Saturday, June 20, 2009
Thoughts on Hall
Doubtless, the most important question concerning any discussion of the philosophy of religion is: Can we formulate a cogent, solid argument proving the existence of God? In his video course “Philosophy of Religion”, Professor James Hall of the University of Richmond offers a careful, methodical analysis of this question, lucidly articulating the various arguments that philosophers and theologians have made over the centuries—the ontological argument, the cosmological argument, the teleological argument, etc.
Hall’s conclusion, at the end of thirty-six half-hour lectures, is a straightforward one: the Scottish Verdict—neither proved nor disproved. No argument for God’s existence is ever able to reach closure. All, in some way or other, fall short. Although some demonstrate that a god or gods might exist, the sort of God as claimed by most of the major religions of the world, namely the God of ethical monotheism, never quite manifests Himself.
Though Hall is also quick to point out that the atheist’s claim is just as unproved as the theist’s. Surely, then, according to Hall, the only reasonable stance for anyone to take is that of the agnostic. Maybe God is, maybe God isn’t. We just don’t know. This viewpoint is readily reflected in Hall’s own background and personal history: Born in a small town in Texas and raised in the rural Southeast and Midwest, Hall was the son of an evangelical Protestant minister who oftentimes preached fire and brimstone; at one time, Hall even seriously considered entering the ministry, earning a Master’s Degree in Theology before receiving his PhD. Currently, Hall describes himself as an “agnostic Protestant Episcopal.”
Got that? He goes to church, but is unsure whether the object of that church’s worship really exists. This is the same sort of thinking behind the claim of some post-modernists that although morality is subjective, it is still morally reprehensible to eat meat. It is a viewpoint that is inconsistent at best and contradictory and hypocritical at worst.
Still, I myself have often made the same claim, that as far as the question of God’s existence is concerned, the only truly honest assessment is to take the agnostic’s stance. After all, atheism and theism are simply opposite sides of the same coin. The atheist answers the question of God’s existence with a no, the theist with a yes. It is in this respect that atheism is just as much a religious contention as is theism, because either position incorporates a leap of faith. The rational thing to do is to decide not to decide.
What makes agnosticism rational is that there is simply no argument that anyone can possibly make to compel someone to believe that God is or that He isn’t. I have atheist friends (one was best man at my wedding), with whom I have argued long and hard about God. I have tried to convince them that God exists. They have tried to convince me that God does not exist. Despite our many discussions, none of us have budged an inch. Most likely, we never will. It is because of the weakness of the arguments we make? Or is it because neither side wants to concede to the other? In either case, it seems to me, the default position should be that we just don’t know. After all, the Is/Isn’t debate is hardly new. Philosophers have debated it for millennia, just as cogently as I and my atheist friends have debated it, even more so, and in far greater detail, without having ever reached closure (to use the term Hall prefers). Doesn’t that suggest that a definitive answer to the question is not forthcoming?
Yet, hearing that very same assessment from Professor Hall, I find myself suddenly doubting the doubter. Why?
For one, regardless how we look at the question or try to answer it, there is an underlying reality, over which we simply have no control: either God is, or He isn’t. If He is, then those of use who argue for His existence are right, and those who argue against His existence are wrong. Conversely, if He isn’t, then the theists are wrong and the atheists are right. Somebody’s the winner and somebody’s the loser, whether or not we can sort out which is which.
Secondly, even if it is true that despite our best efforts we find no definitive answer, there’s no reason for supposing that our best efforts are in any way good enough to solve the problem. Perhaps it is not philosophy’s shortcoming, but our own, limited by a human intellect that is woefully insufficient for sorting out a reliable answer. After all, it’s impossible for a gorilla to read Life on the Mississippi and understand it, but not so for a human being. Might there not be some brainier race on some far-off planet that has finally figured out the answer? If they’re from the Planet of Atheists, maybe they’re the goofballs piloting all those UFOs and sadistically probing the anuses of innocent humans. Or if they’re from the Planet of Theists, maybe they hang out with God and run errands for him from time to time—what we mere mortals call Angels. Surely there are other possibilities as well, ones that I’m either too stupid to think of or you’re too stupid to refute.
Thirdly, two things can be equally possible and yet remain unequally probable. Consider a coin toss. Most people would say there are two possibilities: the coin lands heads, or it lands tails. Actually, though, the two possibilities are: the coin lands on its side (either heads or tails) or it lands on its edge. The coin landing on its edge is just as possible as landing on either of its sides (that is, just as valid a possibility), but far less probable. If you don’t believe me, toss a coin a hundred times onto a flat tabletop and see what you get.
Likewise, when I look at the universe, I see two possibilities: it came about all on its own, or it didn’t. If it did, a creator is unnecessary. If it didn’t, it had help. The question then becomes: are these two possibilities equally probable, or is one more probable than the other, and if so, which?
I certainly can’t rely on direct experience to answer the question any more than I can rely on Dr. Hall’s philosophy course. I haven’t seen new universes popping into existence on their own, but, on the other hand, I haven’t noticed anyone constructing new universes, either. What I have seen, though, is that the universe is ordered. It has structure. And, if the Anthropic Principle is to be believed, it has a purpose—that we can be here to see it.
Taken together, then, these considerations (and others that I haven’t bothered to enumerate) lead me to feel that it is far more likely to suppose that the universe had help in its creation rather than being an example of self-creation. If so, what sort of help?
Why, a Right Good One, seems to me.
More later…
Hall’s conclusion, at the end of thirty-six half-hour lectures, is a straightforward one: the Scottish Verdict—neither proved nor disproved. No argument for God’s existence is ever able to reach closure. All, in some way or other, fall short. Although some demonstrate that a god or gods might exist, the sort of God as claimed by most of the major religions of the world, namely the God of ethical monotheism, never quite manifests Himself.
Though Hall is also quick to point out that the atheist’s claim is just as unproved as the theist’s. Surely, then, according to Hall, the only reasonable stance for anyone to take is that of the agnostic. Maybe God is, maybe God isn’t. We just don’t know. This viewpoint is readily reflected in Hall’s own background and personal history: Born in a small town in Texas and raised in the rural Southeast and Midwest, Hall was the son of an evangelical Protestant minister who oftentimes preached fire and brimstone; at one time, Hall even seriously considered entering the ministry, earning a Master’s Degree in Theology before receiving his PhD. Currently, Hall describes himself as an “agnostic Protestant Episcopal.”
Got that? He goes to church, but is unsure whether the object of that church’s worship really exists. This is the same sort of thinking behind the claim of some post-modernists that although morality is subjective, it is still morally reprehensible to eat meat. It is a viewpoint that is inconsistent at best and contradictory and hypocritical at worst.
Still, I myself have often made the same claim, that as far as the question of God’s existence is concerned, the only truly honest assessment is to take the agnostic’s stance. After all, atheism and theism are simply opposite sides of the same coin. The atheist answers the question of God’s existence with a no, the theist with a yes. It is in this respect that atheism is just as much a religious contention as is theism, because either position incorporates a leap of faith. The rational thing to do is to decide not to decide.
What makes agnosticism rational is that there is simply no argument that anyone can possibly make to compel someone to believe that God is or that He isn’t. I have atheist friends (one was best man at my wedding), with whom I have argued long and hard about God. I have tried to convince them that God exists. They have tried to convince me that God does not exist. Despite our many discussions, none of us have budged an inch. Most likely, we never will. It is because of the weakness of the arguments we make? Or is it because neither side wants to concede to the other? In either case, it seems to me, the default position should be that we just don’t know. After all, the Is/Isn’t debate is hardly new. Philosophers have debated it for millennia, just as cogently as I and my atheist friends have debated it, even more so, and in far greater detail, without having ever reached closure (to use the term Hall prefers). Doesn’t that suggest that a definitive answer to the question is not forthcoming?
Yet, hearing that very same assessment from Professor Hall, I find myself suddenly doubting the doubter. Why?
For one, regardless how we look at the question or try to answer it, there is an underlying reality, over which we simply have no control: either God is, or He isn’t. If He is, then those of use who argue for His existence are right, and those who argue against His existence are wrong. Conversely, if He isn’t, then the theists are wrong and the atheists are right. Somebody’s the winner and somebody’s the loser, whether or not we can sort out which is which.
Secondly, even if it is true that despite our best efforts we find no definitive answer, there’s no reason for supposing that our best efforts are in any way good enough to solve the problem. Perhaps it is not philosophy’s shortcoming, but our own, limited by a human intellect that is woefully insufficient for sorting out a reliable answer. After all, it’s impossible for a gorilla to read Life on the Mississippi and understand it, but not so for a human being. Might there not be some brainier race on some far-off planet that has finally figured out the answer? If they’re from the Planet of Atheists, maybe they’re the goofballs piloting all those UFOs and sadistically probing the anuses of innocent humans. Or if they’re from the Planet of Theists, maybe they hang out with God and run errands for him from time to time—what we mere mortals call Angels. Surely there are other possibilities as well, ones that I’m either too stupid to think of or you’re too stupid to refute.
Thirdly, two things can be equally possible and yet remain unequally probable. Consider a coin toss. Most people would say there are two possibilities: the coin lands heads, or it lands tails. Actually, though, the two possibilities are: the coin lands on its side (either heads or tails) or it lands on its edge. The coin landing on its edge is just as possible as landing on either of its sides (that is, just as valid a possibility), but far less probable. If you don’t believe me, toss a coin a hundred times onto a flat tabletop and see what you get.
Likewise, when I look at the universe, I see two possibilities: it came about all on its own, or it didn’t. If it did, a creator is unnecessary. If it didn’t, it had help. The question then becomes: are these two possibilities equally probable, or is one more probable than the other, and if so, which?
I certainly can’t rely on direct experience to answer the question any more than I can rely on Dr. Hall’s philosophy course. I haven’t seen new universes popping into existence on their own, but, on the other hand, I haven’t noticed anyone constructing new universes, either. What I have seen, though, is that the universe is ordered. It has structure. And, if the Anthropic Principle is to be believed, it has a purpose—that we can be here to see it.
Taken together, then, these considerations (and others that I haven’t bothered to enumerate) lead me to feel that it is far more likely to suppose that the universe had help in its creation rather than being an example of self-creation. If so, what sort of help?
Why, a Right Good One, seems to me.
More later…
Labels: philosophy of religion
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Introducing Jake Killjoy
So far, so good. I’ve finally finished the first draft of Jake Killjoy, P.I. in: Dial D for Darwin, and at the risk of appearing braggadocious, I don’t think I’m too far from the finished product. Speaking from experience, I’ve become a big fan of the three-draft strategy for novel-writing. The goal of the first draft is only to get the manuscript together from start to finish. It can be total garbage from a literary standpoint, so long as it’s relatively cohesive and has a beginning, middle, and end.
The second draft is where you iron out all the wrinkles in the story. It’s at this point where you flesh out all the characters and make the imagery more vivid. The goal here is to make the text readable.
Then, after that’s been done, you’re ready for the third draft, where you check all your spelling and punctuation, and unify your formatting. A common mistake among inexperienced writers is to try to produce the finished product all in one draft. If you do that, you run the risk of over-editing, which interferes with what you need to do creatively to develop the narrative properly. The result is that a writer takes far too long to finish his book, if ever. The truth is, it’s difficult if not impossible to write and edit at the same time. Best to write first and edit later. (I found this out while writing Children and Fools, which took me the better part of ten years to finish. This first draft of Killjoy, in contrast, has taken only about 8 months—and it’s over 142,000 words, nearly as long as CAF.)
I’ve also found that it’s better to put the first draft away for a few months once it’s been completed. Don’t look at it, don’t even think about it. Then you can start the second draft, when you can look at the manuscript with fresh eyes and make a more effective evaluation of what the final product needs to look like.
So that’s where I am right now. I’ve written a detailed synopsis of the story, plus a one-page query that I can send out to literary agencies and publishers. In the interim, I’ll try to look for a agent to represent me, someone who can find me a top-notch editor and who knows the ropes for marketing a novel and getting it onto the bookshelves.
For those of you who’ve read my other two books, I should warn you that I’ve taken an entirely different tack with Killjoy. Instead of humor, Killjoy is satire, due to the more serious overtones of the subject matter, which is the worldview implied by radical Darwinism. In Killjoy’s world, the only law is Survival of the Fittest. Trying to be funny about it struck me as trite, and the message I wanted to convey deserved some degree of respect. So Killjoy will be my first satire.
Believe me, as a humorist who takes humor very seriously (and yes, I understand the irony of such a statement), I had plenty of reservations with setting my usual format aside and bounding off into new territory, but now that I’m done with the first draft, I know I made the right choice. The narrative itself is Spillanesque—Jake Killjoy representing a surly, tough-as-nails, twenty-sixth century P.I. Call him a cross between Buck Rogers and Mike Hammer. There’s action, adventure, more than a few bare-brawling fistfights, and, gawrsh darn it all, even a little romance.
Another major difference is in language. In my other books, I drop more F-bombs than Richard Pryor on a cocaine bender, but in Killjoy I’ve toned the language down considerably. To put it in the vernacular of the peasantry, I decided not to cuss so much. A certain blueness of language is fine when you’re trying to be as funny as possible, but becomes a distraction when your goal is to point out the logical implications of radical Darwinism. I’ve never been one to buy into the sociolinguistic notion that there are words you just can’t say, but, on the other hand, there’s no sense in alienating a major portion of my potential audience just because they’re more easily offended than I am. **Grumble. Wimps.**
The second draft is where you iron out all the wrinkles in the story. It’s at this point where you flesh out all the characters and make the imagery more vivid. The goal here is to make the text readable.
Then, after that’s been done, you’re ready for the third draft, where you check all your spelling and punctuation, and unify your formatting. A common mistake among inexperienced writers is to try to produce the finished product all in one draft. If you do that, you run the risk of over-editing, which interferes with what you need to do creatively to develop the narrative properly. The result is that a writer takes far too long to finish his book, if ever. The truth is, it’s difficult if not impossible to write and edit at the same time. Best to write first and edit later. (I found this out while writing Children and Fools, which took me the better part of ten years to finish. This first draft of Killjoy, in contrast, has taken only about 8 months—and it’s over 142,000 words, nearly as long as CAF.)
I’ve also found that it’s better to put the first draft away for a few months once it’s been completed. Don’t look at it, don’t even think about it. Then you can start the second draft, when you can look at the manuscript with fresh eyes and make a more effective evaluation of what the final product needs to look like.
So that’s where I am right now. I’ve written a detailed synopsis of the story, plus a one-page query that I can send out to literary agencies and publishers. In the interim, I’ll try to look for a agent to represent me, someone who can find me a top-notch editor and who knows the ropes for marketing a novel and getting it onto the bookshelves.
For those of you who’ve read my other two books, I should warn you that I’ve taken an entirely different tack with Killjoy. Instead of humor, Killjoy is satire, due to the more serious overtones of the subject matter, which is the worldview implied by radical Darwinism. In Killjoy’s world, the only law is Survival of the Fittest. Trying to be funny about it struck me as trite, and the message I wanted to convey deserved some degree of respect. So Killjoy will be my first satire.
Believe me, as a humorist who takes humor very seriously (and yes, I understand the irony of such a statement), I had plenty of reservations with setting my usual format aside and bounding off into new territory, but now that I’m done with the first draft, I know I made the right choice. The narrative itself is Spillanesque—Jake Killjoy representing a surly, tough-as-nails, twenty-sixth century P.I. Call him a cross between Buck Rogers and Mike Hammer. There’s action, adventure, more than a few bare-brawling fistfights, and, gawrsh darn it all, even a little romance.
Another major difference is in language. In my other books, I drop more F-bombs than Richard Pryor on a cocaine bender, but in Killjoy I’ve toned the language down considerably. To put it in the vernacular of the peasantry, I decided not to cuss so much. A certain blueness of language is fine when you’re trying to be as funny as possible, but becomes a distraction when your goal is to point out the logical implications of radical Darwinism. I’ve never been one to buy into the sociolinguistic notion that there are words you just can’t say, but, on the other hand, there’s no sense in alienating a major portion of my potential audience just because they’re more easily offended than I am. **Grumble. Wimps.**
