I was supposed to write about technology today. For some reason,
though, I really don’t feel like writing about technology. I feel a
strange need to write about faith. I’m not sure why. Faith has been my
bete-noire for a long time now. In fact, for as long as I can
remember. I’m afraid of faith because I have observed its power and I
don’t understand it at all.
For a long time, I felt great anger at the concept of faith. Sure, I
knew people who’d been helped by it. But I could also look around and
see the pain and suffering that it caused, the crimes and unspeakable
atrocities committed in its name. I have always considered myself
fortunate to live in a country without an official religion, without an
imposition of faith. And I have long been suspicious of those who
attempted to interject faith into the American forum. Couldn’t they see
what a wonderful thing we had developed here? Couldn’t they appreciate
the brilliance of the Constitutional formulation? Free Exercise and No
Establishment. The First Amendment sets out two rules for religion:
every individual is free to exercise whatever faith—or lack thereof—they
may possess, but the government may not favor any particular faith—or
even a combination of faiths. Those two rules allowed us to develop
into the most pluralistic, tolerant society in recorded history.
When the (second) Bush administration came to power, it arrived armed
with the notion that faith should be promoted—its “faith based
initiative.” This initiative arrived at a bout the same time as I
reached an important personal juncture—I was able to let go of some of
the anger of my childhood. I was raised as an Orthodox Jew, in an
Orthodox Jewish community. While it is impossible to capture any
religion in a few simple words, it is generally possible to make a
start. Orthodox Judaism believes that the Torah represents God’s
revealed truth. The Torah teaches a fairly simple moral code for all
people—stressing concepts like monotheism, marital fidelity, kindness to
animals, and a respect for others’ lives and property. In addition, it
prescribes a much more detailed set of requirements for Jews. While
most Jews are born Jewish, conversion is open to anyone who truly
accepts these added restrictions and requirements.
Something about that never sat well with me. Mostly, I think, it had to
do with the notion of revealed Truth. It all struck me as entirely
implausible. In order to buy the argument, you had to follow a series
of implausible events. First, there had to be an original creative
force. Okay, I’ve always been prepared to buy that one. God, Big Bang,
whatever you want to call it, I have no problems with the idea that
something got things going. But then it got tough. That force had to
be sentient. It had to care about the earth. It had to care about
individual actions on this planet. It had to have revealed itself in
the way described to the people described. And the revealed Truth had
to have been interpreted in reasonable ways since the original
revelation. All of those struck me as implausible; and when you
multiply the probabilities together, well, the likelihood that you were
left with Truth was infinitesimal.
Of course, there was nothing wrong with the Torah Truth that didn’t
apply with equal ease to the Truths preached by any other faith. They
were all equally implausible. And it struck me that it was that utter
implausibility that led adherents to the ultimate insecurity that caused
them to denigrate and devastate adherents of the other Truths.
But when I started paying attention, I noticed that things played
themselves out a bit differently here in America. I noticed a huge
number of folks who seemed to describe themselves as “spiritual, but not
religious,” or as “religious, but not traditional.” And that’s when it
dawned on me. We’ve been drawing the lines in the wrong ways. Not
just me, but large parts of the spectrum of political pundits and
commentators. The lines do not belong between the different faiths, or
even between the people of faith and the “faithless.” The proper lines
belong between those who believe in a single Truth and those who do not.
The membership of virtually every religious organization contains a
spectrum of thinkers. Some believe that the teaching of their faith
represent the entire Truth, and that those who reject that Truth have
lost their way—and must be converted, shunned, or worse. Others,
however, seem to believe that they have found peace, solace, or
fulfillment in the teachings of their faith—and that others should seek
similar good feelings wherever they may find it. These are the folks
who believe that somewhere, Moses, Jesus, Mohammed, Buddha, and others
are all sitting around annoyed, saying: “Look, all we ever said was that
the world would be a better place if people got along with each other.”
For these folks, the idea of importance is that every individual find
an ethical center and a moral compass. The source of that center is
secondary.
But then, what of those without faith? What of those who believe in
none of the traditions? Well, they break down the same way. Many
agnostics—and even atheists—believe in a humanistic philosophy. They
gain their moral center simply by recognizing that some things are right
and others wrong, and that the world will be a better place if we all
try to do right. Those who do not are more than simply faithless; they
are nihilistic.
And therein lies the peace that I have attempted to make with faith. I
have a moral center and a compass. I’m not sure where it comes from,
and I’m not sure if it’s important that I do. What I do know, though,
is that I am fine with people of faith—as long as they do not feel that
they have a monopoly on Truth and they recognize that all paths to
self-improvement and world-improvement are equally valid.
As I look around the world, I wonder where these people are. We seem to
have them in abundance in the U.S., but they are dangerously missing
elsewhere. And so the religious carnage continues. And so, I say, God
Bless America. Or to be more neutral, May the Force be with Us.
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