The words pushed through the air, sharply splitting atoms as they traversed the span from one mouth to my two ears, and then . . . my bowels moved.
I can’t be sure but I think I’ve heard at least one thousand, three hundred and thirty-six sermons in my life (I learned selling kitchen knives that numbers sound more dramatic when you say/write it out). One thousand, three hundred and thirty-six sermons is a lot of Bible talk, and to be honest, I probably remember the names of more Russian cities than sermons (sorry, insert name of pastor here).
Every once in a while, I have the distinct honor of wearing a shirt with more than two buttons, a slightly wrinkled pair of slacks, and six-year-old faded black shoes as the wardrobe to do something that may or may not resemble preaching. In my last preaching parody, I was asked by my pastor to deliver the message of hope to our church. With heaping mounds of mediocrity, I spoke about the difference between having false hope, no hope, and true hope. Although the sermon won’t replace the memory matrix that Petrovsk-Zabaykalsky inhabits, it couldn’t have been worse than sermons like “Why Jesus is a Southern Baptist” or “The Green Jesus: How Public Transportation is Destroying the Ozone Layer that God Created to Protect the Planet; So Take a Walk Already!” (Disclaimer: I have no knowledge the latter is actually a sermon title; I may or may not have made it up).
Somewhere in the middle of my sermon, I began to talk about the hopelessness of Atheism, which strips creation of its Creator while unintentionally striping all meaning and purpose from this non-creation. Radical Atheists, like the great Richard Dawkins, would trivialize the pursuit of finding purpose and meaning, because it cannot be scientifically known any more than the average length of a unicorn’s horn.
When asked to respond to the balance of science dealing with the “how” and religion dealing with the “why”, Dawkins said, “I think that's remarkably stupid, if I may say so. What on earth is a "why" question? . . . Now, the mere fact that you can frame an English sentence beginning with the word "why" does not mean that English sentence should receive an answer. I could say, why are unicorns hollow? That appears to mean something, but it doesn't deserve an answer.” When pressed to answer the big “why” question, as in why are we here, what is our purpose, Dawkins was resigned to answer, “It is not a question that deserves an answer.” (http://www.salon.com/books/int/2006/10/13/dawkins/index.html)
Anyone, like myself, who has such a lengthy history of zoning out during sermons, would be wholly unsatisfied with the hole that is scientific knowledge about purpose. To suppose that asking “why are humans inhabiting the earth?” is equivalent to “why are unicorns hollows?” seems to neglect the deep sense of purpose people feel for life, whether they know the answer of not. Meaning in life just seems important to me for some reason.
Next to believing in God, I think this is the biggest reason why I am not an atheist because I shudder to imagine the world atheism creates. Dawkins and his “Adeity” might work at the academic level, but they don’t have broad application. Imagine if everyone lived as if there were no purpose to life greater than themselves. I don’t think people would be as nice to each other as Dawkins thinks. If death is the final curtain, and life is too fleeting to matter, then shouldn’t we all strive for life and liberty and temporal happiness at any cost? An insightful and wise father of mine once reasoned, “If liberals are so compassionate, why aren’t there any atheist organizations doing disaster relief or helping the homeless?” Probably because there is no reason to care about anything outside of yourself. Without purpose, all of non-creation is lunging headlong toward death, and I never knew how hopeless this view was until I heard his atom splitting words.
The conversation detailed his respect for religion despite the unchristian response he has garnered from Christ-followers. He would never say he was an atheist or an agnostic, but I would call him having a mind that won’t let his heart commit to religious faith. He detailed the science of knowledge rooted in reason, namely, scientific knowledge and the lack of room for faith to suffice for knowledge. I irreverently threw in a few, “there is a lot of faith in atheism,” comments, as if anyone would be convinced of the cross by that. He just could not let himself believe in something as intangible as God. And then, as if from nowhere, he said, “You know, I almost wish that I could believe in god, because for me, death is it. There is nothing after that.”
My Christocentric worldview has provided me with the idea that people who aren’t Christians have a void in their life, a deep sense of longing, but I don’t think I ever really believed it. I thought it was like parents telling their children that losing teeth is good because a complete stranger will come in the middle of the night, while you’re helplessly asleep, getting inches from your face so as to buy your dead tooth for a quarter.
Needless to say, I was not prepared for his words, and when they entered my ears, I could not believe anyone could articulate the hopelessness of life having no purpose but the finality of death. It made my bowels, the deepest part of my body move with compassions. I dared to think that this person, a dear friend, would forever be separated from the God who loves him enough to reach down into his creation, taking on the curse of human flesh, humbling himself to die rejected and despised on a tree so that my friend may be able to rest at the bosom of Abraham for eternity.
It’s easy for me to imagine the Dawkins of non-creation enjoying the great tan an eternal furnace provides, but to sit across the table from a friend longing for purpose in life and death, I can’t help but weep like Jesus seeing the wailing mass of mourners for Lazarus, who believed death was the final curtain. The pain of hopelessness was moving to Christ, and we would be wise to pray for and remember those who live and die everyday without any hope that the world will ever be different that it is today. Maybe then we can be the at-hand hope of God’s Kingdom in creation.
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