the evil that is faith

people -- read The End of Faith by Sam Harris, god is not GREAT by Christopher Hitchens, and The God Delusion by Richard Dawkins. you will realize how inherently evil is faith -- belief without proof -- and how no religion should be tolerated in a supposedly modern, urbane society. the more we give faith a free pass, the more we will have people flying planes into buildings. after all, they were only doing what their faith told them, and they were sincere believers, not crazed animals.

truly civilized people find the idea of faith repugnant and ridiculous. don't sanction faith over scientific proof, and don't make up irrational arguments in favor of god and faith that can be refuted by the merest among us thinkers. faith allowed pedophiles to be alone with children, and faith kept those children silent about their abuse for a very long time. what will faith be responsible for next?

letter to Sam Harris and Christopher Hitchens

i have never been religious; i have never believed in any gods, not for as long as i have been able to think for myself, and that was at a very young age. however, i consider myself a nontheist rather than an atheist for several reasons:

1. "atheist" is an anti-theist term. i am not anti-theist; i do not honor the question. also, i do not reject only the traditional judeo-christian god; i reject ALL gods: past, present, and future. they are not nice, and they bring out the inherent evil in believers.

2. "atheist" is what people of one set of beliefs call people of a different set of beliefs, although both sets profess a belief in god/s. i do not wish to be part of that melange.

3. "atheist" seems to refer mainly to the "great" judeo-christian god (who is not), while i do not limit myself to only one. the prefix "a-" is a negative; the prefix "non-" is a more comprehensive and at the same time less negative term. it is a rejection without a fight.

4. atheists are considered godless, while i look upon that word as an inherent negative. i prefer to look upon myself as god-free, which is a load off my back and a happier thought. i am not less because i have no gods in my life; i am free of dogma of any kind. it is exhilarating to be positive about it rather than working from a negative terminology.

i agree with Sam Harris that we should not have to call ourselves anything at all, but until that day comes (and i do not see it coming in my lifetime), i will be god-free, not god-less; nontheist rather than atheist.

i consider religions anathema -- they bring out the worst in people. they spread moralities that are at the very least suspect; at the most, destructive. obligatory altruism is not a good; faith is not a good; belief without evidence (faith) is actually bad for homo sapiens. even animals are smarter than that -- they have to be, in all practicality, or they will be eaten.

in our culture, it is those who are god-free who are eaten, but that will inevitably change, as Man matures. religion is for children who need father-figures and who are afraid of death. i am an orphan in the maelstrom, and not unhappy with that thought. i had one father; i need no more. even the "founding fathers" i prefer to call the "Framers," for that is what they did.

religion was invented by men who craved answers to questions. i prefer questions; they are more interesting, and even the interesting answers only lead to more questions, ad infinitum.

finally, i want to thank you for your eloquent and fervent arguments in favor of nonbelief. i am a fan, of course, and i loved "god is not great," "the missionary position," and "the values of the worst family." (hillary the enabler is my least favorite, but bill the perjurer and sexual harasser comes close behind).

keep up the good work. i wish we could have lunch together; we would have a great conversation; of that i am sure. i would like to break bread with, e.g., socrates, voltaire, and ben franklin -- compare those companions to oprah winfrey's obsequious choice: jesus. what a bore! i would be inclined to include thomas jefferson, tom paine, and mark twain, but i self-limited to three.

thank goodness for you.

e pluribus, unum

i suggest that you remember that the prior “slogan” — meaning “war cry” — of the usa was “e pluribus, unum” — out of many, one. that alone negates the principle that we are one nation under god. think about it — out of many, one. it is a beautiful concept, and it is the reason that america exists as it does. as long as we are “out of many,” we cannot be indivisible under god. 12-14% of americans agree with me on this, and that negates the indivisibility of one nation under god. remember those of us who are god-free when you proselytize. and as far as “evangelism” goes, i say: what is the “good news” brought by religion? how about war, mutual antagonism, hatred/hostility, negative judgment, separation of the many, to name but a few. let’s get back to “e pluribus, unum,” for our own good. invoke your god if and as you wish, but just remember that many of us are not in agreement with you; you cannot force god down my throat, but as one of the many, i am one.

freedom from religion

as a nontheist, i am of course interested in the right to freedom from religion. i believe that the Ninth Amendment implicitly gives me the right to be free of religion. the unenumerated rights are i think the most important phrase in the entire Bill of Rights. if we paid more attention to the Ninth Amendment, we wouldn’t need several of the later amendments — slaves would be free, all men and women would have the right to vote, prohibition would never have happened, e.g.

the Bill protects individual citizens from the tyranny of the federal government. it is a list of “they shalt nots” — not “thou shalt nots.” as such, the Ninth Amendment is probably the most important of them all. and notice that it is placed — deliberately, i believe — ahead of the Tenth Amendment’s guarantee of states’ rights vs. federal rights. placement matters. the rights of the individual trump the rights of the state or of the federal government.

and, in the light of the Ninth Amendment, i plead with you to keep god out of government, including out of the Constitution and Bill of Rights. i do not have a favorable opinion of any gods, including the judeo-christian one so often quoted. we are not a nation “under god” as long as i — and the 12-14% of my fellow americans share that opinion. how can we be indivisible if there are those of us who are not “under god”? the Ninth Amendment gives us the right to be free of god and religion. i am not godless — i am god-free. and i have that right, thanks to the unenumerated rights of the Ninth Amendment.

is god dead or alive, or is the question irrelevant?

the various "proofs" of gods' existences are examples of very bad argument. lacking in reason, rationality. you don't know anything in your heart, you know it in your soul/brain/thinking process. and how? by scientific inquiry, experimentation, deduction, etc.

i have faith -- nay, actual proof -- that gods are vindictive manmade apparatuses designed to explain that which is not currently understood. you are seeking answers because you're unsure of things. i am seeking questions, because they are more interesting than answers and, besides, answers only lead to more questions.

as to it being too late for me -- it's too late when i take my final breath. if my soul joins a superstring, then so be it. if not, then oh well. i won't be judged by a nonentity nor will i go to a nonhell. but, if by some miniscule chance heaven as currently "known" exists, i prefer hell. there are too many people out there -- the godfearing ones, i mean -- with whom i would not want to share an afterlife. nor would i want to be stuck worshipping such mean gods -- i cannot say enough bad things about the believed gods, for they are bad. intrinsically. they were made to keep the sheeple in line and, as such, they are really, really baaaaaaad. your heaven is my hell.

all rational arguments to the contrary are welcomed -- nay, urged. those who wish to reply via emotion will not be acknowledged.

Ind. GOP Rep. Souder says he'll resign over affair

he called it a consensual relationship with a part-time staffer. consent or not, that was sleeping with an employee, otherwise known as sexual harassment in the workplace. the same thing that clinton and lewinsky were guilty of. when the boss bestows sexual favors upon an employee, the other employees know what side their bread is buttered on. if you don't play, you don't get the pay.

if sexual harassment in the workplace isn't a crime, it darned well should be. remember the michael crichton book "disclosure" that became a movie with michael douglas and demi moore? any kind of sexual harassment in the workplace is criminal. favoring one employee above all others makes for an uncomfortable and resentful atmosphere in the office, wouldn't you think?

so i don't care whether he sinned against his wife, his family, his god, or his dog. he sinned against his employees in an office environment. he played the favoritism card. how dare he pontificate. he should be publicly stoned (and i don't mean that in a good sense). if he did it once, he probably has done it before, and will probably do it again. he still hasn't admitted to the full sin of workplace sexual harassment, and i bet he never will.

and what does this farce say about his abstinence preaching? if he can't say no, how does he expect others to follow his false example? what hypocrisy!

Consorting With Angels

by Anne Sexton

I was tired of being a woman,
tired of the spoons and the pots,
tired of my mouth and my breasts,
tired of the cosmetics and the silks.
There were still men who sat at my table,
circled around the bowl I offered up.
The bowl was filled with purple grapes
and the flies hovered in for the scent
and even my father came with his white bone.
But I was tired of the gender of things.

Last night I had a dream
and I said to it ...
"You are the answer.
You will outlive my husband and my father."
In that dream there was a city made of chains
where Joan was put to death in man's clothes
and the nature of the angels went unexplained,
no two made in the same species,
one with a nose, one with an ear in its hand,
one chewing a star and recording its orbit,
each one like a poem obeying itself,
performing God's functions,
a people apart.

"You are the answer,"
I said, and entered,
lying down on the gates of the city.
Then the chains were fastened around me
and I lost my common gender and my final aspect.

Adam was on the left of me
and Eve was on the right of me,
both thoroughly inconsistent with the world of reason.
We wove our arms together
and rode under the sun.
I was not a woman anymore,
not one thing or the other.

O daughters of Jerusalem,
the king has brought me into his chamber.
I am black and I am beautiful.
I've been opened and undressed.
I have no arms or legs.
I'm all one skin like a fish.
I'm no more a woman
than Christ was a man.

Menstruation at Forty

by Anne Sexton

I was thinking of a son.
The womb is not a clock
nor a bell tolling,
but in the eleventh month of its life
I feel the November
of the body as well as of the calendar.
In two days it will be my birthday
and as always the earth is done with its harvest.
This time I hunt for death,
the night I lean toward,
the night I want.
Well then —
speak of it!
It was in the womb all along.

I was thinking of a son . . . You! The never acquired,
the never seeded or unfastened,
you of the genitals I feared,
the stalk and the puppy's breath.
Will I give you my eyes or his?
Will you be the David or the Susan?
(Those two names I picked and listened for.)
Can you be the man your fathers are —
the leg muscles from Michelangelo,
hands from Yugoslavia,
somewhere the peasant, Slavic and determined,
somewhere the survivor, bulging with life —
and could it still be possible,
all this with Susan's eyes? All this without you —
two days gone in blood.

I myself will die without baptism,
a third daughter they didn't bother.
My death will come on my name day.
What's wrong with the name day?
It's only an angel of the sun.
Woman,
weaving a web over your own,
a thin and tangled poison.
Scorpio,
bad spider —
die!

My death from the wrists,
two name tags,
blood worn like a corsage
to bloom
one on the left and one on the right —
It's a warm room,
the place of the blood.
Leave the door open on its hinges!

Two days for your death
and two days until mine.

Love! That red disease —
year after year, David, you would make me wild!
David! Susan! David! David!
Full and disheveled, hissing into the night,
never growing old,
waiting always for you on the porch . . .
year after year,
my carrot, my cabbage,
I would have possessed you before all women,
calling your name,
calling you mine.

Ode on a Grecian Urn

by John Keats

I

Thou still unravished bride of quietness,
Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape
Of deities or mortals, or of both,
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?

II

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endeared,
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
Bold lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal — yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!

III

Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
And, happy melodist, unwearièd,
For ever piping songs for ever new;
More happy love! more happy, happy love!
For ever warm and still to be enjoyed,
For ever panting, and for ever young;
All breathing human passion far above,
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloyed,
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.

IV

Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?
What little town by river or sea shore,
Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?
And, little town, thy streets for evermore
Will silent be; and not a soul to tell
Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.

V

O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede
Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
With forest branches and the trodden weed;
Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought
As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!
When old age shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,
"Beauty is truth, truth beauty," — that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.

On First Looking into Chapman's Homer

by John Keats

Much have I traveled in the realms of gold,
And many goodly states and kingdoms seen;
Round many western islands have I been
Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.
Oft of one wide expanse had I been told
That deep-browed Homer ruled as his demesne;
Yet did I never breathe its pure serene
Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold:
Then felt I like some watcher of the skies
When a new planet swims into his ken;
Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes
He stared at the Pacific — and all his men
Looked at each other with a wild surmise —
Silent, upon a peak in Darien.

1129 — Tell All The Truth

by Emily Dickinson

Tell all the Truth but tell it slant —
Success in Circuit lies
Too bright for our infirm Delight
The Truth's superb surprise

As Lightning to the Children eased
With explanation kind
The Truth must dazzle gradually
Or every man be blind —

657 — I Dwell In Possibility

by Emily Dickinson

I dwell in Possibility —
A fairer House than Prose —
More numerous of Windows —
Superior — for Doors —

Of Chambers as the Cedars —
Impregnable of Eye —
And for an Everlasting Roof
The Gambrels of the Sky —

Of Visitors — the fairest —
For Occupation — This —
The spreading wide my narrow Hands
To gather Paradise —

465 —I Heard a Fly Buzz

by Emily Dickinson

I heard a Fly buzz — when I died —
The Stillness in the Room
Was like the Stillness in the Air —
Between the Heaves of Storm —

The Eyes around — had wrung them dry —
And Breaths were gathering firm
For that last Onset — when the King
Be witnessed — in the Room —

I willed my Keepsakes — Signed away
What portion of me be
Assignable — and then it was
There interposed a Fly —

With Blue — uncertain stumbling Buzz —
Between the light — and me —
And then the Windows failed — and then
I could not see to see —

449 — I Died For Beauty

by Emily Dickinson

I died for Beauty — but was scarce
Adjusted in the Tomb
When One who died for Truth, was lain
In an adjoining Room —

He questioned softly "Why I failed"?
"For Beauty", I replied —
"And I — for Truth — Themselves are One —
We Brethren, are", He said —

And so, as Kinsmen, met a Night —
We talked between the Rooms —
Until the Moss had reached our lips —
And covered up — our names —

Tithonus

by Alfred, Lord Tennyson

The woods decay, the woods decay and fall,
The vapors weep their burthen to the ground,
Man comes and tills the field and lies beneath,
And after many a summer dies the swan.
Me only cruel immortality
Consumes; I wither slowly in thine arms,
Here at the quiet limit of the world,
A white-haired shadow roaming like a dream
The ever-silent spaces of the East,
Far-folded mists, and gleaming halls of morn.
Alas! For this gray shadow, once a man —
So glorious in his beauty and thy choice,
Who madest him thy chosen, that he seemed
To his great heart none other than a God!
I asked thee, "Give me immortality."
Then didst thou grant mine asking with a smile,
Like wealthy men who care not how they give.
But thy strong Hours indignant worked their wills,
And beat me down and marred and wasted me,
And though they could not end me, left me maimed
To dwell in presence of immortal youth,
Immortal age beside immortal youth,
And all I was in ashes. Can thy love,
Thy beauty, make amends, though even now,
Close over us, the silver star, thy guide,
Shines in those tremulous eyes that fill with tears
To hear me? Let me go; take back thy gift.
Why should a man desire in any way
To vary from the kindly race of men,
Or pass beyond the goal of ordinance
Where all should pause, as is most meet for all?
A soft air fans the cloud apart; there comes
A glimpse of that dark world where I was born.
Once more the old mysterious glimmer steals
From thy pure brows, and from thy shoulders pure,
And bosom beating with a heart renewed.
Thy cheek begins to redden through the gloom,
Thy sweet eyes brighten slowly close to mine,
Ere yet they blind the stars, and the wild team
Which love thee, yearning for thy yoke, arise,
And shake the darkness from their loosened manes,
And beat the twilight into flakes of dire.
Lo! Ever thus thou growest beautiful
In silence, then before thine answer given
Departest, and thy tears are on my cheek.
Why wilt thou ever scare me with thy tears,
And make me tremble lest a saying learnt,
In days far-off, on that dark earth, be true?
"The Gods themselves cannot recall their gifts."
Ay me! Ay me! With what another heart
In days far-off, and with what other eyes
I used to watch — if I be he that watched —
The lucid outline forming round thee; saw
The dim curls kindle into sunny rings;
Changed with thy mystic change, and felt my blood
Glow with the glow that slowly crimsoned all
Thy presence and thy portals, while I lay,
Mouth, forehead, eyelids, growing dewy-warm
With kisses balmier than half-opening buds
Of April, and could hear the lips that kissed
Whispering I knew not what of wild and sweet,
Like that strange song I heard Apollo sing,
While Ilion like a mist rose into towers.
Yet hold me not forever in thine East;
How can my nature longer mix with thine?
Coldly thy rosy shadows bathe me, cold
Are all thy lights, and cold my wrinkled feet
Upon thy glimmering thresholds, when the steam
Floats up from those dim fields about the homes
Of happy men that have the power to die,
And grassy barrows of the happier dead.
Release me, and restore me to the ground.
Thou seest all things, thou wilt see my grave;
Thou wilt renew thy beauty morn by morn,
I earth in earth forget these empty courts,
And thee returning on thy silver wheels.

Ulysses

by Alfred, Lord Tennyson

It little profits that an idle king,
By this still hearth, among these barren crags,
Matched with an agèd wife, I mete and dole
Unequal laws unto a savage race,
That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.
I cannot rest from travel; I will drink
Life to the lees. All times I have enjoyed
Greatly, have suffered greatly, both with those
That loved me, and alone; on shore, and when
Through scudding drifts the rainy Hyades
Vexed the dim sea. I am become a name;
For always roaming with a hungry heart
Much have I seen and known, — cities of men
And manners, climates, councils, governments,
Myself not least, but honored of them all, —
And drunk delight of battle with my peers,
Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.
I am a part of all that I have met;
Yet all experience is an arch where-through
Gleams that untravelled world whose margin fades
Forever and forever when I move.
How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
To rust unburnished, not to shine in use!
As though to breathe were life! Life piled on life
Were all too little, and of one to me
Little remains; but every hour is saved
From that eternal silence, something more,
A bringer of new things; and vile it were
For some three suns to store and hoard myself,
And this gray spirit yearning in desire
To follow knowledge like a sinking star,
Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.
This is my son, mine own Telemachus,
To whom I leave the scepter and the isle —
Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfill
This labor, by slow prudence to make mild
A rugged people, and through soft degrees
Subdue them to the useful and the good.
Most blameless is he, centered in the sphere
Of common duties, decent not to fail
In offices of tenderness, and pay
Meet adoration to my household gods,
When I am gone. He works his work, I mine.
There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail;
There gloom the dark, broad seas. My mariners,
Souls that have toiled, and wrought, and thought with me —
That even with a frolic welcome took
The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed
Free hearts, free foreheads — you and I are old;
Old age hath yet his honor and his toil;
Death closes all. But something ere the end,
Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
Not unbecoming men that strove with gods.
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks;
The long day wanes; the slow moon climbs; the deep
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,
'Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down;
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
Though much is taken, much abides; and though
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

A Man's a Man for A' That

by Robert Burns

Is there, for honest poverty,
That hangs his head, an' a' that?
The coward slave, we pass him by,
We dare be poor for a' that!
For a' that, an' a' that,
Our toils obscure, an' a' that;
The rank is but the guinea's stamp;
The man's the gowd for a' that.

What though on hamely fare we dine,
Wear hodden-gray, an' a' that;
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine,
A man's a man for a' that.
For a' that, an' a' that,
Their tinsel show, an' a' that;
The honest man, though e'er sae poor,
Is king o' men for a' that.

A prince can mak a belted knight,
A marquis, duke, an' a' that;
But an honest man's aboon his might,
Guid faith he mauna fa' that!
For a' that, an' a' that,
Their dignities, an' a' that,
The pith o' sense, an' pride o' worth,
Are higher rank than a' that.

Then let us pray that come it may,
As come it will for a' that,
That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth,
May bear the gree, an' a' that.
For a' that, an' a' that.
It's coming yet, for a' that,
That man to man, the warld o'er,
Shall brothers be for a' that.

To a Mouse

ON TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST WITH THE PLOW

by Robert Burns

I'm truly sorry man's dominion,
Has broken nature's social union,
An' justifies that ill opinion,
Which makes thee startle
At me, thy poor, earth-born companion,
An' fellow-mortal!

I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve;
What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!
A daimen icker in a thrave
'S a sma' request;
I'll get a blessin wi' the lave,
An' never miss't!

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin!
It's silly wa's the winds are strewin!
An' naething, now, to build a new ane,
O' foggage green!
An' bleak December's winds ensuin,
Baith snell an' keen!

Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste,
An' weary winter comin' fast,
An' cozie here, beneath the blast,
Thou thought to dwell —
Till crash! the cruel coulter past
Out thro' thy cell.

That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble,
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble!
Now thou's turned out, for a' thy trouble,
But house or hald,
To thole the winter's sleety dribble,
An' cranreuch cauld!

But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane,
In proving foresight may be vain;
The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men
Gang aft agley,
An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain
For promised joy!

Still thou art blest, compared wi' me;
The present only toucheth thee:
But och! I backward cast my e'e,
On prospects drear!
An' forward, tho' I canna see,
I guess an' fear!

Read history: thus learn how small a space

by Edna St. Vincent Millay

Read history: thus learn how small a space
You may inhabit, nor inhabit long
In crowding Cosmos — in that confined place
Work boldly; build your flimsy barriers strong;
Turn round and round, make warm your nest; among
The other hunting beasts, keep heart and face, —
Not to betray the doomed and splendid race
You are so proud of, to which you belong.
For trouble comes to all of us: the rat
Has courage, in adversity, to fight;
But what a shining animal is man,
Who knows, when pain subsides, that is not that,
For worse than that must follow — yet can write
Music; can laugh; play tennis; even plan.

Read history: so learn your place in Time

by Edna St. Vincent Millay

Read history: so learn your place in Time
And go to sleep: all this was done before;
We do it better, fouling every shore;
We disinfect, we do not probe, the crime.
Our engines plunge into the seas, they climb
Above our atmosphere: we grow not more
Profound as we approach the ocean's floor;
Our flight is lofty, it is not sublime.
Yet long ago this Earth by struggling men
Was scuffed, was scraped by mouths that bubbled mud;
And will be so again, and yet again;
Until we trace our poison to its bud
And root, and there uproot it: until then,
Earth will be warmed each winter by man's blood.