But there’s an equally important way that woo can do harm. And that’s that it leads people away from valuing reason, and evidence, and reality. Woo, like every other religious or spiritual belief, ultimately prioritizes faith over reason; personal experience over external evidence.
I’m not saying that religious belief completely eradicates reason or concern for evidence. I’m saying that, when it comes down to a hard choice between the two, it encourages people to reject reason and evidence in favor of personal experience. Religious belief encourages people to believe in their own feelings and instincts… even when those feelings and instincts are contradicted by reality or logic. It discourages people from being aware of the fact that their feelings and instincts can be deceived: by con artists and charlatans, or just by our own wishful thinking. It discourages people from being aware of this well-documented fact, and staying vigilant about it. Every unsupported belief you hold makes you more vulnerable to others… and less likely to value skepticism and critical thinking at all.
I think this is important. I think reality is important. I think reality is just about the most important thing there is. And I have a serious problem with any belief system that encourages people to ignore it. It’s hard enough to be vigilant and conscious and skeptical about your biases and blind spots when you do prioritize reason and reality over instinct and personal feeling. Throwing spiritual faith into the mix makes it even harder.
Now, as my wife Ingrid points out when we discuss this, there are some woo believers — neo-pagans and Wiccans especially — who take it all with a grain of salt. There are believers — a better word would be practitioners — who see the ideas more as useful metaphors, and who see the rituals as comforting and beautiful rather than literally effective. They see woo as a way of altering their consciousness, re-wiring their own heads — not as a way of directly changing external reality. And that kind of woo, I don’t have a huge problem with.
But I also think it can be a dicey path to walk. I remember, from my own woo days, how vague and half-assed my beliefs could be. And I remember how easily I could slip back and forth between thinking of my beliefs as metaphorical, and thinking of them as literal. Mostly, they slipped back and forth depending on how hard they were being questioned. When I was with someone who was more skeptical, I’d lean toward the “useful metaphor” end of the spectrum: when I was with other believers, I’d lean toward the, “Wow, isn’t this freaky, something weird must be going on here!” side. And I know from experience that other woo believers do this as well. A commenter on my blog, John the Drunkard, summarized the attitude beautifully: “We don’t really believe anything that you have demonstrated to be absurd… while anyone is watching.” When explaining their theology in public, when debating their theology with skeptics, they don’t admit to believing anything that contradicts evidence or logic. But in the company of other believers, and in the privacy of their own minds… it’s another story.
And if religion really is just a metaphor, then why do people get so upset when atheists say that it isn’t true? If religion is simply a story, a personal perspective, a way of framing experience and giving it meaning, then why are people troubled and even angered when someone says, “Actually, that probably isn’t true”? Any more than they’d be troubled if someone said, “Actually, Alice in Wonderland probably isn’t true”? If you’re getting upset when people point out that religion isn’t true, then I have to question whether you sincerely see it as simply a metaphor. And if you are going with the “this is just powerful metaphor and a useful practice” route, you need to do it consistently and with integrity — and not just as a way of dodging skeptical critiques.
But why do you need to do that? What business is it of mine whether other people’s practices are rigorously naturalistic or slip into supernatural belief? Don’t people have the right to believe whatever they want to believe?
Of course we have the right to come to our own conclusions about religion. I will defend that right passionately and ferociously. We have the right to believe that a mystical spirit guides the Tarot cards; that subatomic particles have free will; that our romantic lives are guided by balls of flaming gas billions of light years away; that psychics can detect our pets’ true desires over the phone; that Jesus Christ is our personal savior and anyone who doesn’t agree is going to Hell.
But that doesn’t mean it’s right for us to do so.
I’m free to believe anything I want. But I can’t do so and be honest with myself. I can’t do so and retain my intellectual integrity. I can’t do so if I’m going to make good decisions based in reality — the best possible understanding of reality we have. I can’t do so if I’m going to place reality as more important, and more interesting, than my own wishful thinking. As the saying goes, you have a right to your own beliefs, but you don’t have a right to your own facts.
And our beliefs don’t just affect our own lives. They affect how we treat other people. My decision to stay in a bad relationship because the Tarot told me to didn’t affect only me. My client’s decision to prevent pregnancy with wishful thinking didn’t affect only her. My boss’s decision to consult a pet psychic about our office cat didn’t affect only her. (For one thing, she spent money on the psychic at a time when she was having a hard time paying her staff.) And this doesn’t just apply to our personal lives: it works on a larger social-justice scale as well. The belief in karma and reincarnation, for instance, gets used to justify terrible social ills, and to treat people born into poverty and despair as if they’re simply getting what they deserve. Our beliefs affect our behavior towards others. And that makes our beliefs, not just a personal question, but an ethical one.
If it were possible to believe in woo — not just in a “useful metaphor” way, but to genuinely believe in it — and not make bad decisions, not be held back by sloppy thinking, not be hurt emotionally, not hurt others, not lose reason as the guiding point of your life… then no. I wouldn’t have nearly as much of a problem with it.
But I don’t think that’s possible.
CHAPTER SIX
Yes, This Means You: “Spiritual but Not Religious”
“But surely you don’t mean spirituality! The problem isn’t with spirituality — spirituality is what connects us with the greatest things in the Universe! The problem is with organized religion, with following somebody else’s ideas about God and the soul. I don’t do that! I’m spiritual, but I’m not religious. When you talk about what makes atheists mad about religion… surely you don’t mean me?”
Actually — yes, I do mean you.
“Spiritual, but not religious.” You’ve almost certainly heard this trope. It doesn’t necessarily mean that the person is New Agey (although it often does). People use it who hold more or less traditional beliefs in a deity, but who’ve left their organized religion or never belonged to one. (For those people, the trope often goes, “I’m not religious, but I worship God in my own way.”) People use it to mean they believe in something other than the physical world: they don’t know what exactly, but they’re pretty sure it’s something. People even use it to mean that they find some sort of meaning and transcendence in life, and don’t have another word for that other than “spirituality.”
But I don’t think disorganized spirituality holds any more water than organized religion. And while “spiritual but not religious” doesn’t have the power of traditional religion to brutalize or oppress, it still leads people to derail their critical thinking, and trivialize reality, and prioritize personal bias over evidence, and base important decisions on a foundation of sand.
When I’m in a generous mood, I see this as a valid desire to not be connected with the horrors of organized religion… while still feeling a personal experience that people think is a connection with God. (Or the Goddess, or the spirit world, or whatever.) They’re trying to separate the wheat from the chaff. And while I think they’re dead wrong about God — I think it’s all chaff — I understand the impu
lse.
And sometimes “spiritual but not religious” is a gateway drug, a baby step out of religious belief. For people who are questioning religion but have been brought up to think it’s the source of all morality and meaning, “spiritual but not religious” can help them begin to let go, without feeling like they’re stepping into the abyss. And I can definitely be generous about that.
When I’m in a less generous mood, though, I see this trope as smug and superior, without anything to back it up. I see it as a way of saying, “I’m so special and independent, of course I don’t have anything to do with hidebound organized religion, I’m far too free a spirit… but I’m also special and sensitive, and in touch with powerful sacred things beyond this mundane world.”
So what’s my problem with it? Other than the smugness, I mean.
The obvious problem, of course, is that there’s not a shred of good evidence to back it up. There’s no more evidence for disorganized religion than there is for organized religion.
And “spiritual but not religious” tends to be a sloppy form of spirituality. It lacks even the tortured rigor of carefully thought-out theology; the discipline, pointless though it may be, of fervent religious practice. All too often, “spiritual but not religious” seems to mean, “I believe in some sort of supernatural world, but I’m not willing to give that belief much thought, or to seriously consider whether the spiritual world I believe in makes a lick of sense.”
Rather more importantly: I think the “spiritual but not religious” trope plays into the idea that religious belief — excuse me, spiritual belief — makes you a finer, better person. There’s a defensiveness to it: like the person is saying, “I don’t attend religious services or engage in any religious practice… but I’m not a bad person. Of course I still feel a connection to God and the soul. I haven’t completely descended to the gutter. What do you take me for?” It gives aid and comfort to the idea that value and joy, transcendence and meaning, must come from the world of the supernatural.
But my biggest problem with this trope? If being “spiritual but not religious” means rejecting organized religion while supposedly being in touch with sacred things beyond the mundane physical world… it shows a piss-poor attitude towards the mundane physical world.
The physical world is anything but mundane. The physical world is black holes at the center of every spiral galaxy. It is billions of galaxies rushing away from each other at breakneck speed. It is solid matter that’s anything but solid: particles that can’t be seen by the strongest microscope, separated by gaping vastnesses of nothing. It is living things that are all related, all with the same great- great- great- to the power of a million grandmother. It is space that curves, continents that drift. It is cells of organic tissue that somehow generate consciousness. When you take the time to learn about the mundane physical world, you find that it is anything but mundane.
And this crap about “I don’t follow any organized religion, but there has to be more to life than what we see” does a grave disservice to the wild and astonishing complexity of what we see.
As someone whose name I can’t remember once wrote: The “spiritual but not religious” trope tries to have the best of both worlds… but it actually gets the worst. It keeps the part of religion that’s the indefensible, unsupported-by-a-scrap-of-evidence belief in invisible beings; indeed, the part of religion that sees those invisible beings as more real, and more important, than the physical world we live in. It keeps the part of religion that devalues reason and evidence and critical thinking, in favor of hanging onto any cockamamie idea that appeals to your wishful thinking. It keeps the part of religion that equates morality and value with believing in invisible friends. It keeps the part of religion that confers a smug sense of superiority, solely on the basis of your supposed connection with an invisible world.
It keeps all that… and abandons the part of religion that’s community, and shared ritual, and charitable works, and a sense of belonging. It throws out the baby, and keeps the bathwater. And then it pats itself on the back and says, “Look at all this wonderful bathwater I have!”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Yes, This Means You: Ecumenicalism and Interfaith
“But surely you don’t mean interfaith religion! The problem with traditional religion is how intolerant it is of other religions. But lots of believers aren’t like that! We have respect for other people’s religions! We want to understand them, and work in peace and harmony with them! When you talk about what makes atheists mad about religion… surely you don’t mean me?”
Actually — yes, I do mean you.
Among progressive and moderate religious believers, this ecumenical, interfaith, “Can’t we all just get along?” idea is a big deal. For many of these believers, being respectful of religious beliefs that are different from theirs is a central guiding principle. In this view, different religions are seen as a beautifully varied tapestry of faith: each strand with its own truths, each with its own unique perspective on God and its own unique way of worshipping him. Her. It. Them. Whatever. Respecting other people’s religious beliefs is a cornerstone of this worldview… to the point where criticizing or even questioning anyone else’s belief is seen as rude and offensive at best, bigoted and intolerant at worst.
And this ecumenical approach to religion drives me up a tree.
Why? Don’t atheists want a world where everyone’s right to their own religious views — including the right to no religious views — is universally acknowledged? Don’t we want a world with no religious wars or hatred? Don’t we want a world where a diversity of perspectives on religion is accepted and even embraced? Why would atheists have any objection to the principles of interfaith and religious ecumenicalism?
Where shall I begin? Well, for starters: It’s bullshit.
Progressive and moderate religious believers absolutely have objections to religious beliefs that are different from theirs. Serious, passionate objections. They object to the Religious Right; they object to Al Qaeda. They object to right-wing fundamentalists preaching homophobic hatred, to Muslim extremists executing women for adultery, to the Catholic Church trying to stop condom distribution for AIDS prevention in Africa, to religious extremists all over the Middle East trying to bomb each other back to the Stone Age. Etc., etc., etc. Even when they share the same nominal faith as these believers, they are appalled at the connection: they fervently reject being seen as having anything in common with them, and often go to great lengths to distance themselves from them.
And they should. I’m not saying they shouldn’t. In fact, one of my main critiques of progressive believers is that their opposition to hateful religious extremists often isn’t vehement enough.
But it’s disingenuous at best, hypocritical at worst, to say that criticism of other religious beliefs is inherently bigoted and offensive… and then make an exception for beliefs that are opposed to your own. You don’t get to speak out about how the hard-line extremists are getting Christ’s message wrong (or Mohammad’s, or Moses’, or Buddha’s, or whoever) — and then squawk about religious intolerance when others say you’re the one getting it wrong. That’s not playing fair.
And, of course, it’s ridiculously hypocritical to engage in fervent political and cultural discourse — as so many progressive ecumenical believers do — and then expect religion to get a free pass. It’s absurd to accept and even welcome vigorous public debate over politics, science, gender, sexuality, medicine, economics, education, the role of government, etc… and then get appalled and insulted when religion is treated as just another hypothesis about the world, one that can be debated and criticized like any other.
However, if ecumenicalism were just hypocrisy, I wouldn’t care that much. Hypocrisy is all over the human race like a cheap suit. I’m not going to get worked up into a lather every time I see another example of it. So why does this bug me so much?
Well, it also bugs me because — in an irony that would be hilarious if it were
n’t so screwed-up — a commitment to ecumenicalism all too often leads to intolerance and hostility towards atheists.
I’ve been in a lot of debates with religious believers over the years. And some of the ugliest, nastiest, most bigoted anti-atheist rhetoric I’ve heard has come from progressive and moderate believers espousing the supposedly tolerant principles of ecumenicalism. I’ve been called a fascist, a zealot, a missionary; I’ve been called hateful, intolerant, close-minded, dogmatic; I’ve had my atheist activism described as “cultural imperialism” and equated with the genocide of the Native Americans; I’ve been compared to Glenn Beck and Joseph Stalin and Adolph Hitler. All by progressive and moderate believers, outraged at the very notion of atheists pointing out the flaws in religious ideas and making an argument that these ideas are probably not true. Progressive and moderate believers who normally are passionate advocates for free expression will get equally passionate about demanding that atheists shut the hell up. Progressive and moderate believers who normally are all over the idea of diversity and multi-culturalism will get intensely defensive of homogeny when one of the voices in the rich cultural tapestry is saying, “I don’t think God exists, and here’s why.”
In a way, I can see it. Ecumenicalism is a big, comfy love-fest. (Or, to use a less polite metaphor, a big, happy circle-jerk.) Everyone stands around telling each other how wonderful they are, how fascinating their viewpoint is, how much they contribute to humanity’s rich and evolving vision of God. Everyone is self-deprecating about how their own vision of God is human and flawed and limited, and how they’re both humbled and uplifted to see such different perspectives on him/ her/ it/ them/ whatever. Everyone tells the story of the six blind men and the elephant, and how God is too vast and complex and unfathomable for any one person to perfectly understand him, and how all these different religions are just perceiving different aspects of his immensity. And no one ever says anything critical, or even seriously questioning. It’s one gigantic mutual admiration society.
Why Are You Atheists So Angry? 99 Things That Piss Off the Godless Page 8