Hergest Ridge

“Believing in God is like believing in Santa Clause. It’s the sort of thing that children do, but we can leave the cry baby phase behind and move on to maturity.”

Alister McGrath claims that Richard Dawkins’ analogy isn’t valid, for “how many people do you know who not believing in Father Christmas at the age of six do start believing in him at the age 18, or 35, or 50.”

I normally don’t make it a point of openly defeating such easy fallacies, but Alister McGrath supposedly knows something about this subject. Sadly, like all of his arguments in “An Analysis of The God Delusion”, this one shatters with but one short paragraph.

Christianity is not the only religion adults convert to (or away from for that matter). Type into YouTube “Islam Conversion” and see the same 18, 35, and 50 year olds converting to something completely different. If conversions into Christianity by adults inject any sort of validity into Christianity, then Islam is just as valid for it too receives its share of adult newcomers.

Back against the wall, his arms around her waist and hers around his neck, time stuttered and forgot its way. If smiles were for bidding, hers would fetch the top price. Smith felt the moment absorb under his skin like ink into paper: the gray October light filling the halls of Gardenia Mall, the water lily scent of her dark long hair, the muted backdrop of sounds and echoes – all of it part of him now and forever.

To those around them, the kiss that followed might seem like a natural climax, and everything that led to the kiss a means to a common and predictable end. But a kiss can be shared with a neighbour, classmate, ones child or parent, a total stranger – it often is a means to an end. In time, it might wash from his memory like footprints on the beach, but the moment that lead will survive until both perish in flame, like ink on paper.

While most search for answers and connections to the universe, Smith understood that the woman before him with her embracing arms was the only connection he ever sought or desired. No position of power, no religion, or bank account could ever bring out the meaning of life with the grace and ease she did.

He liked best about himself the part that loved her so deeply and intricately. This simple truth was a great power, and like all natural forces it had no master. All you could do is hope that it does your bidding, while knowing at the back of your mind that someday it might come for you – a position well worth the risks, for what better way to die than of your own passion?

Her soft sweet lips pressed against his, time again found its composure and pressed on as it always did. Smith would have a lifetime to recall the roles played and cast performing, the stage and atmosphere, even the smell. Throughout his life he’d recall every detail, and when face to face with death, the reels of life’s cinema would spark the memory to life for one last time, this time in black and white. For what is life but a play in which everyone acts a part until the curtain comes down?

My morning walk – face buried in Breaking the Spell – led me to a used books shop, stuffy air and wooden floors mandatory. The place ain’t just a book shop, but that’s the majority of their stock. Some of the other items on offer break the enchantment I strive to create, and I’ll skip those details.

I walked into the store with one book, but came out with two – $12 less in currency. I’m now the proud new owner of a hard cover, illustrated, nicely detailed with art copy of A Journey to the Centre of the Earth by Jules Verne.

Thus far, my experience with Verne’s books is limited to Treasure Island, a novel read with great pleasure when I was a child. For some reason, I recall that the edition of the book I read was part one of two, and that I’m still not familiar with the second half of the story (it had not been available at the library, and I hadn’t pursued the matter further.)

I find it amazing that these books were written in the 19th century. In my mind they are always as current and relevant as Harry Potter books, but this could be a simple case of limited familiarity with the actual novels – that’ll change to a degree soon.

Adventures aside, I like some of the points made by Dennett in my current reading. He asks the atheist to imagine a new and reputable study which suggests that music in any shape or form is likely to make all, including the casual listener, more violent, intolerant, and immoral. Knowing the bad effects of music, would we still not crave and need it? Most likely – even if claims of the negative effects of music had been proven beyond doubt – few would abstain from it. The urge for music is now built in, and no logic or fact can do much to counter it.

I concede the point, and admit that it’d likely take a long time – perhaps in excess of my lifetime – to curb my own enthusiasm and exposure to music. Maybe Dennett is heading where I’m about to go with saying that I and many atheists have no desire to rid the individual of his or her religion. Simply, we ask the theist to understand the power religion holds over the mind, and that he not force others to adhere to the theist’s beliefs, especially young children. This courtesy should not only extend to fellow citizens, and need include the children of theists. Allow the young mind to make choices on merit, observation, and experience. Nurture their interests, and help them explore all possibilities. Any way you look at it, it seems to be the most admirable thing to do.

Darf Deutsche Geschichte “Hollywoodisiert” Werden kling die Frage bei SWR Contra. Es geht über den neuen Film der im Bremen gedreht wird, mit der Thema von Stauffenberg – den Man das Hitler umbringen versuchte.

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Apologies to Internet Explorer users. The entry dates and titles are displaying funky, courtesy of lazy ass Microsoft. Maybe over the weekend I can find out how to fix it. As always, everything works fine for Firefox users.

While I’ve yet to receive any real threats of my eternal damnation into hell, the spam caught by the filters is doing the preaching. Passages from the bible, empty promises of life eternal, proclamations that god loves me – it’s like having a couple fundamentalist Christians around! Maybe the preaching today is automated. Basic technologies would suffice to achieve the effect, if you know what I mean.

I’ve started Breaking the Spell by Dennett. A bit slow going, but I think it’ll pick up once the spell (religion) is defined. Despite the mundane – but much needed – intro, I’ve already learned a few interesting questions and facts that I hadn’t considered before. To be honest, stuff like this alone would get me through the nearly 400 pages, but an entertainment value is definitely desired and sought.

I’ve placed an Amazon order for Fahrenheit 451 and a hardcover edition of 1984. The former is mainly a means of qualifying for free shipping, but does sound very interesting and I’m looking forward to reading it. The title is the temperature at which paper catches flame (233 °C), and like 1984 is a dystopian novella. The latter title is intended for an upcoming birthday gift to a friend. Unfortunately, it comes with a very generic cover, but I thought it better than a nice looking paperback. Reading hard cover books from the library is having a snobbish effect on me, but it’s a flaw I can live with.

The fourth attempt to get my bumper fixed at Toyota failed. This time they received the right molding, but the wrong colour! Before I could say anything, the head of insurance repairs said that I needn’t come down when the part arrives – they’ll come to me for the installation. All I need do is tell them where and when. Toyota is nice like that. Further in their defense, this is the first screwup I had with them, and they manged to save grace nicely (there is the story of a sleazy salesman, but he disappeared quickly).

The Fringe started yesterday, and I hope to catch a few performances before it ends less than two weeks from now. I’m specifically looking forward to anything like “Heretic” of several years ago, or the couple stand up comedians I enjoyed, but who’s names I not know or am familiar with spelling. I’ll be sure to detail my recommendations for the festival – please do the same.

After Note: Found a much better edition of 1984, one with a nicer hardcover, Animal Farm included, for half the price! Changed my order to get two of those with Fahrenheit 451, which means I’ll get to keep a copy of George Orwell’s classics for myself!

The book covers shown are from the new order.

My day started full of frustration and agitation (grumpiness is another good word for it). I suspect it had to do with the construction and jackhammers on floors above, but one can never be sure. Last night ended with me trying to tame some CSS code, and the new day started where the last left off – another potential reason for the sour mood.

By noon, three events blew the clouds away, and all had to do with a public bus ride. First was the social factor. Despite standing room only, my mind was mainly drawn to the positive feeling of being surrounded by other humans – an unusual but welcome emotion for a solitary mind. Much of the space was occupied by a group of preteen children on a field trip. Generally care free, sometime pretentious, always loud, but in the case of this group, mostly well behaved. When a mother with three children came on the bus, three field trip youngsters stood up and made room for their slightly younger peers and their mother. They did so without being asked, before the doors of the bus shut again. I almost wished my ride was a longer one, or that my errand could wait a bit longer while I rode past my stop. Before I could step off the bus, the driver had sent me off with a loud and determined “Have a great day!”

Sometimes, people will surprise you.

On another note, I’ve finally tamed the CSS code, and post contents are now displayed in Times, with paragraph indents in place of the ugly line breaks. I hope it gives the blog a slightly more friendly and warm atmosphere.

Joe Dallas – the author of The Gay Gospel? How Pro-Gay Advocates Misread the Bible, and Founder and Director of Genesis Counseling – believes that gay Christians practice a theology of desperation: “I am desperate to believe God accepts gays, so I will abandon a certain amount of common sense to believe” (paraphrasing from “It’s a New Day”, aired July 11, 2007 on Omni).

It would be a tremendous feat to quantifying with any accuracy the amount of compartmentalisation required to utter or believe such an obvious fallacy. While math is my thing, in this case the exercise is useless, and I’d rather go rescue a kitten from a tree.

All of religion requires a complete abandonment of common sense. That’s part reason why it’s called faith (read blind faith if you’re one for arguing that everyone has faith of some kind). Not only is common sense absent in religion, religious faith is near universally an act of desperation. To put forth so much time and effort into something so unsubstantiated, unproven, and unlikely, ‘desperate’ is one of the nicest labels I can apply to the practice.

The overwhelming majority of ‘finding god’ journeys I’ve heard in my life went something along the lines of “I was at a bad spot in my life, didn’t think I could go on, but God saved me”. This group of church-goers is likely second only to those that came to religion through family tradition. Isn’t it time we stopped believing that an imaginary friend saved us from ourselves? It’s just not healthy, if you know what I mean.

The thought of Joe running a sexual counseling shop is nearly as frightening as an elderly, celibate priest giving sexual advice to a young couple. The whole scenario strikes me at par with asking a pedophile for child rearing advice. Some things you just don’t do, and asking a priest for sexual advice belongs in the “don’t” category, somewhere between ‘licking a frozen pole’, and ‘making toast in the bathtub’.

(Spoiler free, but does give a general idea of the plot)

Nineteen Eighty Four was in my hands before it had chance to gather dust on the mental ‘novels to read’ book shelve. It happened quite by chance, and had infact been a compromise to the main purpose for that day’s visit to the library. The title I was after was not available at the library branch I visited, and I had simply put in a request for it to be brought in. Not wanting to leave empty handed, I decided to look around and see what other goodies might turn up in the process. That’s when I found Nineteen Eighty Four.

It was only in the pages of 1984 that I realised the dual meaning of “Big Brother is watching you.” If Big Brother is trustworthy and really cares about those under him, the words are reassuring and comforting, but even an individual only partially lucid will agree that this portrait of the Big Brother is not the image that the mind conjures at instinct.

Orwell swiftly paints a hologram of a gray and drab world where the past, present and future is a product of a mastermind – The Party under the guise of Big Brother. Winston Smith is the main concern of the novel, and his experiences become the reader’s.

Here, I resist temptation to illustrate with clichés the success Orwell achieves in bringing the reader into this alternate universe, where the presiding social oppression becomes a cancer on the reader’s own mind. It’s no wonder then, that the heart and mind explodes with every positive emotion when this stoic stream of so called life is suddenly interrupted with three simple words – the last words one could imagine. I love you.

These spontaneous and unexpected written words tear out any remaining emotional detachments from the world at hand, and claim the reader as its citizen – Winston Smith the vehicle through it; It is where I completely surrendered myself to the world of 1984, only to suffer its twisted Doublethink, where two and two equals five, three, or any other and seemingly absurd solution.

In the words of Fredric Warburg, 1984 “is a great book, but I pray I may be spared from reading another like it for years to come.” Having read the final quarter of the book in one sitting, I hoped to end the therein torture sooner than later. Only by having read the novel in full had I learned that the suffering ends not with the novel, and that only ignorance or death can end the struggle.

Of the two, I’m pretty sure I know which will end it for me, but only insofar as my experience does not resemble that of Winston’s. Should the opposite manifest itself at any point, I’m afraid all bets are off.