Responses to an essay say much to a writer. Sometimes they
reveal flaws in the essayist's original assumptions or
reasoning, provide a different perspective, or are otherwise
enlightening. Other times they reveal something more about
the responders.
Back in May, I wrote an article about atheism. It was
inspired by an earlier op-ed by philosopher Slavoj Zizek in
The New York Times, extolling "the dignity of
atheism." I titled my own essay "The Indignity of Atheism"
and made one simple and obvious point: One who sees only
random forces behind why we humans find ourselves here can
have no reason to believe in objective categories of good and
evil.
I took pains to stress that I was not contending that
atheists are bad people, and certainly not that religious
people are necessarily good. I was not judging anyone, but
rather stating a self-evident philosophical truism: If our
perception that some deeds are good and others are not is but
a quirk of natural selection, none of us need feel any
commitment to morality or ethics.
The piece appeared in The Providence Journal and a
number of Jewish weeklies. Soon enough, it was posted on a
multitude of atheist weblogs, along with rebuttals — or
screeds presented as such.
I had always imagined atheists as a misguided but relatively
civil and intelligent bunch. But much of the reaction on the
blogs was simple umbrage heavily laced with anger and even
threats, born of my contention that atheists are bad people -
- although I had written no such thing and indeed had clearly
stated otherwise.
Perhaps the writers misinterpreted my invocation of Hitler,
Stalin and Pol Pot as examples of non-religious sorts who
were responsible for countless deaths of innocents. But that
was only to counter Mr. Zizek's contention that the world's
evils derive overwhelmingly from religion. (A few of the
umbrage-takers insisted that Hitler was a religious Roman
Catholic; I'm skeptical, but just to keep the complainers on
topic, they can replace him with Caligula, Mao, Saddam
Hussein, or Kim Jung Il.)
Other reactions (from the more careful readers, no doubt)
consisted entirely of adolescent snideness over the idea of
G-d, and harsh invective toward me, much of it of a
strikingly personal nature and in language more suited to a
locker room than an intellectual salon. Revealing, indeed.
As to the essence of my argument, though, there was no
credible counter-argument whatsoever: no claim that right and
wrong can somehow have inherent meaning without recourse to
Something Higher than ourselves. That, too, was telling
— of the truth that atheism, in the end, cannot assign
any more meaning to right and wrong than to right and
left.
What brings the edifying experience to mind is the pair of
current best-sellers attempting to make the case for atheism.
In one of them, Darwinist devotee Richard Dawkins declares
that to be an atheist is a "brave and splendid" thing, and
that to believe that there is Something to Whom we owe
obeisance is a "pernicious" thought. Writer Sam Harris,
meanwhile, in his own book, characterizes religion as
"obscene" and "utterly repellent."
The two authors avoid the sailor-language favored by the
bloggers and their blogophants, and they make a valiant
effort to present what they claim is the case for atheism.
But in their instances too, more illuminating than their
arguments is their anger.
Sure, it is easy to deny G-d. We can't see Him and can (at
least some of us, with prodigious effort and illimitable
imagination) imagine life evolving entirely on its own. And
yes, there is evil in the world that seems to go unpunished.
But belief in G-d has always gone hand-in-hand with belief in
both His hiddenness and His inscrutability. The "arguments"
from invisibility, evolution and the existence of evil are,
in the end, convincing only to those already convinced.
More informative is the atheists' anger. I think it derives
from the realization of where their declared convictions
perforce must lead. That would be — as per my original
essay — to a place where the very concepts of morality
and ethics are rendered meaningless, a worldview in which a
thieving, philandering, serial murdering cannibal is no less
commendable a member of the species than a selfless, hard-
working philanthropist. (In fact, from an evolutionist
perspective, the former is probably better positioned to
impart advantages to the gene pool.)
It is a thought so discomfiting to an honest atheist that all
it can yield him is fury.
Some atheists, no doubt, are not infuriated at all by the
implications of their denial of a human calling higher than
nature. They revel in the knowledge that whatever they wish
to do is fine, as long as they manage not to run afoul of the
manmade (and themselves inherently meaningless) laws of
society. If skillful enough, they can carefully lift items
from the local store, surreptitiously violate others' rights
or privacy, and covertly bring harm to those they dislike or
who stand in the way of their wants.
Most atheists, though — and they, I contend, are the
angry ones — would never dream of doing such things.
Because they know that there is right and there is wrong.
Wrong?
Is it "wrong" when a dog steals a bone from his fellow
canine, or when a mantis eats her mate? Of course not. But
when a human being steals or hurts or kills another, it's
qualitatively different. Deep down we know we are answerable
to Something beyond our own natures.
That knowledge gives thoughtful atheists hives. Which is why,
hopelessly conflicted by the irreconcilability of their
unspeakable realization and their trumpeted posture, they can
only fume.
Rabbi Shafran is director of public affairs for Agudath
Israel of America.
