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When reading on the bus or train, or anywhere in public, it’s wise to choose reading matter that makes you look like a cool and interesting person. You want a book that radiates the image of a cool, suave, down-with-the-kids hepcat, with bags of charisma and oodles of sex appeal. After all, you never know when the future love of your life might walk up and casually say, “I’m sorry, but I couldn’t help notice that you’re reading (insert incredibly zeitgeist-friendly novel here)… I loved that book, and clearly anyone who reads it is the sort of person that I would like to have children with, or at least a passionate one-night stand, possibly involving whipped cream and handcuffs.” So it’s important to choose the right book.
Any gorgeous young thing who approached me recently and huskily asked, “Hey there – what’s that you’re reading?” would have no doubt been hugely impressed when I turned to her and said, “It’s a really fascinating book about the bacteria of the human colon!” and I would have had to fight her advances off with a stick. Probably. Anyway, the book I’ve been reading recently, Carl Zimmer’s Microcosm, genuinely is a fascinating book about gut bacteria, specifically the universally famous (or infamous) Escherichia coli. Since E. coli has been more heavily researched than probably any other organism in history, many lessons about life, genetics and evolution have been learned from it. Zimmer uses this information to create a coherent history of microbiological research across many fields, using the E. Coli bacteria as his linking theme, and in spite of the (at first glance) rather uninspiring subject matter, it makes for a thrilling read.
The earlier chapters are devoted to E. coli’s biology, and it is these segments which might prove hard going for the non-biologist. Once the reader gets their head around the descriptions of protein structures, though, some truly fascinating tales emerge. The chemistry by which E. coli lives its little life is incredibly precise and ingenious, and there’s a huge “wow!” factor to be had in learning about how the bacterium uses a complex three-stage feedback mechanism to sustain its production of heat shock proteins. Trust me, there really is…
Later, Zimmer looks at how E. coli has been used to research evolution and genetic drift. Most readers will probably be familiar with the work of Richard Lenski, due to Conservapedia’s Andy Schlafly and his ongoing attempts to prove himself the dumbest kid in the playground. Schlafly doesn’t get a mention in Microcosm, but Zimmer explains Professor Lenski’s work in a simple, concise couple of paragraphs, and goes on to explain the implications of the study and discuss the results of other scientists working in the same field. It’s a really good layman’s explanation of Darwinian evolution, probably among the best I’ve read to date. He also covers the history of Intelligent Design, especially the Dover trial, where he explains in detail Kenneth Miller’s trouncing of Michael Behe’s “irreducibly complex” bacterial flagellum.
There is also an in-depth discussion of genetic engineering; the field’s history, prospects and processes are examined in some detail. Zimmer also devotes a chapter to E. coli’s contribution to astrobiology and the search for extraterrestrial life.
I’ve rarely read a popular science book as engrossing as Microcosm, and certainly not on such an apparently minor topic as one single species of bacteria. Carl Zimmer’s structures his arguments and descriptions with such skill that one cannot help but be drawn into the tiny world of E. coli, and since, “What’s true for E. coli is true for the elephant,” this microverse contains within it the explanation for all life on Earth. Microcosm has to be the best thing I’ve read this year, and that includes my own blog. Go out and get a copy.
Last night I had the distinct pleasure of finally putting a face to one of the other members of the atheosphere – Eshu of Bridging Schisms met Wifeshui and me for a quiet drink and a natter. It brought home to me the fact that, despite respecting their opinions, enjoying their arguments and taking a keen interest in their ideas, I really know next to nothing about the rest of the online atheist community. Atheist Nexus helps, of course, but I thought it would be nice to find out a bit more about some of you beyond your distaste for religion and apparently universal loathing of Sarah Palin…
With that in mind, I’ll soon be starting a new series of posts on Right To Think, provisionally entitled “Know Your Atheists”. In it, I hope to publish Sunday Times-style interviews with other members of the atheist blogosphere, but rather than impose on those who would, like Batman, prefer to keep their secret identity secret, I’m issuing a call for volunteers. If you fancy taking the time to engage in a brief e-mail correspondence about yourself, drop me a line at stuart.e.turner@hotmail.co.uk and we’ll take it from there.
I promise not to ask questions like: “What’s your credit card number? And the expiry date?”, and I’ll send you the full text of the post for approval before publishing it. If anyone’s interested, let me know.
No, not Darwin. Today is the 175th anniversary of the birth of Charles Bradlaugh, founder of the National Secular Society and one of Britain’s most influential atheists. He lived during an era when religion was accepted as the norm, and laws still existed to enshrine the Church in the day-to-day life of the British people (the blasphemy laws, under which Bradlaugh’s mentor George Holyoake was imprisoned, were only repealed earlier this year). In spite of this, Charles Bradlaugh became an outspoken critic of the religious status-quo, publishing many pamphlets (Internet Infidels has a selcetion here) and setting up the National Secular Society in 1866.
His crowning triumph, though was his election to Parliament. Because the Oath of Allegiance (“I do swear that I will be faithful and bear true allegiance to Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth, her heirs and successors, according to law, so help me God”) contained a tacit acceptance of religion, he refused to swear it, demanding instead to be allowed to affirm his loyalty on his own honour. This was not accepted, and when he attempted to take his seat in the House of Commons he was arrested and briefly imprisoned. As a result his seat fell vacant, but every subsequent by-election voted him back into office! It was not until 1886, six years after he was originally elected, that public pressure obliged the Government to accept Bradlaugh into their midst, without requiring him to take the Oath. Thanks to his brave stand, and the passing of the Oaths Act which he pushed through two years later, religious faith is no longer a prerequisite for holding government office in the UK.
I used to think Facebook ads were targeted – when Wifeshui and I announced our engagement (by changing our Facebook status – how down with the zeitgeist are we?) all the sidebar salesmen started trying to sell us wedding rings. Now we’re married, however, the adverts seem to have hit a new level of marketing fail. Not only am I repeatedly informed that “HOT Singles in Your Area are waiting to meet YOU!”, but today I got an advert for All Saint’s Church in Blackheath; extra ineptness points for advertising a church to an atheist who lives hundreds of miles away! Clearly Facebook’s targeted marketing system needs a little tweaking…
A recent post at Brian’s Primordial Blog reminded me of somthing I’ve been meaning to discuss for a while. One of the most pervasive religious symbols in the world is the Christian cross – more universally recognisable than McDonald’s Golden Arches or the squiggly Coca-Cola logo. As a marketing tool, it’s a real coup, being an instantaneous shorthand for the religion. Crosses can be huge or tiny, with or without a little crucified Jesus on them, but they are everywhere in our social consciousness, and help Christians across the globe to explain their message.
The only slight problem, of course, is that crosses don’t get a mention in the Bible. Jesus wasn’t crucified on one. In fact, the long vertical/short crossbar image comes from the Babylonian cult of Tammuz, a shepherd raised to godhood who was the consort of Ishtar. It only appears in Christian artwork from about the seventh century onwards; prior to this Christan images tended to be based around the ideas of “The Good Shepherd” and the “Fishers of Men”. It is likely that the pagan converts to the early church were permitted to retain some of their symbols and imagery, including the “T”-shaped cross of Tammuz (in much the same way as pagan festivities were co-opted for the Christian festivals of Christmas and Easter.)
Jesus, according to the New Testament Greek, was crucified on a “σταυρóς” (“stavros“). The correct translation of σταυρóς, agreed upon by pretty much all students of the language, is “stake” or “pole”. The Romans did indeed use vertical stakes to crucify their prisoners – a structure known as the “crux simplex“, basically a pole stuck in the ground (or even an tree, if there was a suitable one in the vicinity). This was the standard mode of execution in the First Century CE, whilst the crossbar was a later addition. The advantage of the crux simplex was that it could also be used for impaling, or as a whipping post; a sort of Swiss Army knife of torture.
I should probably add that I’m not the first to notice this. The error has been known by the church for some time – indeed, there was a movement in Anglicanism in the 1700s to remove the cross altogether. Unfortunately, as noted in the first paragraph above, the cross is a potent memetic device, and has been central to the Christian consciousness for so long that it’s absence is inconceivable.
So next time you see someone wearing a cross or crucifix, remember that they’re unknowing carrying a pagan symbol with no relationship to their faith, and have a little chuckle at the con accidentally perpetrated by those long-dead Tammuz cultists.
Given that my erstwhile theist co-contributor andyinthepiewithalmonds has long been occupied with other things, Theist Vs Atheist (Right To Think’s sister site) has not been updated for quite a while. It seemed a bit one-sided to just post the atheist arguments… As a result, I’ve decided to delete the blog, and move all the pertinent posts over here. You can find the four main posts below:
On Morality – yunshui
On Morality – andyinthepiewithalmonds
On Natural Disasters – yunshui
On Natural Disasters – andyinthepiewithalmonds
All the original comments should be preserved, and you are of course welcome to add to them.
Yesterday, on my way home from work, I passed along on of Bristol’s many narrow pavements. Despite the city’s claims of being cycle-and-pedestrian friendly, it’s still a city where the motorcar holds sway – even the infamous one-way system has not discouraged many drivers. As a result, the traffic along this road was prodigious, and so, when I came to a workman’s ladder straddling the pavement from wall to kerb, I was loathe to step out into the road and risk life and limb under the wheels of a hurtling number 54 bus. Instead, I walked under the ladder, drawing a look of surprise from the elderly lady passing the other way (who waited for a gap in the traffic before stepping into the road to go around the ominous erection).
Waliking under ladders is commonly thought to be bad luck because of the risk of something being dropped on you, but the origin of the superstition is slightly more macabre. Originally, it was considered unlucky to walk under a gibbet, for obvious reasons – the only people who spent time under gibbets tended to be either dead or, if the hangman was having an off day, choking and kicking out their last breaths. One could ward off the ill-luck by making the sign of the cross whilst passing under the gibbet. At some point, this superstition was transferred to ladders, which is why you can still see people crossing their fingers (rather than the whole body) when forced to pass underneath one.
Having waltzed under the fateful ladder, I continued on my merry way. Then, this morning, I woke up with a sore throat and a temperature. Coincidence? I’m not sure the old lady I passed would agree…
On the way to my Aikido classes each week, I pass a large billboard advertising the Alpha Course. I don’t know if this is something unique to Britain, or if it has a global presence, but for those readers who aren’t familiar with the term, the Alpha Course is a Christian evangelical tool. Essentially it invites non-churchgoers to come to the sessions and ask questions about Christianity and the Bible, then tries to convert them. I’ve been tempted to join one for a laugh, but Wifeshui says she thinks that would be cruel of me…
Anyway, this particular poster poses the question “Is this it?” in large block letters, and then adds the tagline: “If God existed, what would you ask?” Leaving aside the rather appealing tacit assumption in the hypothetical question (that God doesn’t exist), I thought I’d list my top five questions. So, if God was real, here’s what I’d be asking:
1. Why the long silence? It’s been over 2000 years since Your kid came to Earth and pulled his Messiah schtick, and he pretty much promised he’d be back in a few weeks. A couple of millennia later, and we’re still waiting. Did he get held up in traffic or something? It’s not as though his dad has been particularly chatty either – where are the modern-day burning bushes and pillars of flame? You could at least write!
2. Could You have perhaps been a little more specific? You tell the Christians one thing, the Muslims another, and don’t even get me started on that shit You pulled on the Hindus. What’s wrong with being a bit more precise in Your instructions? I mean, even within Christianity alone You’d be hard-pressed to find two people who can agree on what You want. And whilst You’re unifying the message, perhaps You could take the trouble to set it out nice and clearly, instead of in an ambiguous and self-contradictory holy book passed down from the Bronze Age.
3. What’s with the destruction and death in the world? Merciful God, my arse – You seem to take pleasure in dropping one disaster after another on Your creation. So either You don’t care, or You can’t do anything about it – and what sort of god does that make You?
4. What exactly do You do all day? The more we discover about the world (using the powerful brains that You supposedly gave us), the less we find for You to do. We now have better, more coherent explanations for the Creation, for the diversification of species, for supernatural experiences, for supposed miracles… what exactly are You for?
5. What’s the deal with Hell? You’re proposing that we get tortured for an infinite period of time, simply because we failed to believe in You, in spite of the fact that You provide no evidence for Your existence and even offered up a whole batch of contradictory options (see question 2), only one of which (at most) can possibly be correct. In my book, that makes You a complete and utter bastard – and why the hell would I want to worship that?
I don’t expect a reply, but should God happen to peruse this blog at some point, maybe He’d be good enough to pop an answer or two in the comment thread…
Continuing my examination of some of the world’s less well-known religions, let’s pay a visit to my favourite country, Japan. Whilst Buddhism (especially in it’s Zen incarnation) is the faith most commonly associated with the Japanese by Westerners, it was actually an import from China. Japan’s indigenous religion is Shinto, the “Way of the Kami“, an intriguing mix of animism and ancestor-worship.
Shinto’s origins are lost in the depths of history, and it’s difficult to establish when the “modern” form really coalesced into its current state. Because Shinto has no offical dogma as such, and no holy texts to speak of (the nearest thing to a Shinto “Bible” is probably the Kojiki, a collection of legends from Japan’s mythic past), defining the different stages and denominations of the faith becomes rather difficult. It is often hard to recognise which parts of any particular sect are Shinto and which are Buddhist, Christian or from some other phliosophy. Generally speaking, though, Shinto can be said to have several defining features.
Firstly, there is the beleif in kami, usually translated as “gods” or “spirits”. Kami infest the landscape of Japan, residing in trees, rocks, mountains, lakes and so forth. To consider them as gods rather misses the idea of their nature – they are not transcendent deities like the Hindu pantheon, but more like co-habitors with humanity, occupying the same world and having many of the same limitations. An offshoot of this belief is the Shinto deification of the Japanese Emperor (a practice officially discouraged since 1945), which claims that the Imperial family is directly descended from the sun-goddess kami, Amaterasu. The idea of humans and kami leads to the nearest thing Shinto has to an afterlife; the reincarnation of the deceased’s soul in the form of a kami.
To say that Shinto practitioners worship these nature-spirits is to slightly misconstrue their motives. The main interaction between human and divine in Shinto is probably best described as a respectful co-existence. Shrines exist to honour the kami, and they are sometimes petitiioned for aid, but nonetheless there is a degree of equality between mortal and sublime in Shinto which is not present in (to my knowledge) any other faith.
One of Shinto’s main foci is the need for cleanliness and purity, an obsession which many say still informs the Japanese national character. The majority of Shinto rituals are thus geared towards purification – not necessarily in the sense of atonement for sin, as in most Occidental religions, but with the idea of making oneself acceptable to the kami. Shinto shrines are kept scrupulously clean, and devout followers of the faith often engage in misogi, a form of ritual cleanising in a natural waterfall or river.
Obviously the existence of Shinto kami is as unprovable as that of any other deity, so they get no credit on that score. They are at least exceedingly hygenic, and (with the notable exception of the highly nationalistic form that dominated during WW2) Shinto has never been particularly keen on prosletising, which is likely due to the fact that one does not have to practice Shinto to be accepted by the kami – any Japanese child registered at a Shinto shrine gains a free pass to the afterlife automatically, even if he or she spends his entire life as a Buddhist. Overall, it’s nowadays little more than a quaint collection of customs, archaic and obscure, but still a valuable insight into the history of Japan. I suppose you could say that the Shinto rituals are in that respect a sort of Japanese Morris-dance…
My usual daily internet trawling brought me this little nugget of information, which in turn led me to the BBC article here and Susan Blackmore’s article here. Michael Persinger’s research has not been short on controversy (his Tectonic Strain Theory, suggesting that seismic disturbances cause electromagnetic effects which in turn generate hallucinations) is generally regarded as pseudoscientific piffle, and his God Helmet experiments have yet to be successfully replicated (a Swedish group attempted it in 2004, but with no conclusive results). It’s an interesting arena of research, to be sure, but we should be wary of leaping too rapidly to the conclusion that religious experiences are just an electromagnetic anomaly. More research is needed in this area before we can claim, as Persinger does, that it’s “all in the mind”.
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