Read an Excerpt
SKEPTICAL
Show Me Evidence—Then I'll Believe
By BOB MOORES
iUniverse, Inc.
Copyright © 2011 Bob Moores
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4620-5774-0
Chapter One
My Early Years
God give me the courage to face a fact, though it slay me. T. H. Huxley
Now I will tell you a little more about myself. This is not an ego thing. In the grand setting of the universe I am as unimportant as anyone can be. The reason why I want to tell you about me is so you can understand how I came to think as I do.
My first epiphany: an uncomfortable truth
Epiphany: a moment of sudden and great revelation.
December 1946. I had just turned eight the month before. That fall my family had moved from my grandparents' farm in rural Carroll County to the big city. I had started the third grade at Pimlico Elementary School in Baltimore.
Somehow the subject of Christmas came up in a conversation with one of my classmates. I told him what I had asked Santa to bring me for Christmas. My friend said "What? You still believe in Santa Claus? It's your mom and dad. There is no Santa Claus." I told him he didn't know what he was talking about, but was anxious to get home that day. Finding my mother in the kitchen, I related to her what my friend had told me. Mom said, "Do you really want to know who Santa is?"
At this point I must pause to give you a little background on the importance of Santa. Each year, in writing my letter to Santa, my parents allowed me to ask for three items from the Sears Christmas Catalog where Santa's inventory was on display (If that was a clue, I suppressed it). There was a good possibility that Santa would actually deliver two of the things I asked for, and on a good year, all three! Thus, Christmas was my main opportunity to score big in the "new toy" category. This opportunity was not to be squandered.
Returning to Mom's query of "do you really want to know?," her question gave me the answer I sought, but still I hesitated to reply. I had a difficult choice to make. I could go along with what I now realized was a deception, comfortable in the idea that my annual Christmas bonus would continue, or have an uncomfortable fact confirmed.
After a few seconds, I decided. Yes, I wanted the truth, and to hell with the outcome. Mom enlightened me. My point? As an eight-year-old, I, like Huxley, wanted the truth, even if it was bad news for me. Truth, tested against comfort on the balance scale, was more weighty for me. If you think back, you have had life-shaping moments that were more impactful than others. This was one of mine.
My father was an electrician. He worked on big commercial projects for a company called Riggs-Distler. Dad was a foreman, which I took to mean some kind of boss. His best friend was another electrical foreman named Otz Parsons. Otz and Ann Parsons, with son Bunky, lived in a large log house in the woods. My family would visit the Parsons', and vise-versa, at least once a month. Dad, a.k.a. "Reds," and Otz would talk for hours, mostly about target shooting, deer hunting, and people "on the job" who were screwing up.
The thing I remember most about our visits to the Parsons' is the time it took for Dad and Otz to say goodbye. Goodbye happened in stages. First we would get our coats on. Then there would be a lengthy conversation in the kitchen (where the front door was located). We would then proceed to the front porch, where the same lengthy conversation continued. Finally we would get into the car. Dad would roll down the window so he could have one last lengthy conversation with Otz before we actually departed. The entire process of saying goodbye took at least thirty minutes, and this was after several hours of talking about the same stuff! I mention this anecdote simply to point out that I did not inherit Dad's gift of gab.
In most ways Dad was my role model. He was mechanically savvy, always fixing things around the house, especially his car. Those fixes were more along the lines of "improvements" to an imperfect design. I was his helper. I fetched tools that he needed, and watched intently as he used them. There was always "the right tool" for a given job. Never ever use an open-end wrench when you can employ a box wrench. Things like that.
Dad was also very good at making logical arguments. Whenever he decided to phone someone with whom he had a problem, I would sit transfixed, listening to his spiel. He had a way of calmly convincing the person on the other end of the line that he should get his way.
Several times I accompanied Dad when he went to buy a new car. Those negotiations held my attention in the first hour, but became tedious as the day went on. Even after the deal was sealed, Dad would usually wrangle an extra wheel from the frustrated salesman. That way Dad could always keep two snow tires mounted (a spare in the car, the other in the garage) in preparation for the winter season. For you youngsters, in those days we did not have all-weather tires.
Perhaps because of the inner-city conditions in which he was raised, Dad harbored certain prejudices. He had labels for various groups, particularly by race, nationality, and religion. I learned those names as well, but did not have many opportunities to use them because, except for blacks, the other group members were hard to identify. My mother never used those names, but her silence did not mitigate my adoption of Dad's nomenclature. Don't get me wrong. Dad was not a hateful or bitter person; his prejudice was as natural to him as it was to most of his friends. I found after he died that his favorite poem was Abou Ben Adhem., by James Henry Leigh Hunt (1784-1859). It became my favorite also:
Abou Ben Adhem, may his tribe increase!
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
And saw, within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich, and like a lily bloom,
An angel writing in a book of gold:
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,
And to the presence in the room he said,
"What writest thou?"-The vision raised its head,
And with a look made of all sweet accord,
Answered, "The names of those who love the Lord."
"And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so,"
Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low,
But cheerly still; and said, "I pray thee, then,
Write me as one that loves his fellow men."
The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night
It came again with a great wakening light,
And showed the names whom love of God had blest,
And lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest.
Mom had five brothers and four sisters, so she served quite an extended family, especially in her later years. I say "served" because her children, grandchildren, great grandchildren, nieces and nephews would come to her for advice and consolation when they had problems. If face-to-face meetings were impractical, Mom would find out through the grapevine who was having problems and write them letters of support, always adding that she was praying for them. Her love, empathy, patience, and common sense were limitless. She was the best psychiatrist in the world, and charged nothing for it.
My mother was very religious. She took her four boys to church every Sunday, at least until we reached our teens. We were Methodist Protestants of the Christian faith. My dad never attended church, nor did he ever discuss religion with me. I figured he was delegating this teaching area to Mom. Mom, in turn, seemed to be delegating my formal training to the church. Looking back, I think I learned my sense of right and wrong from my parents, not from church.
I don't remember much about Sunday school. I can't recall learning any moral lessons, so it must have been about playing games, making craft projects, and generally keeping out of the way of the adults who were learning the serious stuff upstairs. The only things of historical significance I absorbed were the stories of Daniel in the lions' den and the fascinating account of Noah's ark.
Graduation
When I was eleven my family moved to Baltimore County, in an area known as Shawan. About a year later I graduated from Sunday school to the adult service upstairs. Right away I noticed some significant changes. For one thing, the whole affair was scripted in a bulletin, a printed program that was followed to the letter. I liked that organization a lot. At that age, I didn't own a watch, so the bulletin gave me an indication of how much longer the church service would last.
At three points during each service, the congregation would sing a hymn. The choir would sing another. I liked the music of the hymns, but did not have enough range that I could stay in the same key all the way through. My attempt to stay in the same key as long as possible sometimes resulted in sore vocal cords, but considered in total, the music was great.
The sermon, a great cure for insomnia, took by far the largest block of time. It could take as long as forty minutes, but on a good day, it could be as short as twenty. After about fifteen minutes I would invariably be engaged in the droopy-eyelid and nodding-head fight, but that was embarrassing only when I jerked awake, thinking that the entire congregation must have noticed. But no one ever said anything, so maybe they were dozing too.
Perhaps the most important thing I learned upon graduating to church was that I was now a sinner. I could be sure that I was a sinner, the declaration that "we are all sinners" was repeated often enough by our minister. I wasn't quite sure what sins the preacher thought I had committed, but the strength of his emotional fervor assured me that he had to be right. Did he somehow know about the cookie I stole last Wednesday, and if so, does that reach the level of sin? He also taught that Jesus died to remit Adam's sin, thereby giving me a chance for eternal life if, and only if, I accepted Jesus as my savior. Otherwise I am condemned to hell because of Adam's misbehavior. Later, in high school, I would discover that two bulwarks of our American justice system are 1) one is presumed innocent until proven guilty, and 2) unless an accomplice, one is not responsible for a crime someone else commits. Both of these principles are the opposite of what I had been taught in church.
I had the utmost respect for my fellow parishioners. They seemed so pious, so good. Here I was, at twelve a doubter, thinking that I could never be as good as the other members of my congregation. There was something wrong with me. When the pastor said "we are all sinners," why did his eyes seem to linger on me?
Looking back, I can see that in my youth I was extremely respectful of authority. Richard Dawkins (2006) posits that this quality is an evolutionary necessity built in to our genes. This respect applied not only to my parents, but also to my religious teachers. My gullibility began to diminish, but was still extant in my early years at Black & Decker. I believe my naiveté stemmed from the feeling that others were smarter than me, had more power over my fate, and were generally better people than me. Even today I tend to trust the veracity of a friend's statement before considering if she or he is joking. I am easily fooled, at least in the short term.
My second epiphany: prejudice revisited
Soon after moving to Shawan I developed a friendship with a particular schoolmate. Wayne lived three miles farther up Falls Road. Most Saturday mornings I would pedal my bicycle to his house. There were activities that were more interesting in his neighborhood than mine. For one thing, we could ride this huge old farm horse retired in a meadow all his own. The horse could obtain a maximum speed of nearly one mile an hour, but we didn't mind. We little pipsqueaks were making a gargantuan land machine bend to our wills. We were in control!
One Saturday morning I arrived to find Wayne tossing firewood into his basement through a window at ground level. As it was quite a large pile of wood, I offered to help. After about five minutes, a strange thing happened. A black kid who lived next door came over and joined the firewood transfer. Something is wrong here, I thought. Doesn't this kid know that blacks and whites are supposed to dislike each other? Why is this kid trying to act like a normal human being? On my way home that day I had more time for reflection. Is it possible that Dad is wrong about black people? On this matter, perhaps I should try thinking for myself.
Between the ages of eleven and sixteen I went to church regularly. I didn't have much choice. Mom expected my company, and more because she was the best person I have ever known rather than being demanding, I went. By my mid-teens I was having trouble accepting certain tenets of the church. Along with the good moral teaching were certain things I found distasteful.
My church was not only a sin-washing machine, it was also a brainwashing machine. Take The Apostle's Creed. A creed is a series of belief statements whereby if you repeat them often enough you will eventually come to believe they are true. The Methodist version of The Apostle's Creed goes like this:
I believe in God the Father Almighty,
maker of heaven and earth;
And in Jesus Christ his only Son our Lord:
who was conceived by the Holy Spirit,
born of the Virgin Mary,
suffered under Pontius Pilate,
was crucified, dead, and buried;
the third day he rose from the dead;
he ascended into heaven,
and sitteth at the right hand of God the Father Almighty;
from thence he shall come to judge the quick and the dead.
I believe in the Holy Spirit,
the holy Catholic Church,
the communion of saints,
the forgiveness of sins,
the resurrection of the body,
and the life everlasting. Amen.
At first I recited it because the pastor indicated it was time to say it. I didn't think about the words or care what they meant. Everybody else seemed to think it was important, so, wanting to fit in, I recited it too. After a number of years, I actually started to think about what I was saying. The brainwashing apparently had not taken. One Sunday I said to myself: You pathetic, robotic, unprincipled automaton. How can you be saying this when you don't believe a word of it? I continued to lip-sync it for a while, mostly to please Mom, before giving up and remaining silent while the others recited it.
With reference to the "we are all sinners" mantra, my issue with the sin thing is: If you are a believer, sin is no problem. You try to avoid it as best you can, but in the end, no matter how many times you screw up, if you retain faith in Jesus you will be saved. But for a skeptic like me, sin is a huge problem. Doubting God's existence is the biggest sin of all. The possession of doubt means that not only will I not be saved, but I will spend eternity in hellish torment. That was a big hammer hanging over my head. I was always walking around with the idea in the back of my mind that God was going to punish me for doubting.
Now you might say: "Well, stupid, what's the obvious solution? Accept Jesus and that problem is resolved. Game over. God saves another soul." There is only one tiny problem with that idea: I cannot believe something because I would like it to be true. I cannot force myself to believe something that makes little sense, and believe it because everyone else believes it. I need more data. I need to see logical arguments. If I happen to die before I get sufficient data then so be it. I am confident that a just god would not punish me for disbelief when he has withheld evidence of his existence.
Another thing I did not like about my church teaching was the precept that only Christians can be saved. Being "saved" means you have a great chance of obtaining an afterlife in a pleasant setting. Non-Christians need not apply. God might save a few non-Christians for reasons known only to him, but overall it seemed that the exclusivity of Christianity was unfair.
For the most part, I forgot the things that bothered me at church about two seconds after I said goodbye to the preacher. But why did I continue to go to church, you ask? With all the structured dogma I had to endure, I thought I still might be able to learn something about morality and God. I also liked the hymns, the camaraderie of my fellow parishioners and, in time, a certain young lady who eventually became my wife. I had found a good purpose for church. It was a great place to meet chicks!
(Continues...)
Excerpted from SKEPTICAL by BOB MOORES Copyright © 2011 by Bob Moores. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse, Inc.. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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