell, but most of my family and many of my friends, who I’m quite sure love me, will be elsewhere. Oh, man; why couldn’t I have stopped asking questions and just let it be? It’s actually tragic that I didn’t die that night when I overdosed on cocaine, nineteen years old, still believing in God. How will my loved ones feel in the Heavens now, while I’m in hell burning, lamenting, and gnashing my teeth in pain and regret? Will they feel all chummy with God and Jesus, laid back up there, sippin’ on gin?
Apparently, yes: “For, behold, I create new heavens and a new earth: and the former shall not be remembered, nor come into mind.”22 Even before the Bible told me so, my mother had. One of my most vivid childhood memories is of asking my mother whether our recently deceased dogs, Tuffy and Caesar, would be in Heaven. The answer was an unambiguous “no.” That’s right: We never entertained the notion of Doggie Heaven in the Landers home. Instead, I was taught that once in People Heaven, we simply won’t be concerned about earthly matters, events and objects from our past lives.
I remember being puzzled by this as a kid. I found it somewhat reassuring, but somewhat unsettling at the same time. I loved my dogs, and the thought of not caring about them anymore because of some ill-defined spiritual transformation was not very palatable. I felt like I was being told, in a backhanded way, that I was overly attached to our pets—and to anything else on Earth that I anticipated missing upon its destruction. Today, I think this is a terrible lesson for children (and adults, too, for that matter). Talk about unpardonable sins: to disregard our existence—the one that we know is real and to which we have access right now—for one that I’m convinced is fantasy.
Freud again:
Of what use to him is the illusion of a kingdom on the moon, whose revenues have never yet been seen by anyone? As an honest crofter on this earth he will know how to cultivate his plot in a way that will support him. Thus by withdrawing his expectations from the other world and concentrating all his liberating energies on this earthly life he will probably attain to a state of things in which life will be tolerable for all and no one will be oppressed by culture any more.23
I suspect that most of my Christian friends and family don’t really believe, deep-down, that I’m gonna be a wailing tooth-gnasher. The Bible affords an easy out, one that I recall resorting to at times when I was Christian, the most famous out of them all, John 3:16. All that other non-John 3:16 crap about coveting, women speaking in church, and camels going through needles doesn’t really matter, when push comes to shove, because it says very clearly that we only have to believe in Him to be saved. Besides helping us to not fret over our own sinful behavior, John 3:16 lets us fantasize about how our non-Christian loved ones might have come over to our side at the last moment. I
’ve witnessed this before, in real-life, unfolding in real-time: the Christian survivors of devout atheists fantasizing aloud that so-and-so must have seen the light at the very end, the Moment of Truth. It’s so easy. Maybe even Christopher Hitchens saw the light at his End—he did make that suggestion about starting to see things differently once he started facing cancer! All one has to do is believe. It doesn’t matter for how long, as long as it’s sincere. Praise Him.
Continuing to listen to Richard Carrier, I had a realization, a bit of an epiphany: If I do change my ways and make it to Heaven and somehow become aware that others are dying forever in Hell, I’d try to be like Jesus! I would approach God and request a deal: “Father, if I go down to earth and die for them, would you stop being so hard on the unforgiven? Give them even another chance … or perhaps let’s just make hell a little less hellish. It just seems like too much.” Yes, I would give my life for the suffering of the sinners, just like Jesus did! And I’m not bragging; wouldn’t we all do the same?
Of course, I would need a guarantee that I would be resurrected after a few days; otherwise, the deal’s off. And no funny stuff, God—don’t you dare leave me dead! That must have been a concern for Jesus, that God might betray him and leave him dead for a lot longer, like millennia instead of three days—or what if he didn’t bring him back at all! Can you imagine? Then God could go back to turning people into salt. Now that would have been a real sacrifice: giving His life without the prospect of resurrection.
Optimistic Nihilism Page 23