Book Review: God is not One

Back in late 2007, while thinking on what direction this blog might take once I'd hammered out my basic philosophical worldview, I thought about posting movie- and book- reviews on subjects skeptics, humanists, et. al would find of interest.  By that time I'd already started a book blog (This Week at the Library), and I decided not to go through with the book reviews here as I assumed it would be redundant. I reconsider almost every time  I read a book on religion or skepticism, though, and tonight I've decided to cross-post for the first time. For those who follow TWATL, the review is exactly the same, though future reviews might be somewhat different: I write to a more general crowd over there. I can see editing reviews for an audience I assume to be mostly skeptical here.
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God is Not One: The Eight Rival Religions that Rule the World and Why Their Differences Matter

© 2010 Stephen Prothero

400 pages

Despite the promises of modernity to drive religion out of the human mind, the New York City skyline bears witness to its continuing relevance. While religion can serve as a force for good,  it’s a master at nurturing the darker sides of human nature, and the good religions have achieved is often a testament to the moral courage of humans who have fought to push these systems of thought beyond their origins.  Some have gone so far as to say that the differences between religions are unimportant, that they are merely different paths up the same broad mountain which arrive at the same place. Stephen Prothero says different.  None of this tearing-down-the-walls-that-divide-us nonsense for Prothero, he intends to prove that religions are all rigidly disconnected boxes, and that while we may choose to shake hands with or shake fists at the fellows in the other boxes, we can only do it through tight little windows.

I looked forward to grappling with this book, largely because my own mind is so divided on the subject: while I believe that all religions were created by human beings to understand the world and perhaps to better themselves,  I also know that some religions are so defined by their aggressive assertions that they cannot easily find peace with other.  I found God is not One to be an unsatisfactory sparring partner, however, being  frustratingly simplistic, and ultimately disappointing.  In the first eight chapters, Prothero analyzes eight  of the the world’s major religion’s through  four-points:

• a problem
• a solution
• a technique
• an exemplar

He believes each of these religions (Islam, Confucianism, Christianity, Judaism, Buddhism, Yoruba, Taoism, Hinduism) attempts to address one of eight different problems in human nature, and offers eight fundamentally different approaches to life based on that problem.  This analysis is entirely too simplistic for the problem at hand, however. While it’s possible to identify characteristics within a religion that make them unique, those characteristics do notconstitute the religion. This eight religions, eight boxes organization ignores the more fundamental similarities religions might have:  the constant cycle of life/death/rebirth in Hinduism and Buddhism, for instance, and the hateful split between the material and spiritual worlds that Judaism, Christianity, and Islam are so keen on convincing us of. 

A second problem with this is one Prothero tip-toes around: although the eight religions he identifies here do have many varied differences, they are not necessarily hostile.  Confucianism, Taoism, and Buddhism have all existed in China together for centuries, for instance: they each have different offerings, and people happily sample beliefs and practices from each table, cafeteria-style, arriving at a worldview that meets their needs. Prothero speaks of religions ruling the world like hostile nation-states, but not all religions are as imperialistic (and therefore, conflict-prone) as the dominant forms of Christianity and Islam.  The Asian triplets point out the greatest problem with this book, Prothero’s sinister attitude about the relationship between humans and religion.  He would have us owned by religion, forced to live within that particular religion’s box. In the beginning, he snorts that attempts at interfaith dialogue which ignore the walls of differences are “disrespectful” of religion. I say poppycock. Why should we be respectful of religion and let it lie like a dusty rug? We should pick it up, bring it into the sunlight, and then beat it vigorously until all the dirt has fallen away and nothing but beauty remains. Why should we, the living, be content to breathe the dust of our ancestors?

Although Prothero’s thesis never grows legs to stand on here, the book may have some use for those interested in learning about other religions. He shows no bias toward one religion over another, though I advise nonreligious readers to steer well clear. He is bizarrely hostile toward humanists and atheists, dedicating an entire chapter to calling the ‘New Atheism’  a religion and its advocates hypocrites and plagiarists. This is stupidity, of course: religions are organized systems of beliefs, while atheism is a single belief -- and Richard Dawkins and Christopher Hitchens are no more plagiarists for making the same criticisms of religious assertions that Bertrand Russell did than is the second man in the crowd who dared to say the emperor had no clothes on.

I’m ultimately disappointed with this book: while it has its uses for comparative religion readers, there are assuredly superior books out there on that subject. I daresay even The Complete Idiot’s Guide to World Religion or some similar work would be better. I despise the spirit that sees the integrity  of religions as more 
important than the good we might do by overcoming our differences.


Related:

• The Evolution of God, Robert Wright
• A History of God, Karen Armstrong
• The Faith Club,  Ranya Indliby, Suzanne Oliver, and Priscilla Warner
• The Great Transformation: the Beginnings of our Religious Traditions, Karen Armstrong

The Fax from Heaven

Recently I received a fax, mistakenly I think. As I don't know who the intended recipient is, I am trying to share the message on behalf of the sender, who I cannot seem to locate. Hopefully the intended audience will read it somehow. 

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To the Good People of the Earth, as well as to the Rotten Ones: 

It has been brought to My attention that you are concerned about My absence from your schools, culture, and so forth. You believe that if I am not allowed in government institutions,  matters will deteriorate there. You therefore propose amendments and the like to allow me access. You also shout angry things at the people you think are responsible. 

Well, first let me say -- I'm touched. It's nice knowing you guys want Me around. But, really -- it's unnecessary. I'm omnipresent. That means I'm everywhere.I'm in the sacred places -- the nursery of a newborn -- and the foul places, corporate board meetings. I can't not be some place: it's impossible. Government legislation doesn't change metaphysical fact. I can't leave a place, and I can't go anywhere: I'm everywhere, all places, and at once.

Secondly, you seem to think misfortune befalls you because I'm not around. This is wrong.  I'm everywhere, as I've already established. Since unpleasant things are constantly happening, it should be obvious that I allow them to happen. (I'd rather you not ask why.)  I created everything -- good and evil, darkness and light. You may think that the occasional misfortune in your own lives -- a school shooting, a bridge collapse, a hurricane -- is remarkable, worthy of lamenting. This is only because you have created a society that is generally safe and predictable. Good work, by the way. In your safety, you forget that misery is a constant. People all around the world are in terrible conditions, but this isn't because I'm not there.  Havoc visits both the just and the unjust: misery and goodness may both prevail in a given area whether it be ruled by those who claim to reject or embrace Me.  Life is hard. If you don't like that, change it -- but don't pretend your lives are difficult because I'm not around. I'm not a nursemaid: I'm the Almighty. It's not that I don't care, but Me being around doesn't mean life is roses and blue skies.

Thirdly, as horrible as this may sound to you, I don't actually want to be a part of your government. Do you realize the kind of people I'd have to work with?  Goodness Me! Your politicians worship money and power, not Me. Some things never change. I haven't sponsored a political campaign in years, let Me tell you. I figured out that they were just using My name for publicity. Turns out politicans serve the interests of those who fund them, not in whose name they champion. That goes for you, as well.

These politicans are a disingenuous sort: come every election day, they claim with toothy grins to stand for "conservative, Christian values" while mocking or encouraging contempt for their opponents.  They never elaborate what their values are or why they might be pertinent, nor do their actions prove their lives to be governed by any value other that of crass self-interest. They simply expect you to be swayed by the promise that they will turn out to be a decent sort.  They won't. What kind of man has to broadcast his morality? If he stands for something, it should be obvious. Show Me a politican who manages to get elected without villifying his oponent, and I'll show you someone who might posess character.

As for me, I have decided to leave politics well enough alone. I once tried My hand at governance, and -- well, things did not go as I'd hoped. A few heavenly memos to the wrong people, and suddenly people are being slaughtered, raped, or burned as heretics. Worse still, people claiming to be sent by My office started fudging things up more. I turned away for a moment and half the Earth was at war. As I mentioned previously, people started using me for publicity, so I'm going to stay out of this politics mess.

So: don't worry about not living in a state that's not explicitly about me. The ones that are never work out, because they confuse piety with power. Values -- goodness, honesty and so on -- will still manifest themselves in the lives of those who care about the quality of life.  Substance is worth more than labels: an avowedly secular state can be more moral than the most explicitly religious state.

Like I said, I'm always around.  I can promise you in the future that your society will have ups and downs, but religiosity doesn't matter a bit. It's up to you to make the best of what you have, even if it seems futile at times.  If it all seems a bit too much for you, never fear. You've invented those television and Facebook things to keep your attention off these oh-so-depressing matters. If you choose not to fight, though, to strive forward in spite of difficulties, I forbid you from whining about the results.

(Not that you'd pay attention. Don't wear mixed fabrics, I said. Sell your possessions and give the proceeds to the poor, I said. Don't eat lobster. Stone rebellious children.* Bah! Most of you don't even bother.)

          I hope this clears things up.

Yours truly,
God

* Actually, I should apologize for that. I was going through some hard times, said things I didn't mean. In retrospect, it wasn't one of My better ideas.

God, Religion, and Me: Musings

The below are scattered thoughts I've been having on God and religion. I just wanted to try to collect them and see if they made any more sense once they were ought of my head: I also wouldn't mind constructive feedback. For those interested, I have a few essays in the works -- mostly about humanism.

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I can’t say I ever identified with God or Jesus growing up as a kid. I was close to identifying with God -- the Hebrew god. He was violent and brutish, but he was reliable and he only got violent when the rules were crossed. Sure, the rules were a tad silly at times -- “Don’t boil a goat in its mother’s milk”, that sort of thing -- but they were there, and if you followed them you wouldn’t get boils and God would protect you from mean people. That sort of thing appeals to a bullied kid like myself.

Jesus I never understood. He was a bully in his own way: he stoked the fires of Hell, even as he said nice things. I didn’t appreciate that much. There’s no way to reconcile love of any kind with eternal pain. Once I got old enough to walk away from Christianity , I did. But as a humanist, I wanted to identify with people: I wanted to understand my fellows more. What about Jesus or God did they need?

When I left Christianity and realized that Humanism was what I’d wanted for my entire life, it seemed clear to me that religion was ridiculously unnecessary. It seemed to me an imposition: the priest thinks up a religion and makes people under his power swear to it, and since not everyone has the same priest, people start killing one another over their religion. I didn’t appreciate this: I hated it. It made my blood boil.

I remained mostly confused about why people tolerated religion bossing them around until I became aware of ethical philosophy -- living philosophy. I then started seeing philosophy in religion and began thinking that maybe religion was just a power structure for implementing ethical philosophy. I forget when I discovered ethical philosophy, but it was probably in 2007 when I began reading about humanist spirituality and discovered Doug Muder’s excellent “Humanist Spirituality: Oxymoron, or Authentic Path to Enlightenment?”

I began thinking about ideals. I seemed to rely on ideals, and I wondered if perhaps religious people were the safe way -- if they hadn’t just taken their ideals out of their head and put them in the cosmic ether, where they assumed a human form which they called a God. Maybe God is a projection of what people want to be or value most? When I put the ideas of God-as-ideal and religion-as-power-structure together, I thought I had some sense of what made religion tick. I knew there was more to it -- the need for community and connection -- but I was concentrating on why people thought they needed God, not just a community.

Around the same time, I was studying Stoicism and its view of God. The ancient Stoic view of God is more subtle and complicated than any I’d encountered previously: they saw God as being sort of the fabric of the universe. It wasn’t a being separate from the universe: it was the universe. It was the order in the universe: it was reason and conscience both. The Stoics believed that when we do as we ought, -- as reason dictates -- we will be happy. Although I’m still trying to find the right balance between my emotional humanism (“Dammit, Jim!”) and my more Stoic leanings “(“Control yourself, Doctor.”) -- between the need for detachment and the need for attachment -- generally speaking I think Stoicism works well even for a nontheist like myself. Someone at the Stoic Registry, now called the “New Stoa”, wrote that the difference between a theistic Stoic and an atheistic Stoic is that one sees the Order of the universe as conscious while the other doesn’t.

What this did for me was make me aware of the power of the God-as-source idea. Previously I’d thought of this as silly. People pray to God and he doles out courage or wisdom? But now I get it: Marcus Aurelius referred to a well within us that will bubble forth if only we will dig -- if only we will apply our reason to find the best course of action. I don’t know how to explain this idea properly beyond that I get why people think of God as a universal source now. I understand it. If I thought it were real, I could revere it. As it happens, though, I cannot think of the universe as being conscious based on the information I have.

At the same time, I’ve realized there are bounds to knowledge. We can’t understand the universe as it may truly be -- only as it appears to us. I think we can know a great deal about the universe for our purposes: we can destroy a disease, land a machine on Saturn’s moons, invent a farm machine that analyzes the viability of rice even as it picks it from the ground. We can do an awful lot, but I don’t think we can contemplate the walls of the petri dish we call the universe. That’s sort of how I think of us at times: one-celled creatures in an overwhelmingly vast universe who don’t have a shot at really understanding it.

This is the mystery: this is where rationality cannot go, because it has no evidence to operate from. The natural laws I understand that explain the formation of our galaxy and of Earth and the development of life and society can’t penetrate the walls of the universe, wherever or whatever they may be. I suppose this is where ideas like “faith” come in, and so help me if I haven’t gotten to the point where I can say I understand a little of what that means.

My worldview is ever-evolving, and not in ways I would have ever expected. I keep wanting to connect to religious humanity -- to come to terms with the people who I once couldn’t understand, but who now I do but cannot connect with anyway. My own sense of spirituality, and even my sense of religion if you want to go that far, are distinctly Humanist: I believe we’re all alone and should do the best we can. I don’t think life is anything to complain about.

What’s happening to me is a growing sense of not having answers, but not really needing them too much. Sometimes, though, I wonder if all my claims to understanding God and faith are just attempts by some part of me to connect to the rest of humanity. I think about this, and then I think that maybe we’re not that different to begin with, that we’re all just doing the best we can to get along and that we all try to make the universe make sense to us. Most of us do this within the bounds of our culture: some of us reject that. Maybe that’s the difference? I don’t know where all this is going, really. Only time will tell.

Left and Right Together: Reccommendation

I’d like to share what was for me a thought-provoking read, UU minister Doug Muder’s “Left and Right Together”. This is the text of a sermon, available online, and it addresses what the religious right and the religious or spiritual left have in common. Although he uses the word “religious”, the UU take on religion is broad enough that he's also addressing life stances like Humanism. Muder is a humanist himself.

He begins the sermon with readings from someone I would never expect to hear from in a UU fellowship: James Dobson. What we have in common, Muder says, is that we are mutually concerned with the way humanity is shaping up. “Both have loyalties that go beyond self and the convenience of the moment. Both reject the materialism of popular culture. Both seek something more substantial than the momentary satisfaction of desire or the endless striving after status. The committed (liberal) life is a different way to pursue these goals, not a denial of them.”

Muder states that both ways of life are concerned about the unhealthy growth of the same thing, the religion of “Consumer Hedonism”. This is a religion that dominates the culture to the point that it needs no building, names, priests, or anything of the sort: it’s become the very atmosphere we live in. To show this, he lays out what Consumer Hedonism is and elaborates on what values it instills in everyone -- values that are rejected by those who are concerned about bigger things. “Liberals and conservatives alike reject the emptiness of Consumer Hedonism, and nurture values that transcend desire and image: Values like family and friends and community. Compassion for the stranger. A just society. Appreciating the wonder of creation. Building a personal relationship with Beauty and with Knowledge and with Understanding. When those values are part of your experience of every moment, when you have trained yourself to experience them as immediately as you experience your physical desires, you're there. [...] The main difference between religious liberals and religious conservatives is in where they look for those values and how they hope to bring them into the world. Conservatives look to traditional values, a way of life that they believe worked for our ancestors. Typically, a conservative faith has a Golden Age it wants to preserve or restore: Eden, ancient Israel, the Jerusalem of the Apostles, the Medina of Muhammad, or even the small-town America of Norman Rockwell. Conservatives see the deeper values of those communities being replaced by practices that satisfy more superficial desires.

Liberals, on the other hand, attach their vision of deeper values to a future Utopia or to a Platonic ideal. They see themselves not as restoring a Golden Age, but as marching onward and upward towards a world more perfect than has ever existed before. Two centuries ago, a world without slavery was a complete dream. No Golden Age had ever achieved it. But here we are.”

He ends with thoughts on generating a dialogue between the human-concerned left and the religious right. I found the sermon to be very…thought-provoking and more than a little heartening. I’ll own to going weak at the knees for ideas that bring people together, but outside of my own biases I think Muder makes a valid observation. What say you?

Truth and Meaning

One of the biggest obstacles facing a dialogue between believers of a particular faith and nonbelievers is that of the meaning people ascribe to ideas they believe as truth. It is one thing to believe something as true, but quite another to attach meaning (and thus emotion) to the idea. Meaningful ideas are not "bad", and they are probably unavoidable -- but when two people are discussing the truth-or-no nature of an idea, if they do not separate the meaning they derive from that idea from the idea itself, they will unavoidably confuse the issue. As Epictetus said, "the first duty of the truth-seeker is to rid the mind of one's conceits": do not assume the premise you attempt to prove.

I do not expect the people I encounter on a daily basis to separate the meanings they attach to ideas to the ideas themselves. I would if I were dealing with historians or scientists attempting to work out the truth of a matter, but on a daily basis, people aren't that engaged in the seeking of the truth. There are professions where truth claims are quite important -- banking, law, academia, and so on -- but for most people, I don't think truth claims come up that much. I think most people just live their lives, only needing to deal with the occasional truth claim. As such, the meaning attached to an idea they think of as true is more important than the actual veracity of the idea. I'm going to address Christianity specifically because it is the religion I have the most contact with. The average Christian, I would wager, does not spend a lot of time thinking about arguments for and against the idea that Jesus was God. If they were a serious Christian, though, they probably do spend time thinking about the meaning of that claim. They draw inspiration from his life: they are moved by feelings of mercy, humbleness, and love when they think of them. Other meanings are less pleasant to dwell on -- think of how a fundamentalist sees Jesus. What matters to most people, I think, is not the truth of the matter, but what meaning their ideas have for them. This is why it is easy to embrace theism and reject atheism: what meaning is there in atheism?

There isn't any. There isn't supposed to be. People can ascribe meaning all they want, but I don't think it is a far-fetched claim to say it's easier to create meaning out of a god than it is a lack of a god. The biggest obstacle to a civil discussion between Christians and nonchristians, or between believers in general and nonbelievers, is this matter of truth having taken on intense personal meaning. Personal meaning is subjective: it cannot be debated to any real purpose anymore than two people in an art gallery can argue over the "real" meaning of a painting. They can learn from or derive value from the other's interpretation if -- and only if, I think -- they accept that both of their interpretations are just that, interpretations. A Christian who is proselytizing, whoever, is not likely to accept the idea that what they believe to be true is just an interpretation -- nor are they likely to react to the proposition that their interpretation is wrong with any amount of grace. This is not a jibe at Christians in particular: if you believe something so forcefully that you're willing to knock on doors and intrude into the personal worldviews of strangers, it is not likely that you are a person who will suddenly back off and say "Well, yes, mine is only an interpretation". (Or, for that matter, that the people who wrote the text you take so seriously are only in possession of opinions, and not truths.)

I am starting to believe that discussions about atheism and theism are completely irrelevant. I recognize that some of my ideals are just that, ideals: they are not practical truth claims. I may have some rational justification for practicing the Golden Rule or for regarding all of humanity as important, but I accept that these are primarily ideas that mean something to me -- that I can't argue them, I can only say "This is what I believe". In so doing, though, I also put myself into the position of recognizing that for other people, the rational justification for believing in Jesus may be of only secondary importance -- that for them, what is important is the meaning they attach to those ideas. That, for someone who believes in the importance of believing what is true, is an odd thing to get used to. Stranger still is the fact that I'm more or less okay with this apparent contradiction between values. (I say apparent because I think the truth of the matter is, expecting humans to be rational is irrational.) What I want is for people to treat people decently. I want people to believe in themselves, to attempt to make their lives better. I'm starting to realize, though, that the philosophical life isn't for everyone and that those who do pursue self-growth may not do so on the terms I do -- and that's okay. (The idea that it wasn't okay at one point now strikes me as bothersome.)

So those are my thoughts, as they are now, on truth and meaning. I may develop this further as time wears on, but for today I just wanted to organize and express some thoughts of mine.

If This Be Treason...(II)

...make the most of it. This essay deals with my departure from Oneness Pentecostalism.

Why I Left and Whither I Went

So how did I come to reject Pentecostalism? One of my favorite pastimes is reading deconversion stories. I find that most people leave religion for one of two reasons: either their faith leaves them wanting emotionally, or it leaves them wanting intellectually. My case was emotional unfulfillment. When I began posting on the Ex-Pentecostal forums in January of 2006, I still believed Pentecostalism was truth. By that point, however, my faith was dead. I knew God was impotent in my life. I was calloused to the threat of Hell -- I didn’t give a damn about being damned. I was utterly discouraged and bone-weary. But what brought me to that, and why didn’t I just adopt a more liberal form of Christianity rather than rejecting it altogether?

I was raised in the Pentecostal church from the time I was a baby. I was named after Biblical characters, and I was “dedicated” to God as a baby by my parents. The church was life. All of my friends were there. People cared about me there. It was home. As a child, I wanted to follow Acts 2:38; I wanted to be saved. I wanted God to make me into a better person. It took me a while to get around to doing it, as I was shy and didn’t want to go down front and be surrounded by yelling people, but eventually I did get saved. I did so in an upstairs room, with my father. I was exuberant; so happy that I had done the right thing, followed the rules, and no longer had to worry about going to Hell or missing the Rapture.

Being a child, though, I didn’t know how to maintain my newfound “relationship”. As I went from being a preteen to a teenager, I knew I had to “get right with God” and “pray through”. I did so at a revival with a man named Steve Grimsley -- the white male version of Miss Cleo. He dressed like an undertaker, looked like a corpse, and had a deep, booming voice. His "gift" was prophecy. His parlor tricks are laughable to me now, but being a superstitious kid, they terrified me. When he approached me, I was clutching the backs of the pews and weeping profusely, scared to death and knowing that this was it: God was going to get me. It was scary, but when Grimsley motioned for me to come out, I did. He prayed for me twice, both times telling me I had received God’s spirit. I told him I didn’t hear myself the first time, so anxious was I to be sure. That night, I became a Christian.

Unlike my preteen experience, this go-around was “real”. I started stepping outside of my comfort zone and raising my hands. I sang loudly and did “victory marches” around the church during hyperemotional worship services. I prayed all of the time and read my Bible; I went to the rallies and the conferences. I became a Young-Earth-Creationist by watching Kent Hovind’s tapes. I was at my fundamentalist peak in tenth and eleventh grade…but all was not well. September 11th happened when I was in eleventh grade. My first instinct was to pray, and I did: this was the Beginning of the End, I knew. But I was terrified, as I closed my eyes in English class. What if the Rapture had preceded this and I missed it? I was never quite sure that I was going; I had been worried about that all of my life and old habits died hard. That wasn’t the only problem: I couldn’t get excited about Heaven. The general idea, yes -- meeting Jesus and my namesakes would be fun. But my idea of heaven was a park with grass and lush trees and a sparkling lake -- not streets of gold and gates of pearls. Those things didn’t appeal to me. The Rapture, even though I wanted to go, didn’t excite me either. I didn’t want to leave Earth: I liked it here. I wanted to graduate high school, marry, and raise a family. Even at the height of my fundamentalism, I longed for heaven on Earth -- I wanted to see the earth peaceful, healthy, and united in love.

There was another problem: a huge one, one so insurmountable that my only way to deal with it was to ignore it. The problem was that I had never had an intense emotional encounter with God -- not the life-altering kind people spoke of. What was so basic that even the lowliest sinner could do it -- feeling God -- was alien to me. I’ve never felt a supernatural presence the way other people claim to. I recognize why now, but back then it scared me. I thought I had somehow blasphemed the Holy Ghost. Evangelists coming directly to me encouraged me into thinking that God hadn’t forgotten about me, but those emotional experiences always evaporated. I didn’t want to be like Esau or Saul: I was scared of the possibility that I had somehow pushed God so far that he had shut me off from his grace forever.

This was not a momentary crisis of faith; these feelings were in me for years. I hid from them, covered them up with wishful thinking, pretended that they were not there. They started getting to me, though. I stopped wanting to go to rallies and conferences because they reminded me of what I wasn’t: God was directing the lives of those people, working on their behalf and allowing them to serve him. I felt estranged from God, even abandoned sometimes. In late 2004, I could no longer hide from my doubts. I realized that I couldn’t be saved; not without that emotional encounter.

2005 was a rough year for me. My hope in God waned slowly, painfully. I was coming to terms with the fact that I was going to Hell. I realized I deceived myself back during that revival with Grimsley and THAT was why God would have nothing to do with me now. I sympathized with Isaiah, who cried “Woe is me! For I am undone. I am a man of unclean lips, and […] mine eyes have seen the King.” I felt cursed: cursed because I had been raised in this, and had somehow failed despite the advantages “God” had given me. I felt my life was futile and worthless -- that I was going to be forever lost. I felt like spiritual jetsam. It didn’t help that I was utterly alone in this: I had told no one what I was going through.

By the time November of 2005 rolled around, I was done with religion. God had failed me and I him. He was ignoring me, and I was ignoring him. I left services (I wasn’t going out of choice) depressed and angry. I was angry at myself for the failure I was unaware of. I was angry at God for allowing me to be born into this hellbound life; angry at him for ignoring me. I felt like the character of Luke in Cool Hand Luke, speaking to God: “Ol' timer, let me know You're up there. Come on. Love me, hate me, kill me, anything. Just let me know it…” Eventually, like Luke, I concluded: “...I'm just standin' in the rain talkin' to myself." In January, I signed up at the Ex-Pentecostal forums to see what they were like. I told my story and started on a journey that has had a profoundly positive impact on my life.

At the Ex-Pentecostal forum, I discovered freethought. I learned to rely on reason and empathy to live life -- not an old book. I went back to my roots -- a love of education and a love for humanity -- and flourished as I never had before. I no longer believe in the god of my parents, nor do I believe in anything supernatural. Neither of them pass the test of reason. I worship at only one altar; the altar of love. Love for truth and humanity drive me these days. No religion, belief system, or god can compete with the power of a free mind and an open heart.

If This Be Treason....

...make the most of it.

From Whence I Came: Pentecostalism



The subject line is how I began my deconversion process from fundamentalist Christianity -- it was the title of my introduction post at the Ex-Pentecostal.org forums, As my starting point for this blog, I would like to tell the story of my departure from Christianity. I was raised in a different Christianity than are most people, and to better explain my deconversion, an explanation of what I deconverted from is in order. My parents converted to Pentecostalism when they started their family. The church they began attending was started by the Home Missions department of the United Pentecostal Church International. While its theological differences with mainline Christianity and even Pentecostalism are numerous, the defining difference between the UPCI and other Christian organizations is its denial of the Trinity.

The UPCI is a fundamentalist organization, holding to the idea that the Christian Bible is The Word of God and is automatically inerrant. Anything that disagrees with the Bible is automatically wrong -- including philosophies and ideas arrived at through the use of reason. Humanity literally fell from grace through Adam’s sin, and throughout our history God has attempted to reach us through various dispensations. For whatever reason, after God flooded the entire world, he chose Abraham and his kin to be his Chosen People. To protect the Hebrews from their sinful nature, God made a covenant with Moses and established the Law. The Hebrews’ history is a history of transgression and repentance. After hundreds of years, God gives up on the Hebrews temporarily. After a few blank pages in the Bible are turned, we come to the New Testament. This is where Pentecostalism begins to depart from mainstream Christianity. God overcomes Mary, wraps part of himself in flesh, and dwells among men for 33.5 years. His name is Jesus, of course, and after healing people and annoying the hell out of the Pharisees, he is executed by the Romans, only to come back to life a couple of days later. (Where people get “three” days I don’t know: Jesus wasn’t killed until Friday afternoon, and he was resurrected Sunday morning. That’s barely two days, put together: Friday afternoon & evening, Saturday, and Sunday morning.)

Jesus hangs around earth for 40 days, then catches a celestial tow to Heaven from the Mount of Olives. Here is where mainstream Christianity stops: people “accept Jesus into their hearts”, pray the sinner’s prayer, and do their best to live like good people from then on. Pentecostalism is just getting started. Before zipping off to Heaven, Jesus tells his followers to tarry in Jerusalem until they’re endued with power from on high. “About” 120 of them do, and they meet in the Upper Room. There they await the promise and seek God. God fills all of them with the Holy Ghost, and they speak in tongues. Peter goes outside and establishes the Pentecostal Plan of Salvation:

“Peter said unto them, Repent, and be baptized every one of you in the name of Jesus Christ for the remission of sins, and ye shall receive the gift of the Holy Ghost.” If you, the reader, have not done this then you are damned to Hell. Pentecostalism is rather exclusive. Repentance is pretty obvious: the convert recognizes that they are a sinner, says they are sorry, asks for forgiveness, and promises to live godly with God’s help. I should add that God has to CALL you to repentance: you can’t just repent on your own accord. After this comes baptism. The convert is dunked into a tub of water in Jesus’ name (titles do not suffice), putting their sins “under the blood”. When they come up out of the water, ideally they should be speaking in tongues. This means that God has filled them with his spirit, which they call the Holy Ghost. The Holy Ghost is the coup de grace in killing the flesh. Without it, no one can enter Heaven. This process is supposed to mirror Jesus’ own experiences. As he died in the flesh, the convert dies to his fleshly nature by repenting. As Jesus was buried (well, stuck in a cave), the convert is “buried” under water. As Jesus rose from the dead, the convert is “born again” . This is salvation -- but it doesn’t end there. I’ve never met a “once-saved, always-saved” Pentecostal. Now that the convert is a saint, he or she must maintain their salvation -- lest they lose it.

Maintaining salvation means following all of the rules. Go to church as often as you can, give tithes and offering, and witness to people. Pray nightly. Pentecostals don’t just witness to the atheists and the Buddhists: they witness to the Methodists and Calvinists, too. Unless a Christian has “spoken in tongues” to prove they have God living inside of them, they are not saved. If “Hell is other people”, Heaven will be Heaven by virtue of the lack of people. Time and time again, I’m told that the Holy Ghost is a gentleman. God “doesn’t force himself” on you. Like a gentleman, God is very selective about whom he associates with, holding those who are in his good graces to a certain standard. So it is with Pentecostals.

Pentecostals are commanded to “be ye separate”. Having the Holy Ghost inside of someone means that they should embody holiness. They are to live holy and dress holy. Dressing holy means adhering to a dress code, or “standard”. Much of this is codified, but some is left to the local pastor’s discretion. Some examples of each: all women are expected to wear dresses and leave their hair uncut. However, wearing jewelry or having facial hair is up to the pastor’s discretion. “Standards” don’t apply to the convert’s body: they apply to the convert’s life, as they are to be holy. Apostolics (as they call themselves, and so I will call them so not to confuse them with other Pentecostals/charismatics) are to be careful about who they associate with and where they go. Some of these prohibitive standards (like banning movie-going) are Apostolic traditions, respected in nearly every church. Other standards are again left up to the pastor’s discretion and “personal convictions” (like going to bowling allies and ball games). The major prohibitive standard in my life was a ban on television sets.

Pentecostals (Apostolic or otherwise) have two practices that may be unfamiliar to the mainstream Christian. The first is their very active praise and worship services. First to explain what praise and worship mean to the Apostolic. They are expected of the saint. Praise is essentially thanking God for his blessings: Apostolics thank God for healing their headache, waking them up in the morning, and giving them a safe trip to church. This is like burning incense in the old testament: it gets God’s attention. Worship is revering God for who he is: telling him how wonderful he is, how mighty he is, how holy he is. This is where the saint “entertains the spirit of God” once he’s come down and “moves”. To the objective mind, it seems humorously absurd that the all-that-is would need or want worship. I think that the reason these practices are required is because they serve to remind the Apostolic about how much they depend on the God, and by extension the church. These practices remind the active saint that they are not mighty or holy; that they are worthless, deserving of nothing better than eternal hellfire if not for God’s grace. These practices are not passive practices; as I’ve said they’re very active. Praise and worship involve at the very least singing/speaking aloud and lifting the hands. Pentecostals are known as the “Holy-Rollers”. This is not an exaggeration: they really do roll on the floors. They scream, buck, dance, and jump. They stagger into walls, potted plants, and slow people. Overwhelmed by emotion, people often collapse onto the floor. At the end of a “good” service, the pews are out of line from people backing into them. There may be scattered hair accessories (from the ladies) on the floor. There are often people sitting by themselves, weeping. Don't be suprised if the preacher removes his coat, tie, and shirt in the process of a sermon. I have witnessed preachers throwing potted plants at the audience. An Apostolic/Pentecostal service is not a place for someone who is offended by excessive emotionalism. There is no part of an Pentecostal service free from noise.

The second practice is that of faith healing. Apostolics believe they are filled with God’s spirit, and have the power to raise the dead, heal the sick, and so on. Corporate prayer for needs always features in the Apostolic worship service, and is usually one of the lengthier portions. Saints come to the front and the pastor, his hands wet with olive oil, touches their forehead and prays for them. There is nothing too trivial to pray over. Another practice is that of “prayer cloths”; small bits of clothing are anointed with the oil and then taken to whoever needs a blessing. Another belief is that sometimes God speaks directly to the congregation through tongues. First someone speaks loudly in tongues, then God gives the tongues.

Considering the inherent difficulties in obtaining and maintaining Apostolic salvation; get the feeling that there aren’t going to be too terribly many people in Heaven? Hell, on the other hand, will be filled to the brim with people who cured polio, fought the Nazis, and made life on Earth better for those who came after them. The Left Behind books would have played out quite differently using the Apostolic method of salvation. Can you imagine someone standing in an execution line realizing that they were wrong and asking the Antichrist for a large tub of water and a preacher? I have always liked comparing Apostolic salvation to the idea of having a coat-and-tie rule at a homeless shelter.

For a number of reasons, the Pentecostal church is very intrusive. The isolation from general society forces Apostolics to depend on their local church for everything. The power given the pastor over the affairs of saints’ lives and the absolute obedience they are commanded to give him makes the pastor a very powerful figure, sometimes resulting in a cult of personality. His opinionated commandments, supposedly given to him by God, override personal opinion and reason. If he is wrong, the pastor says, then God will judge him. The saints are rewarded for obedience -- not questioning. (This lends itself well to corruption and abuse of power, as you can imagine.) Church dominates life: it IS life for the Apostolic, saved or otherwise. Everything is fixed around the idea of church. Every gift you have is god-given, and God expects you to use it for his purpose. The preachers say that we are slaves to either Satan or Jesus, and choosing between the two of them is our purpose in this mortal life. We were told that our bodies and lives were not our own -- that they had been bought with a price, despite having never been up for sale by us.

I don’t know if it’s possible to express how intrusive religion was. Oneness Pentecostalism is a very demanding faith, so taxing on time and energy that if it were pursued you would hardly have time for any other endeavors. But because they salvation is so fragile a gift, they don’t mind the sacrifices. They truly don’t want to go to movies; why risk losing salvation considering the consequences? God may not call you back to repent, and if you can’t repent of your sin you’ll burn in Hell forever. If, however, you obeyed all of the rules and believed in God with everything you had, you could make it. You could enjoy spending hours at church dancing and listening to a preacher scream at you, followed by supper at Shoney’s. It is possible to find hope and purpose in this system -- and for the rare few that do, they know it’s the Only Way.

What, though, of the people who cannot find hope and purpose? What if they never feel drawn to repentance? What happens when they are forced to obey all of the rules and receive no rewards? What happens if the Only Way doesn’t work? Then religion became nothing but a burden, and the God of heaven an ever-present, nagging bully. The threats of Hell and the Rapture haunt everything, taxing the unsaved person’s ability to enjoy anything. How was it that I, raised in this system from the time I was a baby, walked away from it? How was I able to overcome the brainwashing (to be frank) and question boldly even the existence of a God, as Thomas Jefferson recommended? Read on.