I’ve been listening to a discussion between Alex O’Connor, an atheist, and Trent Horn, a Catholic. At one point, an audience member asks Horn a simple question: what level of evil would have to exist in the world for you to think that perhaps it’s an unjustifiable level of evil that thus counts as evidence against the existence of a god. His answer was revealing, so I made a one-minute response video.
Here’s the whole discussion:
It’s a quote I’ve used twice here:
[Belief] may be the battle of your life, but emotionally and intellectually, it could also be the most exhilarating one youโve ever engaged in. Whether you experience Godโs reality or are just intellectually intrigued by the idea, God can be a very real force in peoplesโ lives โ spiritual, emotional, supportive โ that almost no other system can offer. But you must gird yourself for a fight and know that youโre going to have to try to reconcile very difficult things. Or at least hold them in suspension and bounce them back and forth and get tired. Thereโs no quick fix, but we have the benefit of drawing on thousands of years of religious thinking. You canโt learn it over a weekend. Itโs an engagement for the rest of your life.
Burton Visotzky
I originally included it while discussing Winifred Galligher’s Working on God, in which it’s originally quoted.
I also reposted the quote on its own a few years later, undoubtedly just to have an easy way out of keeping up some artificial posting streak:
In some ways, I think I admired that quote, but now, I view it so very differently.
Visotzky writes that believers are “going to have to try to reconcile very difficult things. Or at least hold them in suspension and bounce them back and forth and get tired.” I originally read this very ambiguously, not really thinking about what exactly one must reconcile. As I’ve returned to my skeptical positions of the past after a sojourn in faith, I see it simply: you’re going to have to reconcile contradictions or ignore them. Contradictions between faith claims and scientific claims. Contradictions between various faiths’ claims. Contradictions between claims of omnipotence and omnibenevolence and the evil we see around us. Contradictions within traditions’ holy books. You might “get tired,” he suggests. I think that’s what happened to me: I got tired of the continual cognitive disonance.
Far from being a wise quote, I see this now as the dysfunctional heart of faith itself: it’s seeing one thing that has an abundance of evidence and believing another that has little to no real evidence.
There’s an infographic I’ve seen several times on several social media platforms. It’s meant to encourage Christian parents to take concrete steps to make sure that their children stay Christian.
The fact that such an infographic exists let alone that it has gone somewhat viral speaks to the crisis in which contemporary Christianity finds itself. The “Nones” are the fastest-growing demographic in the States. This has a lot to do with the explosion of social media in the last decade. Skeptics have made good use of these media and present opposing viewpoints that churches were otherwise historically able to keep somewhat hidden from young people. No more — now skeptics are explaining why Christian theology makes little to no sense and young people are listening. Additionally, Christianity’s historic position on gay rights and its relative opposition to science (the Catholic Church’s weak protests notwithstanding) leave young believers out of step with church teachings.
If they’re connected with Christ, why are there so many people involved in this? If Jesus is real and the connection is real, why does it need to be so supported socially? Each one of these is a social connection. Each one is an example of what sociologists call plausibility structures. The more people someone has around them supporting their beliefs, the more likely they are to hold those beliefs.
If we look at the wording of each one, we see that it’s obvious how this is using social psychology and sociology to enforce belief systems.
I, of course, rose to the bait when this appeared on a friend’s feed:
If Jesus is real and the connection is real, why does it need so much social support? These are all examples of what sociologists of religion call plausibility structures: the more people you have around you believing the same thing and suggesting, directly and indirectly, that such belief is plausible and logical, the more likely an individual is to accept that belief as such.
The individual who posted this meme responded:
[H]ow long can one coal burn (even with regular blowing) apart from the rest of the fire? We arenโt closed systemsโฆthe World, the Flesh, & the Devil are actively pulling us away from God. Driftwood doesnโt move upstreamโฆit must be acted upon.
It’s interesting that this response doesn’t deny the fact that these are, in essence, plausibility structures. Instead, the response only highlights it. Sociologist Peter Berger suggests that the only way to maintain a given belief in the face of competing beliefs is to surround yourself with like-minded people. He calls this a “cognitive ghetto.” The response posits that just such mental sequestration is necessary to keep out the three enemies:
Of course, in such a Christian’s worldview, these three can all be subsumed under the last one: the devil. But attributing one’s loss of faith when confronted with conflicting viewpoints to the devil does little: it’s an untested and unfalsifiable hypothesis without evidence, and as such, it can be dismissed without evidence.
Another person asked,
[D]onโt all relationships require some sort of support to survive? The very word relationship indicates two or more things, factors or people.
I replied:
I just don’t understand why a relationship with a supposedly omnipotent being needs support. It seems to me that the omnipotent being could make it so obvious to the believer that it would be folly to reject it. As it is, in my experience with a believer, I only had my own inner experiences and other people’s assurances that those experiences were of God.
My interlocutor did not respond.
I really don’t know why I do it. I follow some of these Catholic groups online for no good reason, I think. Am I there just to pick a fight? I guess.
Today, this one popped up as a joke.
Everyone was laughing about it, so I guess humor is the new way of dealing with the awful things God commands in Leviticus. Of course, I replied: “But both come from God. Both are commands from God. That’s the problem.”
A user named Joseph responded, “no there is no problem. None of the levitical laws are valid anymore. Thus any command from Chirst is superior.”
People just don’t get it, though. Jesus might have done away with these laws, but because of the trinity doctrine, it was Jesus who created the commands in the first place. I responded to Joseph:
But the fact that they were commanded in the first place — that’s the problem I’m referring to. That God commanded his people to stone to death incorrigible children, stone homosexuals, stone people for breaking the sabbath — THAT is the problem. Whether or not he did away with those laws is not as troubling as the fact that he made them in the first place.
At this point, Jesse jumped in to help:
[I]f you listened to the first couple of episodes, Fr. Mike clarified it. Some laws were “allowed”, just as what Jesus said about the law on divorce. Also that some must be understood that they were given to a savage, nomadic, tent-living, and with frequent streaks of going astray kind of people who lived thousands of years ago.
I’ve heard this so many times I’m sick of it. No one sees the problem that the same god who gave us the kinder, gentler Jesus also gave us these commands in Leviticus! In fact, because of the trinity, it’s the same being! I tried to explain this:
No, that doesn’t fly. God didn’t allow those laws. He didn’t see them stoning people and say, “Well, I’ll let you do that for a while.” It was God who COMMANDED the stoning. Why does no one get that distinction?
There were a few more responses — I replied to them all. And then everyone just stopped responding to me. Questions are unwelcome, I guess, and even more so follow-up questions.
I’ve been working on my own “Why I Am Not a Christian” a la Bertrand Russell’s piece of the same name. There seem to be two logical problems Christianity encounters from the very beginning before taking anything else into account.
The two main issues I have with the Christian worldview are the problem of suffering and the nature of Christian salvation. The best way to highlight these problems is to reframe them in strictly human terms to see how much sense it would make for humans to do what the Christian god supposedly does.
The problem of suffering is simple: if there is a loving god who is omnipotent, it would want its creatures to live free of meaningless suffering. There is meaningless suffering in the world. Therefore, this god is either not loving, not omnipotent, or doesn’t exist. Christians will likely quibble over the definition of “meaningless suffering,” pointing out that that it is a value judgment and that we are in no way to determine if a given example of suffering is meaningless or not (that’s their god’s decision). Here it becomes useful to put it in concrete human terms: put simply, if I had the power to stop a child from being raped, I would. No questions, no hesitation: I would just stop it from happening if I could. If I had the power to stop a child from starving to death, I would. If I had the power to stop a child from being beaten, I would. The god of Christianity doesn’t stop these things from happening. In fact, the supposed representatives of this god are all too often the ones inflicting this suffering on children.
The common apologetic response here is to suggest that the Chrisitan god’s ways are not our ways, that we cannot know what good can come from this suffering. That might be so, but that supposed good that can somehow justify the evil and make it in fact a good — that is merely speculation. What is not speculation is the suffering itself.
In response to this, apologists in turn bring up free will. Their god gave us free will, and we can use it, or we can abuse it. Their god lets us do whichever we wish because to do otherwise would be to limit our free will.
Another example shows the absurdity of this thinking. Imagine you walk in on your twelve-year-old son beating your three-year-old daughter to death with a length of two-by-four. Would you stop it? Of course, you would. But imagine you decide that to do so would be to violate your twelve-year-old’s free will, so you let it happen. The authorities find out and charge you. At your trial, you make the defense that, because we all have free will, you are not ultimately responsible and that you were merely allowing your son to exercise his free will. Would the jury accept that defense? If the roles were reversed, and you were on that jury, would you accept that defense?
Thus, reframing the problem of suffering in strictly human terms leads to a strange outcome: we realize that we hold ourselves to a higher moral standard than we hold our idea of a god. We allow a god to get by with things we would find abhorrent in our own behavior by suggesting that we’re just not smart enough to see the good that raping a three-year-old can bring.
At this point, the Christian apologist will likely suggest that this is all a moot point anyway because all this is due to the Fall, and then suggest Jesus’s sacrifice solves this problem (i.e., the Fall). We might point out that the evil still exists but at least Christians have a way to explain where it comes from: we’re flawed in our very nature due to the Fall. Jesus solves all this, the apologists assure us.
What happens when we examine that solution in human terms? Imagine my wife and I have a rule in my home: no one is to spill food while at the dinner table. The penalty for spilling food is three cuts on the forearm with a sharp knife. One night, predictably, my young son spills food. I take his arm and tell him that because of the rules, I have to make three cuts on his arm. However, because I love him so much, I’m going to take that punishment for him. I hand the knife to my wife, and she makes three deep cuts in my forearm. I look at my son lovingly and say, with tears in my eyes, “Do you see, son, how much I love you? I took this punishment for you. This should fill you with an incredible love for me!”
You, as an outside observer, would think all of this is quite absurd. You might question why I had such a strict punishment for such a relatively insignificant “crime.” You would likely suggest that it was inevitable that my child would spill some food and ask why I had that rule in the first place. And finally, you would probably think the whole blood-letting for forgiveness was ridiculous: “Why not just forgive the kid if that rule has to be in place?” you’d ask before pointing out yet again that I was the one who created the law in the first place and that it was completely unnecessary to begin with. As for my suggesting that my son should love me all the more because I took his punishment, you’d likely think that it was a highly traumatizing event for my son.
Yet this is just what Christians think Jesus does for them: he takes a punishment that they deserve and in doing so, earns our undying love. However, Jesus is, according to the doctrine of the trinity, God, so this god set the rules himself as well as the punishment. He could have just forgiven us, but for some reason, he’s insistent on a blood sacrifice to make up for sins that we didn’t even necessarily commit, so Jesus steps in to fulfill that obligation.
At this point, Christians explain that their god would like to forgive us but because of his perfectly righteous nature, he can’t. This is some bizarre argument: the nature of this god apparently restricts this god.
One of the most disturbing passages in the Bible comes in the Gospel of John after Jesus feeds the 5000. In the passage known as the Bread of Life passage, we read,
Jesus said to them, โVery truly I tell you, unless you eat the flesh of the Son of Man and drink his blood, you have no life in you. Whoever eats my flesh and drinks my blood has eternal life, and I will raise them up at the last day. For my flesh is real food and my blood is real drink. Whoever eats my flesh and drinks my blood remains in me, and I in them. Just as the living Father sent me and I live because of the Father, so the one who feeds on me will live because of me. This is the bread that came down from heaven. Your ancestors ate manna and died, but whoever feeds on this bread will live forever.โ (John 6.53-58)
This is an echo of what we read in other gospel accounts about the Last Supper:
While they were eating, Jesus took bread, and when he had given thanks, he broke it and gave it to his disciples, saying, โTake and eat; this is my body.โ Then he took a cup, and when he had given thanks, he gave it to them, saying, โDrink from it, all of you. This is my blood of the covenant, which is poured out for many for the forgiveness of sins. I tell you, I will not drink from this fruit of the vine from now on until that day when I drink it new with you in my Fatherโs kingdom.โ (Matthew 26.26-29)
Mark’s account is similar because his gospel is a source for Matthew’s:
While they were eating, Jesus took bread, and when he had given thanks, he broke it and gave it to his disciples, saying, โTake it; this is my body.โ Then he took a cup, and when he had given thanks, he gave it to them, and they all drank from it. โThis is my blood of the covenant, which is poured out for many,โ he said to them. โTruly I tell you, I will not drink again from the fruit of the vine until that day when I drink it new in the kingdom of God.โ (Mark 14.22-25)
And the same for Luke:
And he took bread, gave thanks and broke it, and gave it to them, saying, โThis is my body given for you; do this in remembrance of me.โ In the same way, after the supper he took the cup, saying, โThis cup is the new covenant in my blood, which is poured out for you.” (Luke 22 19, 20)
In all four accounts, Jesus makes the same ghastly claim: eating his body and drinking his blood is essential for human well-being. John 6.52 records the Jews’ response: “Then the Jews began to argue sharply among themselves, ‘How can this man give us his flesh to eat?'” While they’re not saying it outright, they are saying what most modern humans would say were they exposed to this notion for the first time: “This guy’s talking about cannibalism and vampirism!”
Indeed, there are few things in Christianity as disturbing as the cannibalistic ritual at its very core. No matter how one interprets this, it’s simply disgusting and barbaric. Protestants view it symbolically, which seems to lessen the effect, but it’s still troubling to think that millions of Protestants each Sunday symbolically eat human flesh. Catholics have an even stranger view of it, believing that the wafer they eat somehow mysteriously transforms into the actual body of Jesus even though it still looks like a cracker. For them, then, it’s not symbolic cannibalism but actual cannibalism.
If these Christians had not been raised hearing these words on a weekly basis and encountered it in another religion, they would be disgusted. It’s conceivable that Christians would reject whichever religion did teach this primarily on the basis of this teaching.
Iโve been in a Twitter conversation with a Christian fundamentalist about hell. What has come to light once again is the Christian double standard regarding hell and Godโs omnipotence. This Christian and many like him suggested God doesnโt send anyone to hell. People choose to go to hell. They choose with their sins, they choose with their blasphemy, and they choose with their rejection of God. And most disturbingly, some will even admit that according to Christian doctrine and the idea of original sin, even newborn babies are deserving of this punishment because of the stain of original sin.
Yeah who determine the parameters that resulted in such consequences? Who determined that transgressions against gods will result in separation from God? God of course. God said all the rules and all the consequences, so why are you might want to try to suggest to ease your conscience that God doesnโt send anyone to hell, he set up all the framers to make that a certainty in some situations.
This Christian continued his argument by explaining that God didnโt Mikaรซl for humans but rather for the devil. Here once again we run into a problem when we accept the idea of God’s supposed omnipotence and omniscience. He exists outside time, Christians explain, so he knows all things at all times. That means that when he created hell for the devil, he knew man would eventually end up there as well. But the Christian view creates a surprised God who thinks, “Crap — that went off the rails quickly! I’d better do something!” My interlocutor explained it thusly:
Can you decide anything yourself? Free will. Man had free will & chose evil. He didnt have to, was warned not to but did anyway. Free will. Then God Himself made the way back. Man sends himself to hell. Your choice.
My response was along the lines above:
God made the consequences of disobedience hell. He could have made the consequences anything. He chose infinite punishment for a finite transgressionโor, thanks to original sin, the transgression of a distant relative of eating a piece of fruit. Perverse.
But he’ll likely continue to insist that I just don’t understand God’s grace, that I don’t understand the finer points of the theological argument, that I just don’t understand.
And that’s another problem: why would a benevolent god make things so difficult to understand, so easy to misunderstand, when eternal punishment is on the line?!
Today is the day in the Catholic liturgical year when Jesus is supposed to be in the tomb. Crucified yesterday afternoon, he was laid to rest according to the gospels in a tomb provided by Joseph of Arimathea. It is this tomb that various people will find empty tomorrow morning according to tradition in the gospels.
Who exactly find the tomb empty depends on which gospel you read. Critics point this out as one of many discrepancies which undermines the supposed factual accuracy of the gospels. Believers have various apologetics to explain away these differences. Thatโs a different issue for a different post. Besides thatโs not until tomorrow. Today is Holy Saturday: Iโm more interested in whatโs going on today according to the gospels.
One piece of “evidence” that apologists like to put forth is the empty tomb, but first, we have to get Jesus in the tomb. What is the evidence we have that he was even buried? Only the Bible biblical narrative.
We do know from other contemporary sources, however, that most victims of crucifixion were not given a proper burial. This was part of the punishment. Your rotting corpse served as a deterrent for others. Furthermore, once burial took place, it was most often accomplish by tossing the remains not eaten by the birds into mass common graves. So we have two major problems with the account in the gospels: first, criminals’ bodies are traditionally left on the crucifixion steak to serve as a deterrent; second, once the remains were buried, they were placed in a common grave. The only evidence that we have Jesus was buried, comes from gospels written 50 to 70 years after he died. Thatโs not terribly convincing evidence, and I would bet that most Christians if this claim were made by another religion where is similar objections.
However, most Christians accept this as a simple fact it is beyond dispute, and from this narrative, Catholic secondary traditions have sprung up. Polish Catholics traditionally build a grave in their church and some sort of Jesus figure is placed in it, symbolizing Jesus and Joseph of Arimatheaโs grave tomb. Local Poles brought that tradition to our area, and the parish pastor has fallen in love with the tradition. So every year, the Polish community creates a tomb for Jesus just like they would do in Poland, and the faithful come and keep vigil with him throughout Friday night and Saturday. Of course, everyone knows that this is simply symbolic representation of Jesus in the tomb, but the fervor with which some people sit and pray in front of this tomb suggests that somehow that symbol has become for them very real. It is as if they are sitting by the actual tomb, which of course likely didnโt even exist. How is this possible?
I think thereโs a certain predisposition among Catholics to turn the symbolic into the real, to suggest with a line between the symbol and the thing somehow blurs, somehow disappears completely. They do this every week with the bread and the wine. Catholic teaching is that this bread and this wine, after some words uttered by the priest, are no longer bread and no longer wine. It looks like bread and wine; it taste like bread and wine; scientific analysis would show that on a molecular level, itโs still bread and wine. None of these things matter. What matters is that the church has taught for ages that somehow despite all appearances to the contrary, this is now the physical body and blood of Jesus. When someone can make that kind of Leap, all other boundaries between symbol and symbolized unnecessarily begin to slip.
All of this is undergirded by the nearly universal notion that our world is it duality. There is a physical; there is a spiritual. Things can exist that donโt seem to exist, that leave no physical trace, they have no physical characteristics, they have nothing. Humans, according to Catholic teaching, are not just physical beings: at our core, we are a soul. This duality then spills into other things, so that we can suggest it bread and wine have a physical existence, but they have some other kind of existence. This is what changes Catholic say.
Of course, this other “existence,” which they call substance, cannot be shown to exist in any scientific manner. It is a philosophical construct. Once a group of people starts to imbue philosophical constructs with actual existence, then literally things that exist only in the head can be said to exist in reality, and in a certain sense, they do exist in reality, for our conscious experience of the world is the only experience of it we have. But they donโt have an external reality, they donโt have a reality that is not dependent on our contemplation of said philosophical construct.
Freedom doesnโt exist outside our notion of what freedom is. Justice does not exist outside of our notion of what justice is. And our notions of freedom and justice and every other philosophical construct vary widely from cultural culture, from time to time, from person to person. And so their existence is completely relative and completely dependent on human thought.
Once someone is comfortable with a squishy boundary between these two things, though, all sorts of ideas that they might otherwise think are silly can become the most profound, the holiest ideas that they hold. And so we end up with over one billion people in the world kneeling before a piece of bread and a bit of wine with the same reverence as if they were kneeling actually before the most powerful being in the universe. We have people shedding tears in front of a tomb that they themselves made that the houses a carving of a crucified man whose existence or might not be questionable but his characteristics, actions, words, and deeds have scant if any real likelihood of being accurately recorded in the one historical record we have of them. Which is to say, because we donโt actually have Jesus here physically with us itโs all in our heads.
The story of Passover always confused me. The Israelite god is going to destroy all the firstborn of Egypt in order to convince Pharaoh to let the slaves go (after, according to the passage, this same god โhardened Pharaohโs heartโ against the idea of releasing his slaves). He commands the Israelites to smear blood above their door in order to receive protection and save their own firstborn. Why in the world did an all-powerful, all-knowing god need the Israelites to smear blood on their door lintel in order to indicate to this god that the occupants were, in fact, Israelites? This so anthropomorphizes this god as to make it laughable. It leaves readers imagining this god moving physically from house to house, door to door, checking to see if thereโs blood, then acting accordingly. Now, granted, I believe the text refers to an angel doing the actual killing, but spirit is spirit, right (in whatever sense โdisembodied mind that has the ability to affect the physical worldโ might mean)?
Yet there’s a more brutal way of expressing this confusion:
There was a short film about Mass that a lot of people shared on the Catholic social media streams I was following last year as I went through the Bible in a Year podcast. It’s called “The Veil Removed,” and it offers a fascinating idea of what Catholics could argue is, in some sense, going on during the Mass.
In it, angels crowd around the altar, and the priest transforms into Jesus at the moment of consecration while also appearing crucified on a cross above the altar. A drop of blood falls from Jesus’s crucified body into the chalice of wine that Jesus is also holding as he stands behind the altar, I guess symbolizing the so-called Real Presence of Jesus in the communion wafers and wine. The fact that Jesus appears literally twice, as a crucified man and as the priest actually celebrating the Mass would not be logically problematic to the average Catholic, I’m assuming, because the average Catholic already believes that God the Father, Jesus, and the Holy Spirit are somehow three but also the same.
In the course of the video, obviously-skeptical congregants miraculously see all the angels and such and lose all sense of doubt.
Yet this whole film, far from assuaging any doubts I have, only creates more: why doesn’t this actually happen in Mass? What better proof of the claims of Christianity could there be then for this to be happening in all Masses, worldwide, often simultaneously? This is even echoed in the title: The Veil Removed. Why would a god put the veil there in the first place if this god wants what the Christian god supposedly wants (i.e., the salvation of all)?
I’m currently reading Trent Horn’sย Hard Sayings: A Catholic Approach to Answering Bible Difficulties and at about halfway through, I’ve definitely formed some definite opinions about the book. Most strikingly, I’ve come to realize it’s mistitled. Instead of Hard Sayings: A Catholic Approach to Answering Bible Difficulties, it should be titled The Passage Makes Sense if We Assumeโฆ : A Catholic Approach to Answering Bible Difficulties. That phrase — “The passage makes sense if we assumeโฆ” — is a quote from the book, and it’s indicative of the whole argument. In fact, Horn doesn’t just suggest that we have to assume to Bible is correct to really understand how it’s correct, he says it outright:
[I]t is the critic’s burden to prove that there is a contradiction in the Bible because he is the one accusing the text of being contradictory. All the believer has to do is offer one or more reasonable explanations of how the passages could be reconciled, thereby showing that the critic’s evidence is not conclusive (152).
This is ridiculous: there is nothing to prove with the contradictions. They’re sitting on the page, obvious as the sun in the sky. This passage says X; that passage says not X. There — it contradicts itself. It’s the believer’s burden to explain how it onlyย appears to be a contradiction.
But Horn’s approach makes it possible for him to weave his conditional explanations of problems with the Bible and feel that they suffice. And does this book ever have a ton of conditionals. Within X pages, we read that “Mark may have referred to him…”, that the “name Jethro appears to be a title on par with ‘your excellency,'” that it “could be that the Midianites…”, that “[o]ne way to resolve this contradiction … is to propose,” that “both are probably referring…”, and that “It could be the case.” Let’s make a list of those statements:
This is an argument of possibilities, all of which are extra-Biblical and simply endeavor to save the Bible for people who want it saved. These explanations are just ways of explaining away obvious problems, and these types of “arguments” will only appeal to those who have already accepted the conclusion. In other words, another possible subtitle could be “Begging the Question.”
In the introduction to Hard Sayings: A Catholic Approach to Answering Bible Difficulties, Trent Horn quotes Dan Barker’s succinct point about the Bible: “An omnipotent, omniscient deity should have made his all-important message unmistakably clear to everyone, everywhere, at all times.” By this, Barker of course means that a god who is all the things the Christian god is supposed to be would send a message that couldn’t be so easily misunderstood, so easily used to justify so many conflicting ideas, as the Bible is.
There would be no difficult scriptures. For example, from the Catholic point of view, references to the “brother of Jesus” are troubling because Mary was, according to the Catholic Church, always a virgin. There was no way then that Jesus had brothers. How do we explain this, then? Well, in Aramaic, there is no term for “cousin.” Everyone is a “brother.” So that’s what the passage means. The only problem is that, although Jesus and his disciples would have been speaking Aramaic, the Gospels were written in Greek, a language that does have a word for cousin. In that case, why didn’t the Christian god inspire the gospel writers to say “cousin” and avoid all this confusion?
Horn responds to Barker’s claim most curiously:
I agree with Barker that God should provide an opportunity for all people to be saved since 1 Timothy 2:4 says God wants all to be saved. But that is not the same thing as saying that the Bible should be easily understood by anyone who reads it. Perhaps God has given people a way to know him outside of the written word? For example, St. Paul taught that God could make his moral demands known on the hearts of those who never received written revelation (Rom. 2:14-16). The Church likewise teaches that salvation is possible for those who, through no fault of their own, don’t know Christ or his Church.
Yet Barker never said anything about salvation. It’s not that Barker’s argument is that this god is doing a bad job of getting his salvific message out, but that’s what Horn’s response suggests. “No, no!” says Horn, “it’s not that people might lose their salvation over a confusing book. God also, according to St. Paul, communicates directly with people’s hearts.” In Horn’s strawman argument, Barker accepts that there is a god who wants everyone to be saved but just feels that this deity could be doing a better job of communicating that plan. But Barker is arguing the opposite: the massive amount of confusion stemming from this book suggests that is has a most decidedly human origin with no divine influence whatsoever. He’s arguing from the book to the hypothetical god that would have created it and saying that there is a significant incongruity between that hypothetical god and the Christian god.
Not only that, but Horn is quoting the Bible (Rom. 2:14-16) to provide evidence of his rebuttal (that God provides other means of salvation rather than through the knowledge gleaned from his book) when in fact it’s the Bible’s validity itself that’s at stake.
The problem is that for Horn, it’s impossible to see how someone could not accept the Bible as divinely inspired. He’s working with that presupposition so firmly in his mind that he doesn’t even realize when it causes him to go question-begging as he does in this response.
A curious story appeared in Newsweek the other day that highlights some of the quirks of Catholicism. Apparently, a priest there has been saying the wrong words during baptisms, which makes the baptisms invalid:
A priest with over two decades’ worth of service to multiple congregations has resigned “with a heavy heart” in the wake of revelations that he incorrectly performed baptisms.
Father Andres Arango, who most recently served in the Roman Catholic Diocese of Phoenix, Arizona, was found to have used the wrong phrasing.
When performing the sacrament, Arango would say, “We baptize you in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”
However, as the Vatican’s Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith made the diocese aware, the use of the word “we” made the baptisms “invalid.” Instead, Arango was supposed to use the phrase “I baptize” rather than “we baptize.” (Source)
So all these families have been taking their children to the priest to say the right words in order to remove the effects of the apple curse and safeguard their children from the horrors of hell, and this guy has been saying the wrong words! According to Catholic teaching, if they’re not validly baptized, they’re not saved. If they died still a child, then they go to limbo heaven — I forgot, the Catholic church changed that teaching when enough people protested that the idea of infants going to limbo for eternity was unconscionable. (Does this mean that all the infants in limbo never were in limbo, or did they get a “Get out of limbo free” card?)
For the poor schmucks who made it to adulthood and thought they were freed of the effects of the talking-snake-induced apple curse, it’s another story. These folks died in the assurance of heaven only to awaken in the next life to the surprise of, well, not just their lives but of eternity.
“Um, excuse me, I think there’s been some kind of mistake,” they shriek, doing their best to maintain some kind of professional decorum.
“No, no mistake,” the demon idly pulling their intestines out and wrapping them around its forefinger says, almost sounding bored.
“Yes, I think there was. You see, I was baptized.”
The succubus pauses for a moment, tightens the ringlets of intestine just a bit, yawns and says, “No, I’m afraid you weren’t. You see, Father Arango said ‘we baptize you’ when all decent priests know the correct words are ‘I baptize you.’ A simple clerical error, to be sure, but nonetheless, an error.”
“But, but!”
The demon becomes irate: “Now look here — we don’t make the rules about these or those magic words. We’re just as bound to the formalities as you are.” He gives a good tug, dislodging the large intestines. “You’d have to take that up with God.”
“Where is he?”
“Not here,” giggles the tormentor…
All joking aside, there are lot of people now unnecessarily mentally tortured with the thought that their loved one is in fact in hell because of a priest’s mistake. Just how many people might be going through this?
Katie Burke, a spokesperson for the Diocese of Phoenix, told Newsweek that while the diocese has no exact number of invalid baptisms Arango performed, the number is “in the thousands.”
Thomas Olmsted, bishop of the Diocese of Phoenix, wrote a January 14 letter to his congregation informing them of the invalid baptisms. He said it is his responsibility to be “vigilant over the celebration of the sacraments,” adding that it is “my duty to ensure that the sacraments are conferred in a manner” consistent with the Gospel and the tradition’s requirements.
I guess Father Arango should have realized the importance of using the proper words…
I’m reading Trent Horn’s Hard Sayings: A Catholic Approach to Answering Bible Difficulties.ย He speaks of Karl Keating’s argument for scriptural inspiration, saying “when taken as just a reliable human document, the Bible shows that Christ not only rose from the dead, but that he established a Church built on the apostles.” These apostles “were then able to authoritatively declare the Bible to be the word of God.” So the Bible proves the church and the church proves the veracity of the Bible. That’s called circular reasoning, isn’t it? Horn doesn’t think so.
This is not a circular argument, in which an inspired Bible is used to prove the Church’s authority and the Church’s authority is used to prove that the Bible is inspired. Instead, as Keating says, it is a “spiral argument,” in which the Bible is assumed to be a merely human document that records the creation of a divinely instituted Church. This Church then had the authority to pronounce which human writings also had God as their author.
The level of cognitive dissonance in this statement is absolutely astounding. He can assert that calling it a “spiral argument” somehow removes the circularity of the argument, but in essence, he is still using the Bible to prove the Church to prove the Bible. No Christian ever regards the Bible as “a merely human document.” People regard the Bible as authoritative because they see it as divinely authored. I get that this is a distinctly Catholic explanation of things, but no Catholic ever sees the Bible this way, either. It is, defacto, divinely inspired in their eyes. The so-called divine nature of the Catholic church is in no way illustrated in the pages of the Bible, and we still have the basic problem of Biblical error: how are we to know that that particular portion of the Bible detailing the founding of the church is accurate? In short, we don’t. We have to take that on faith. And who is the one explaining all of this? The Church. So the Church says the Bible is just a humanly written document that proves the Church is divinely inspired, which then proves the Bible is not just a humanly-written document.
It’s almost as convoluted as God impregnating Mary to give birth to God to die to appease God’s anger, which is the story of Christianity in its most simplistic form.
This is from about a year ago, but it isย very much worth the time it takes to watch it. And anyone who watches this and is not terrified on some level…
At the heart of this, Jeremiah Jennings (who goes by the name Prophet of Zod on social media) points out that functioning society involves discussing disagreements with people while holding a few assumptions in mind:
He then goes on to point out, very convincingly, how fundamentalist Christianity doubts or even outright disputes each of these claims. The implications this civic breakdown has for democracy are frightening.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0lqaqp5TwnU
On Bishop Robert Barron’s minstry’s YouTube channel — Word on Fire — he had a conversation with staff member Brandon Vogt after Barron’s interview with Alex O’Connor in which they promised to go a little deeper in the responses.
Vogt points out that Barron and O’Connor went back and forth for a long time on faith, and invited Barron to elucidate a little. Instead, he just gave the same analogy, changing it from getting to know his interlocutors to getting to one one’s spouse:
The analogy which I think is very illuminating there I often use is come to know a person. So you’re coming to know another human being. Of course, reason is involved all the time. I mean, reason understands all sorts of things, but there is a moment when that person, if you’re coming to real intimacy with that person, reveals something about herself that you could not in principle know no matter how many google searches and how much analysis and how much how clever you. There’s no way you’d get what’s in that person’s heart unless she chooses to reveal it, at which point you have to make a decision: do I believe it or not. Now is it credible what she’s saying, and you might say, “Yeah it is because it’s congruent with everything else I know about her.” At the same time, is it reducible to what I know about her? No, otherwise it wouldn’t be a revelation. So that’s why it’s a false dichotomy to say reason or faith. No, it’s reason that has reached a kind of limit, but reason has opened a door. Reason has poised you for the self-manifestation of another.
Well, that’s not just with God; that happens all the time. When two people are married and deeply in love, I’m sure you could point to those moments when [your wife] revealed something to you that you would never ever have known otherwise. You revealed something about yourself to her and then the two of you, because you’re in love with each other, I imagine said, “Yeah, I believe that.”
Now, can I reduce that to an argument? No, you never can. In a way it remains always mysterious to you yet your will, in that case, has commanded your intellect. That’s exactly what Thomas Aquinas says about faith. It’s a rare instance when the will commands the intellect. Normally, it moves the other way right? The intellect kind of leads the will. The intellect understands the good and then it leads the will, but in the case of faith, the will leads the intellect. It says, “No this is worthy of belief. This person who’s speaking to me is worthy of belief, and what the person is telling me is congruent with reason yet beyond it, and so I choose to believe.” That’s the relationship between faith and reason it seems to me so.
In the debate with O’Connor, Barron defined faith as “the response to a revealing God.” That makes very little sense in terms of how most people use faith. “You just have to have faith that God’s plan, which involves this horrendous suffering, will result in good,” someone might say. Let’s switch those out: “You just have to have [the response to a revealing God] that God’s plan, which involves this horrendous suffering, will result in good.” Clearly, this definition of “faith” is not the same as the original sentence’s sense of “faith.” This might work for “the Christian faith” — “the Christian response to a revealing God.” That works. That’s fine. You’d also have “the Muslim response to a revealing God,” and so on — but this “faith” just means “belief system” or even “religion.”
Furthermore, the faith that Barron gives in this example is not faith — it’s trust. It’s a trust that is based on experiential evidence. I believe my wife because she’s shown herself to be trustworthy. I wouldn’t make this same move (to use a favorite Barron term) with a stranger. The only time such a move (there it is again) is conceivable is if the revelation the stranger gives you is utterly trivial: “I have a dog.”
This faith/trust often moves into faith/trust in Jesus, that we’re to get to know Jesus and then we’ll have faith in him. Or trust in him. But that is utterly different from the situation with my wife. My wife is physically present with me. She’s not some hypothetical spiritual being out there but a real person that I can observe and talk to.
“You can get to know Jesus,” comes the rejoinder. But how? Directly? No.
I can get to know him through the Bible, but that’s problematic for obvious reasons that I’ve discussed numerous times here. It’s filled with contradictions. The image of God presented in the Old Testament is positively barbaric. It’s packed with immorality commanded from God — it’s just not a good example of a good supposedly written by an omnipotent being.
I can get to know him through what the church teaches about him, and here the Catholic church has a leg up on Protestants because they don’t restrain themselves to the Bible. The magisterium has equal footing — or nearly-equal footing. So if the Pope says it ex-cathedra, it’s an article of faith. Still, that’s just the same as relying on the Bible — it’s a product of humans.
Finally, I can get to know him in that way that Evangelicals and Mormons are especially fond of: that sense we have in our heart (it’s telling that religions insist on using that metaphor when we’ve known for ages that the seat of our intellect is not our hearts but our brains — it’s an attempt, I suspect, to move the whole experience away from the intellect) that God is involved in our lives. That warm feeling in their hearts that Christians attribute to the Holy Spirit. I don’t doubt the experience of that warm feeling, but to attribute it to anything outside one’s own mind is itself an act of faith, an act not based on evidence. “It’s the Holy Spirit!” the Bible proclaims and our pastors echo, and so Christians accept that explanation. Muslims have the same experiences but attribute that not to the Holy Spirit (that would be blaspheme, for God is one!) but to Allah. Hindus would make the same move. (It’s rubbing off on me.)
So all three ways we get to know God or Jesus or the Holy Spirit are questionable: they’re all open to interpretation; none are firmly grounded on rational reasoning based on evidence. That is what we skeptics mean when we say that faith is not reason, that it does not work in a similar way, and that it is separate from (sometimes anathema to) evidence.
I was listening to a debate between Alex O’Connor and Bishop Robert Barron on YouTube during my run this evening, and they got to talking about the nature of faith. I wanted to respond to it, but I didn’t want to take the time to transcribe large portions of the video, so I tried my first-ever response video…
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jmkvZTjsnGU
The original debate is here:
“Language-like activity in the absence of meaning” — a good definition of glossolalia, the act of speaking in tongues. The Bible promotes it, and I’d always understood it to be the miraculous act of speaking a language one doesn’t have any foreknowledge of. For example, breaking into Farsi having never studied it.
“Surely,” I thought, “No one really believes that happens?! It’s so easy to debunk: record it and have a computer try to recognize and translate the language.” But it turns out,ย real speaking in tongues is not the miraculous speaking of an otherwise-unknown language: it’s speaking in the language of angels. It is, in simple terms, gibberish.
If you listen to these segments of people speaking in tongues, you’ll notice a few things:
I’m on the fence about the video, though, because they’re clearly mocking these people, and while it does seem silly, I find myself thinking that they must get something out of it. It likely gives a natural high of endorphins.
I once attended a church where there was a lot of calling down of the Holy Spirit, a lot of prayers for God to send the Holy Spirit to enter the building and enter them, with repetitive music playing, the congregants with their hands raised and their eyes closed, swaying to the music. It struck me how similar they appeared to people I’d see just a week or so earlier at a party who’d passed around a gigantic bong and gotten stoned out of their gourd. They all had the lost-in-the-moment look about them, and even in some churches that speak in tongues, one way they see the manifestation of the Holy Spirit is through uncontrolled laugher, the tell-tale sign that someone has smoked marijuana.
There’s also the element of crowd pressure — some of those people are clearly forcing their laughter. And perhaps some of them are closeted non-believers and they’re finally able to let out the laughter that they keep pent up every Sunday.
The king of all this nonsense is huckster Benny Hinn.
I just can’t understand how people can fall for this stuff. I’d love to get up on stage with someone like this and let him wave his arms at me, fling his coat at me, and just stand there looking at him. Wonder what would happen — I’d likely be hustled off the stage in a hurry…
