10/6/14

Religion and the Mafia? Open questions about a (seemingly) fruitless argument

For a few days I resisted commenting about the latest round of statements from Bill Maher and Sam Harris and responses from Reza Aslan—and more recently Ben Affleck and Nicholas Kristof on Real Time—over the subject of Islam. [Maher also did a debrief here.] Part of me thinks that any response to the debate may actually deepen the problem it is purportedly trying to solve.

There are two points, however, that I think are important to note.

The first is that we should be attuned to the rhetoric involved. Rhetoric does not mean untruth. It is involved to an extent in most of our speech and particularly when we are trying to sway others. We want to consider the rhetoric—what facts are chosen and what facts are left unsaid, what arguments are used—in conjunction with the content of the argument. None presents a complete version of the issue. This is not a requirement, but it should be clearly understood.

  • Maher—who is both a comedian and an atheist—argues that the religion Islam, more than Christianity, is responsible for widespread violence and laws that violate the core principles of Western liberalism.
  • Aslan—a scholar currently doing a good job positioning himself as an authority on religion—responds that Maher makes such statements because he’s ignorant about the complexity of religion…and the violence Maher speaks of is not a religious problem, but a political/social/cultural/geographical problem.
  • Affleck—an actor promoting a movie who also (probably) donates to charitable causes throughout the world—says Maher’s statements are racist. Some people are good, some people are bad, and we should condemn the bad and not lump the good in with them.
  • Kristof—a reporter and activist who has emphasized the strong links between the oppression of women and religion—says Islam plays a significant role in justifying oppression, but there are also many Muslims doing great things in the world, even fighting against extremism within their own traditions.

Despite what Aslan (and other scholars) contends, I don’t think one needs significant or specialized knowledge to speak to this issue. In other words, one doesn’t need to be a scholar of religion to say something here. I think all of the people involved meet the requirement of engaged citizens.

The second and more important point is really a question. What is the desired result?

What do Maher and Harris think would be the best possible outcome regarding Islam (and then probably religion in general)? It isn’t to coerce—compel by force—people to give up religion. Maher says as much, and it would violate the core principles of a liberal, just society he says he values. What Maher and Harris are implying is that no individual, group, institution, or country should be able to commit violence or justify oppression through religion. Argue, debate, and try to convince—but don’t coerce.

If their goal is as I describe it above, the rhetorical approach Maher uses is less than ideal. He makes a comparative claim that Islam is worse than other traditions in terms of its oppression of women. He bases his argument on certain facts, and Aslan and others respond with different facts. I see little productive value in the debate on this level, even if it were true, because neither side knows whether more people are free or oppressed under Islam. More importantly, neither side really thinks that is the point. If one side or the other could successfully prove that one more person is oppressed by Islam than free, or vice versa, would that end the debate over the benefit and harm of religion? Doubtful. It’s more than that.

Maher’s approach is not wholly ineffective, because it certainly promotes conversation, and Maher seems to want to shock people into awareness of his argument. But it (obviously) alienates quite a few people, and arguably the very people who could exert the most influence for change.

With that said, shouldn’t a reasonable person agree with the principle that religion should coerce no one? If there are those who disagree with this idea—or simply prefer to ignore it because they are not being coerced—shouldn’t that, as much as to what extent Maher’s and Harris’s claims are true or false, be a topic of discussion? I think people should be just as angry at Christianity because states like Idaho have laws that protect prayer as an alternative to medical treatment and as a result allows parents to let their children die from Type 1 Diabetes and food poisoning. Maher contends we shouldn’t because it doesn’t affect as many people. The point, however, is the same. At what level of harm should we shift our focus from isolated individuals to traditions? Do we not ignore the issue by arguing over “correct” interpretations of religious doctrine and texts?

It seems that one underlying fear of those who react negatively to Maher’s claims is a fear of the ignorance of the populace. This is a legitimate fear, which recognizes many people are unable or unwilling to think critically and will use the condemnation of a tradition’s dogma as a legitimation for their own fearful violence and bigotry. This should be recognized and dealt with, but ignorance cannot serve as an excuse for silence.

But what if we come at the question from the other side? What of the objections of Aslan, Affleck, and others?

I don’t think it would be a stretch to say that most people who identify with a religious tradition are “good” people by (non-religious) societal standards. That observation is at the core of most objections to criticisms of religion.

Does the fact that religious people can be good negate the argument against oppression and bigotry in religious traditions? Does the good outweigh the bad, and are we measuring again by sheer numbers? If so, this would also be a more productive point around which to center the debate, because it would indicate that the presence of people who are ‘good’ by broad social standards protects religion from social critique. In one popular version of this argument put forth by the Dalai Lama, Karen Armstrong, and other, religion itself becomes “that which promotes good.”

If though, as reasonable people would agree, Islam, Christianity, Buddhism, et al. have been the impetus for at least some oppression and bigotry throughout history and in the present, what then? Is it possible for us to sincerely investigate the extent of that role? Is it an all-or-nothing proposition?

But the biggest question, I think, is the relationship between religion and other forms of privilege. If other cultural elements of privilege and oppression are inextricably intertwined with questions of religion, particularly when religion manifests in its most extreme forms, what does that mean? Harris claims that the element of religion is a more primary motivation for oppression than economic or political factors, but his claim is debatable, particularly because religion always manifests strongly in times of crisis. Alternately, other scholars have claimed that religion is a tool (inappropriately) used to express cultural frustration. If religion manifests violently when it is accompanied by cultural deprivation, how does it manifest in areas of relative cultural privilege? What is cultural influence of a religious tradition if it is correlated with violence among oppressed peoples and “peace” among privileged peoples?

If we are to make a serious claim that other factors aside from religion are primarily responsible for religious violencewe have to to consider the possibility that other factors aside from religion are primarily responsible for religious peace, do we not? What if this is true?

Rather than draw any immediate conclusions, I’d like to leave these questions open. I welcome any thoughts.

08/23/14

Removing the “New” from Religion and Atheism

Screen Shot 2014-08-23 at 11.38.41 AMDuring the Festival of Dangerous Ideas, Lawrence Krauss, who is a physicist and relative newcomer to the New Atheism camp, debated Peter Rollins, who has become known as a leading thinker in Emerging or postmodern Christianity. Their debate was billed as “New Atheism” versus “New Religion,” although neither man sat well with the title his side had been given.

I have seen Krauss in other debates, particularly in Unbelieversthe recently released movie featuring him and Richard Dawkins arguing with a host of religious conservatives, primarily Christian and Muslim. What I found amusing in this particular debate, however, is that Krauss didn’t quite know what to do with Rollins. They had too much common ground. Rollins argued three things about New Atheism. First, he claimed that it can and has become for many an identity source just like religion, meaning that it is not functionally different from the religious traditions it decries. Second, he suggested that the direct attacks against fundamentalism serve to strengthen rather than weaken it. Lastly, he proposed that atheism does not have the “capital” to serve as a viable alternative to religion.

In terms of its function, it is undeniably true that atheism can become as much of an unthinking identity as religious tradition, but it should be unpacked a little bit. Rollins argues his case by suggesting that fundamentalism is not the problem, but the solution to a problem. It is this deeper problem that can be seen in fundamentalism and atheism alike, although I would add that the historical and fantastical accretions of religion make it a more hospitable location for dogmatism than atheism. In any case, while Rollins doesn’t specify what the deeper problem is, it can obviously take many forms in economic or social deprivation (or a defense for economic and social privilege), but almost always in a skewed sense of identity that needs reconciliation. I have spoken with people for whom atheism is clearly an identity, having shifted from a negation of religious belief to a positive affirmation of an absence of religion as a dogmatic stance.

In this case, it would be difficult not to agree with those Christians and Muslims who argue that New Atheism, or simply atheism, has developed into a position akin in many ways to religious tradition, which means that it can become unthinking. Krauss is much less able to recognize this position than is Rollins, because Krauss appears to be a clear and logical thinker. He doesn’t and doesn’t need to bank on an atheist identity. Consequently, while he acknowledged that atheism for some can become a positive identity, something more than “not-skiing” as a sport, he doesn’t understand it as a common, albeit illogical, approach. It is ridiculous to Krauss that an intellectual stance or what amounts to subjecting religious wisdom to scientific scrutiny could become a dogmatic stance, because it is clear that it shouldn’t. Indeed, it violates the principles of a scientific approach to form a dogmatic stance about it. In fact, it’s logically impossible to establish a dogma around a fundamental openness to new evidence. However, it is entirely possible to rest on such a stance based on what recent scientific thinkers have said about religion, namely that it is patently false. Without possessing the ability or will to question the truth of particular situations, one can easily and freely adopt the stance that all religion is false and religious folks are imbeciles, just as many religious folk are convinced that atheists are willfully ignoring God or are influenced by the devil.

Rollins, on the other hand, understands the paradox that even a belief in nothing, or the negation of belief in something, can become itself something. In a slightly different form, this has been one of the primary points of his critique of Christianity. According to Rollins, most Christians already know that the claims they make are untrue on some level. Consequently, when they are criticized from the outside for the ridiculousness of their claims about prayer or God’s will, etc., Rollins recognizes that, contrary to curing them of their illogic, it will often drive folks further into their irreconcilable positions. As a recent example, the Friendly Atheist was incredulous that the missionary doctor who received treatment for Ebola from an experimental drug spent most of his time in his first speech on release giving thanks to God for saving him rather than the drug and the doctors who nursed him back to health. However, the doctor no doubt didn’t refuse the experimental drug when offered so that God could do the work of healing. He simply holds two contradictory positions: one, that God healed him; and two, that modern medicine saved him. The first position makes no sense unless God likes the two white missionaries more than all those who have died from Ebola in the most recent outbreak. The second position makes enormously more sense: the missionaries received proper medical care and lived, others did not and died. Paul Farmer talks about this from a practical perspective in a recent interview on Democracy Now.

To put it another way, religious believers cannot fully accept the world scientifically until they address its incompatibility with their belief, but the only way to address the fallacy of their belief would be to fully adopt an open and questioning stance, a scientific stance. What many atheists are unwilling to admit is that this is much more than an intellectual shift. It carries tremendous social and psychological baggage, and it is predicated on sufficient cultural capital, on social, political, and/or economic stability. Rollins thus realizes, I believe, that directly exposing the contradictions of particularly conservative religion is inefficient at best, which was revealed by his third point against New Atheism, that it lacks the cultural capital to provide religious folks with an alternative. This point, too, is fundamentally inconceivable to Krauss and the like, who cannot grasp that the lies we tell ourselves rival the power of truths about the universe, even when the latter are demonstrably true and the former are not.

In terms of a paradigm shift, then, Rollins’ position is perhaps more viable. It is true that he has an economic interest in maintaining ambiguous ties with Christianity because liberal or postmodern Christians are primarily the folks that come to hear him. To the outsider, of which Krauss provided a quintessential example in this debate, Rollins’ circumlocutions seem unintelligible. His is the language of the existentialist, the language of deconstruction, but it is also storytelling, narratives that Christians are familiar with. If he could succeed in recasting Christianity not around dogmatic principles about the world and the afterlife, but around breaking down those principles and questioning our dogmatic assumptions about the world, the fundamental and unthinking ways that religion allows folks to operate in would be shifted. Religion would not provide a safe haven for rigid belief and unthinking behavior. It is certainly not to say that it would eliminate it. The very fact that atheism can provide that same haven for unthinking should be an indication that institutionalization, not the content of an institution, is all that suffices to become dogmatic.

01/19/14

One of these things is not like the others…

Screen Shot 2014-01-18 at 9.18.25 PMI’ve had multiple conversations in the last year about whether atheism is a religion. I don’t self-identify as atheist for both political and ideological reasons, but most of the critiques I see of atheism—which are usually critiques of atheists, and usually about how mean they are—only shallowly engage the ideas they critique and beg the very questions atheists are asking.

A way to get behind the question is to ask what function atheism-as-religion has for the parties who make that claim. It’s easier to deal first with those who self-identify as atheist. The closest thing I know to religious atheism is the Sunday Assembly, whose recent split seems to have been over just how much to explicitly cater to atheists as opposed to a more general humanism. (As a side note, it doesn’t seem the best tactic to argue that a “split” is evidence that atheism is a religion). They meet together, sing songs, tell stories, and enjoy each other’s company. If you want to call atheism a religion in a colloquial sense based on groups like these, so be it.

I’ve found, however, that those who claim atheism is a religion are usually members of a “rival” religious tradition. The argument seems to go something like this:

  1. Christianity is defined by a belief in God (Jesus).
  2. Atheism is defined by a belief that there is no God.
  3. These are both beliefs.
  4. Therefore, an atheist critique of Christianity is invalid because the two are both belief systems.

There are many problems with this argument. Beginning with the end, if it were the case that all belief systems are structurally the same and they therefore have no ground to critique each other, this would undercut any criticism of another institution. This might be helpful if we judged systems solely on the basis of structure or organization without any evaluation of content, but we don’t, and that leads to the next point.

There is a gap between points three and four implying that all beliefs are qualitatively the same. This is a disingenuous argument because it separates belief as a thing out in the world separate from believers, those who create belief through acting in the world. Sure, a belief is a belief, just as a law is a law, but we wouldn’t likely argue that all laws are qualitatively the same. They pertain to different aspects of existence and we judge some of them effective and others not-as-effective.

What the argument is saying is that the act of believing is equivalent in both cases. Again, this is technically true, but it is disingenuous because it negates the content of the belief. It partakes in the sociological idea of rational choice, which suggests that we pick our way of being in the world as if picking a value meal at McDonalds. In truth, we are already enveloped in a world that disposes us to prefer some ways of being over others. Sincere adherents to a tradition prefer their traditions. They think their tradition is better for them than others for a variety of reasons. It may be because of potential theological consequences; it may be because of social preference. One is deceiving one’s self, however, if one both claims to be a member of a tradition and claims that his or her tradition is no better that any others. (Of course, one other option is to being to realize you don’t prefer a tradition as much as you thought you did, that realization becoming a catalyst for change. Such was my experience.)

If we look at the specific beliefs (assuming that the defining belief here is the presence or absence of God), no better case can be made. A monotheist affirms that there exists a supernatural being of higher order that interacts with humanity in some way. Those who are not monotheists do not necessarily believe that there is no God (although they may); they simply lack a belief that monotheists have. These are not the same thing. The first implies the existence of a divine being and suggests that one’s decision is whether to affirm its existence. The second denotes the presence of belief in one case, and an absence in the next.

The reason the argument is not usually made this way is, in part, because the presumption of divine beings has been prevalent in Western society for all of written history. (We may be even genetically predisposed to affirm a higher power, anthropomorphizing what we cannot explain.) The existence of God has been normalized to such an extent that is the starting point for all discussions about religion. Thus the absence of belief is characterized as a belief in itself, which from a normative stance is also seen as an attack on existing belief. This is not to say that atheists do not attack “believers.” It is to say that “believing differently” is a poor way of conceptualizing an absence of belief.

So what is a better way of conceptualizing those who, from the perspective of religious traditions, do not believe? A better way might be to look at what they affirm. Far be it from me to speak for atheism; rather I want to suggest that all ways of viewing the world are not belief systems. Or, more precisely, all are not faith systems. In discussions such as these, there is slippage between the two ideas. It is possible to justify belief, but it is not possible to justify faith. Faith is belief in the absence of—or because of the absence of—justification. Its primary criteria is not being subject to falsification. Other epistemologies are defined by their being subject to refinement, criticism, and inquiry. The substance of faith cannot be changed, and this is why it cannot be considered as an equivalent form of knowledge to any other that is subject to such falsification. One might even try to argue that faith is better than other forms of belief, but it cannot be the same.

We come full circle here. The faithful can argue, “Well I can’t prove that God exists, but you can’t prove that he doesn’t!” That is indeed the case. I can neither prove that unicorns exist. Luckily I don’t need to because very few if any think they do. The point is that when other epistemologies come to the fringes of their systemic ability, they may speculate, but they do not assume or create other forms of knowledge to compensate. This certainly does not mean a lack of desire to know the unknown. It entails a humility about our systems and abilities of perception that is in keeping with the history of humanity.

I’d be interested to hear if I am missing possibilities. Is it possible to both identify with a particular tradition and yet not think that it is qualitatively better for them to be in that tradition than others? Is it possible to view faith as an epistemology like any other?

02/19/13

Is There Such Thing as Friendly Atheism?

I’ve been wondering lately. I don’t consider myself an atheist, based on the deist to atheist spectrum where deists believe in some sort of god, agnostics aren’t sure, and atheists believe there is not a god. As a Christian, I saw atheism as willful ignorance, much as many atheists think of Christians. I’ve discovered that the updated definition of atheism is construed more broadly, including a range of beliefs from the militant anti-religionist to the mild-mannered secularist. I’m still not comfortable with the label because it seems to set up its identity in reaction to deism, and most often, Christianity. I have heard the argument before that atheism is more original than deism, but for all practical purposes, those who don’t profess religious affiliation are in the minority and thus bear a greater burden of crafting an identity than the majority, which can rest upon the status quo. For example, Richard Dawkins has claimed that the President is probably not Christian, but plays a Christian on TV because one still can’t be President without some sort of Christian belief. (I, for the record, think that he probably is a Christian in the same way that most Americans are: with little personal cost. It is not that faith has to be challenged, it is that when it is not, one doesn’t have to think through its cultural implications.)

When New Atheism began to arrive on the public scene in force after 9/11, the figures that gained the greatest press were those who said the harshest things about religion. Christopher Hitchens, Richard Dawkins, Sam Harris, Daniel Dennett and others have become known for their strident arguments against religion. (I should confess that I have only read the works of Harris in any detail, and his arguments in The End of Faith and Letter to a Christian Nation left something to be desired, a point to which I’ll return in the future. Part of this is because of my lack of interest in the dichotomization of religion and science upon which the debate often plays out.) As a student of religion, the idea that religion should just go away leaves me incredulous, for its impracticality if nothing else. Yet I agree with many of their assessments of what religion, in its “purest” forms, can do to motivate violence and—I shudder to say the word—intolerance.

The public perception of atheism, particularly the perception of atheism by religious people, has been of interest to me because of the Patheos site, The Friendly Atheist. The blog ranks in the top ten of religious blogs, so it gets a significant bit of internet traffic. I found the site a couple months ago and was thrilled. While one can find Christian blogs absolutely everywhere, there are comparatively few blogs about secularism and atheism. Site creator Hemant Mehta and his crew put up several posts a day, and it’s a great source of information on the latest happenings on religion in public education and religion and politics in particular. It focuses primarily on the US, and thus primarily on Christianity.

What I’m disappointed by is the relative lack of, well, friendliness on the blog. While the news information speaks for itself as to the excesses of fundamentalist religion and the problems it creates, the context in which it is delivered is not usually respectful to the people in question, nor to people of religious faith as a whole. All this is unproblematic if Mehta wants to be the strident atheist or the vitriolic atheist, but the friendly atheist? I would like to have a friend who corrects me when I’m clearly wrong on something, or challenges my views if they are insufficiently thought out. However, if my “friend“ consistently berates me, he or she probably won’t stay a friend for very long.

Last month, Mehta put up a clip of his reasoning for calling his blog the Friendly Atheist. First, it was to counter Christian ideas of atheist as all hateful people. Okay, I like that. (Watch how many times he rolls his eyes in the first thirty seconds though. How would he stereotype the religious?) The second reason, he says, is that when you meet atheists in person, they are actually pretty nice, not the evil people they’re made out to be. He suggests that they may act like they’re angry in their writing, but they’re really nice people. This may be the problem, the paradigm that suggests we can get away with whatever language we want online, because we’re not face to face. Although I probably wouldn’t want to talk to them at all, I’d prefer someone that was just as insensitive in person as they are online.

The point that I’ve made before is that there’s no reason to think online discourse somehow escapes the ethical boundaries you impose on your own face-to-face communication. That is not to say that the blog has committed some egregious slander. Mehta just doesn’t articulate the connection between physical and online presence. (On this topic, Dan over at Camels with Hammers has put up a civility pledge to address this very topic. I’ve only skimmed it, but it looks good. He suggests his disappointment in a subsequent post that most atheists don’t agree with his position.)

I’ll continue to use the Friendly Atheist for the near future, because they have an excellent network of sources to aggregate religious content, but I will filter out the commentary that accompanies it. I haven’t done an extensive search for atheist approaches that are actually friendly, aside from the ones I’ve already mentioned, but I’ll let you know when I find them. There are several others to choose from on the Patheos Atheist Channel. The Friendly Atheist site, like so many of its Christian counterparts, is designed to preach to the choir. Again, that’s fine if that’s where the market is, but I’d rather see some truth-in-advertising. If Mehta and crew put in a little extra effort in to show that they respect their interlocutors (if they do), or just pull some punches on the “it’s all bulls$%t” commentary, the blog might reach some more of the presumed target audience.

(In the interest of full disclosure, when I first came across the site, I emailed and asked to be a contributor. I was put off nicely. As shown above, I’ve changed my opinion of the site a bit, although I still enjoy it and employ it here as a popular example of a type of discourse. Just didn’t want that to come back and bite me!)

02/17/13

Atheism for Lent

should-we-give-up-god-for-lentAlthough I’d like to take credit for this, the idea belongs to Peter Rollins, a theologian and philosopher who has been associated with the Emerging Church. Rollins recently posted a link on his Facebook page to an extended critique of his work on Red Letter Christians. Since Micah Bales, the writer of the post, critiques Rollins in a way that appeals directly to the habitus of liberal evangelical Christians, I wanted to respond to his points from my perspective. Given the choice, I would quickly and easily choose the theology of Rollins over Bales’ critiques.

The critique comes out of the context of Atheism for Lent, an idea Rollins has promoted for several years, which suggests that rather than giving up something like chocolate or TV for Lent, we give up God instead. Why? To experience the sense of abandonment by God that Jesus felt on the cross. To fully embody the doubt that Rollins contends is the hallmark of Christianity. It is only by giving up our preconceived ideas about God that we can experience the love that fills the hole left by their absence. I’ll talk more about this in the future, because there is much to like about Rollins’ approach, which draws on Nietzsche, Slavoj Žižek, John Caputo, and others. Bales’ critique here is not directly about Rollins’ theology, though, but his approach.

His first critique is that Rollins is toying with Gnosticism. Bales doesn’t use the term, but suggests that Rollins’ appeal lies in the draw of some special knowledge that others don’t know about or don’t grasp. He asks, “But how does this special knowledge affect how you look at your fellow Christians who do not share your radical doubt? Do you see their lack of doubt as ignorant? Weak?” The questions are irrelevant to the legitimacy of Rollins’ approach. I agree with Bales that Rollins’ approach is crafted toward a more intellectual crowd, but that has no bearing on the authenticity of its content. Gnosticism was a blanket term used against Christians in the early Church who saw the key to Jesus, not necessarily in his bloody death, but in the knowledge he imparted before death. While the term is often used in a pejorative sense now, before the triumph of orthodox Christianity, it was just one among many legitimate strands of Christian thought and practice. In short, the accusation of Gnosticism is a polemical approach that can only be made from the standpoint of the majority. Because a particular version of Christianity holds sway today, if someone like Rollins promotes an understanding that requires rethinking the traditional means and symbols we use to think about Christianity, it is easy to claim that its appeal lies in its elitism. It was the same charge leveled against early Christians by Rome.

Bales’ second point is that Rollins doesn’t talk about social justice enough. He only talks about the personal aspects of Christianity, the ways in which the individual responds (or not) to God. Bales is right that Rollins does not give an extensive summary of ways for Christians to enact social justice, but I couldn’t disagree more with the heart of this point. A great part of Rollins’ appeal for me as I was jettisoning mainstream Christianity was the way in which Rollins tears down the hypocrisy inherent in typical Christian responses to social justice, responses that have little more to recommend them than participating in social justice by buying your latte at Starbucks and knowing that 1% goes back to the coffee farmers. (This is a classic example of Žižek.) Rollins suggests that Christian attempts at social justice are largely playing a role, gesturing at the actions that we think Christians ought to perform through singing songs, putting bumper stickers on our vehicles, and putting an extra $5 in the collection plate for overseas missions. It is true that Rollins’ work is focused on deconstructing Christian norms than outlining a social justice platform. I don’t know that Rollins would argue this, but I think the bigger problem is that Christians believe that theological propositions (God died for me, etc.) are the foundation of social change when they have no necessary connection. In other words, Christianity as it is practiced institutionally does not require social change. It requires maintenance of the status quo.

Bales’ third point is a variant of the first; namely, that Rollins’ message only appeals to those in a relatively comfortable social class, those that have the freedom to play with their beliefs. There is a sociological point here, in that those with other structural supports are less likely to rely as heavily on theological truths to secure their wellbeing. Bales writes that his friend who works with individuals with severe disabilities said, “I would just like to see Peter Rollins come to L’Arche and talk about this stuff. Let him explain to people suffering from schizophrenia and learning disabilities why they need to stop believing in God.” This critique is misleading. If Rollins is correct, then Bales is blaming him for trying to give people a better understanding of Christianity when they have been given misinformation. This paradigm says, “Well, they’re happy now, so don’t bother them.” Which approach values these people as individuals more? It’s also a fallacy to believe that these people need to have the theological crutch they have to survive. Much of the world survives without such a message, a a good portion dies with it. I would argue that this approach is precisely what prevents the social change Bales deplores is missing. Atheism may not the answer for those in need right now, but Christianity may not be either. The answer could be, without touting a theological message, to show the divine to the person in need with love, empowering them to thrive in the world by extending, as much as possible, the structural supports that we casually suggest are our rights.

We could put this another way. The reason Christianity is more appealing to those who are young and to those who are in dire straits is that allows them a simple way to distance themselves from their circumstances. These populations have the lowest intellectual resistance to the institution because they are weak and vulnerable. Is that a point to objectively recommend Christianity? Or would it be more valuable to give people the tools to understand their own circumstances in a different way and explore different ways to relate to them?

In short, Bales’ critique serves as a reaffirmation of the status quo. While it looks to me as if he does comparatively more than the average Christian (whatever that means) to practice his beliefs, his message here allows Christians to remain happily static, instead of challenging the dependency of their theology upon social and cultural norms. My critique of Rollins, essentially, is that he is a closet atheist who continues to use the Christian message for political purposes. He thinks he can make greater change within Christianity than abandoning the narrative all together. Or perhaps he does think that the Christian story is an appropriate narrative to understand our existential relationship with the world. Part of me thinks that he may be right. But the greater part thinks that the tradition has done too much damage in the past to be trusted with our existential future.