demonstrate the laws of evolution, and the packed, elusive mechanism of the human brain. Why do we need some God to help us marvel at such things?
We don’t. Not really. And yet. If what is out there comes from nothing, if all is unrolling mechanically according to a programme laid down by nobody, and if our perceptions of it are mere micromoments of biochemical activity, the mere snap and crackle of a few synapses, then what does this sense of wonder amount to? Should we not be a little more suspicious of it? A dung beetle might well have a primitive sense of awe at the size of the mighty dung ball it is rolling. Is this wonder of ours merely a posher version? Perhaps, the Category One atheist might reply, but at least it is based on a knowledge of what is the case. Compare the soppy fantasies of that disciple of Rousseau, who claimed that the striations on the rind of a melon were God’s handiwork—the Almighty nannyishly marking the fruit into fair and equal portions for His children. Do you want to go back to such preposterous thinking, to the gastronome’s pathetic fallacy? Where is your sense of truth?
Still hanging in there, I hope. Though—just out of interest—it would be useful to know whether an atheist’s sense of wonder at the universe is quantifiably as great as that of a believer. No reason why we can’t measure such things (if not now, soon). We can compare the number of synapses that fire during the female and the male orgasm—very bad news for competitive blokes—so why not try a similar test? Find some anchorite who still believes that the passion flower illustrates Christ’s suffering: that the leaf symbolizes the spear, the five anthers the five wounds, the tendrils the whips, the column of the ovary the pillar of the cross, the stamens the hammers, the three styles the three nails, the fleshy threads within the flower the crown of thorns, the calyx the nimbus, the white tint purity and the blue tint heaven. This monk would also believe that the flower stays open for precisely three days, one for each year of Christ’s ministry. Wire him up alongside a TV botanist and let’s see who fires the more synapses. And then let’s take the wiring kit along to a concert hall and test my “very irreligious” friend J. against a believer who will listen to that Haydn Mass as a full expression of eternal truth as well as—or instead of—a great piece of music. Then we shall be able to see, and measure, what happens when you take the religion out of religious art, and God out of the universe.
This may seem like rather desperate stuff to those cool minds who thrill even more to the beauty of scientific law precisely because it is not God’s handicraft. But if this sounds like nostalgia, it’s nostalgia for something I’ve never known—which is, admittedly, the more toxic kind. Maybe another part of my condition is envy of those who lost faith—or gained truth—when losing faith was fresh and young and bold and dangerous. François Renard, suicide and anti-clerical, was the first person to be buried in the cemetery at Chitry without the aid and comfort of a priest. Imagine the shock of that in the remote Burgundy countryside in 1897; imagine the pride of unbelief. Maybe I’m suffering from—well, call it historical remorse, so that my grandfather can sympathize.
Chapter 22
“A happy atheist.” The date I might have advanced to college chaplain and captain of boats as the key moment when aesthetic rapture began to replace religious awe, is January 1811; the place, Florence. It was a few days before Stendhal’s twenty-eighth birthday—or rather, the twenty-eighth birthday of Henri Beyle, who had not yet transformed himself into his nom de plume. Beyle/Stendhal did not believe in God, and affected a logical ignorance of His existence: “Waiting for God to reveal himself, I believe that his prime minister, Chance, governs this sad world just as well.” He continued: “I feel I am an
We don’t. Not really. And yet. If what is out there comes from nothing, if all is unrolling mechanically according to a programme laid down by nobody, and if our perceptions of it are mere micromoments of biochemical activity, the mere snap and crackle of a few synapses, then what does this sense of wonder amount to? Should we not be a little more suspicious of it? A dung beetle might well have a primitive sense of awe at the size of the mighty dung ball it is rolling. Is this wonder of ours merely a posher version? Perhaps, the Category One atheist might reply, but at least it is based on a knowledge of what is the case. Compare the soppy fantasies of that disciple of Rousseau, who claimed that the striations on the rind of a melon were God’s handiwork—the Almighty nannyishly marking the fruit into fair and equal portions for His children. Do you want to go back to such preposterous thinking, to the gastronome’s pathetic fallacy? Where is your sense of truth?
Still hanging in there, I hope. Though—just out of interest—it would be useful to know whether an atheist’s sense of wonder at the universe is quantifiably as great as that of a believer. No reason why we can’t measure such things (if not now, soon). We can compare the number of synapses that fire during the female and the male orgasm—very bad news for competitive blokes—so why not try a similar test? Find some anchorite who still believes that the passion flower illustrates Christ’s suffering: that the leaf symbolizes the spear, the five anthers the five wounds, the tendrils the whips, the column of the ovary the pillar of the cross, the stamens the hammers, the three styles the three nails, the fleshy threads within the flower the crown of thorns, the calyx the nimbus, the white tint purity and the blue tint heaven. This monk would also believe that the flower stays open for precisely three days, one for each year of Christ’s ministry. Wire him up alongside a TV botanist and let’s see who fires the more synapses. And then let’s take the wiring kit along to a concert hall and test my “very irreligious” friend J. against a believer who will listen to that Haydn Mass as a full expression of eternal truth as well as—or instead of—a great piece of music. Then we shall be able to see, and measure, what happens when you take the religion out of religious art, and God out of the universe.
This may seem like rather desperate stuff to those cool minds who thrill even more to the beauty of scientific law precisely because it is not God’s handicraft. But if this sounds like nostalgia, it’s nostalgia for something I’ve never known—which is, admittedly, the more toxic kind. Maybe another part of my condition is envy of those who lost faith—or gained truth—when losing faith was fresh and young and bold and dangerous. François Renard, suicide and anti-clerical, was the first person to be buried in the cemetery at Chitry without the aid and comfort of a priest. Imagine the shock of that in the remote Burgundy countryside in 1897; imagine the pride of unbelief. Maybe I’m suffering from—well, call it historical remorse, so that my grandfather can sympathize.
Chapter 22
“A happy atheist.” The date I might have advanced to college chaplain and captain of boats as the key moment when aesthetic rapture began to replace religious awe, is January 1811; the place, Florence. It was a few days before Stendhal’s twenty-eighth birthday—or rather, the twenty-eighth birthday of Henri Beyle, who had not yet transformed himself into his nom de plume. Beyle/Stendhal did not believe in God, and affected a logical ignorance of His existence: “Waiting for God to reveal himself, I believe that his prime minister, Chance, governs this sad world just as well.” He continued: “I feel I am an
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