Setting the record straight: the psychology of one 'true believer'

Bulverism, which C.S. Lewis defined as the art of explaining away dissent from one's own views via psychological mechanisms, has been a mainstay of atheist apologetics for hundreds of years. In the face of what Lewis also aptly called the obstinacy of belief, atheists scramble to find psychological rationales for the persistence of this strange neurosis. John Loftus over at Debunking Christianity has been ramping up his bulverism. In recent posts he claims to have 'figured out' Christianity and attributes the lack of interest among Christians in reading the 'best' atheist apologetics (which, of course, includes his own at or near the top of the list) to fear that it will undermine their beliefs. The fact that people familiar with apologetics on both sides tend not to be too impressed with his arguments, a few positive reviews notwithstanding, must be puzzling to him.

For the most part I've been content to ignore these increasingly belligerent provocations (in a recent post he claims simply, "Christian, you are ignorant"). I've got better things to do with my time, including a senior thesis, researching post-graduation options, working on a screenplay, etc. But I'm getting kind of fed up with his arrogance. He claims to know why I believe what I do better than I myself, despite the fact that I've been trained at a secular liberal arts university in critical thinking, academic research and argumentative rhetoric and have been exposed to countless challenges to my faith from many sources.

I'd just like to take a moment to set the record straight about the psychology of an intelligent, educated Christian believer. I will try to give an honest description of my attitudes and dispositions towards the objects of my faith. I won't develop the arguments I believe justify my faith stance in detail. Here I will just describe what goes through my mind as I think about Christian doctrines, events in my everyday life which I think are significant for interpreting my faith and my reactions to reading posts like his and other skeptical challenges.

The first thing you would probably notice about me is that my behavior does not generally differ noticeably from those of other students on campus. This is not because I don't think my beliefs should make a difference in my daily life, it's just that at college the routines of everyday life are shared by everyone. There is no Christian way to walk to classes or check my mail, although I will bow my head and close my eyes at mealtime to express my gratitude that, in a time when so many are suffering from the economic downturn, I have abundant, healthy food to eat. I do not think this is because I'm more righteous than others or because I'm one of the elect. It is a simple acknowledgment of the truth that in this life, there will be times of plenty and times of want, and that as Ecclesiastes declares, "time and chance happen to all." I don't think this undermines God's providence, because this life was never meant to be our final destination. It is a vale of soul-making, an arena for moral decisions, with trials designed to test us and comforts designed to delight us. With the apostle Paul I hope I can declare that I have learned to be happy and content in whatever state I'm in.

When my mind turns to theological issues, as it often does, my most common reaction is awe at the insight and wisdom which can be gleaned from the great theologians about every aspect of human experience. Reinhold Niebuhr in Radical Monotheism and Western Culture gave me a model for making sense of people's seemingly blind adherence to ideology in exchange for peace and safety. William Cavanaugh in Being Consumed illuminated the economic behaviors encouraged by modern corporate capitalism and what can be done to make it more humane, ensuring abundance for all people, not just the lucky few who made it to the top. It turns out that the Augustinian theory of desires is immensely relevant to diagnosing and correcting the pathology of modern consumerism. From James Gustafson I am learning how to think theocentrically about the place of human beings in the natural order. The list goes on and on.

Just from these insights alone I would conclude that Christian theology makes best sense of human experience, in dialog and interaction with other disciplines and theologies. But I continue to be impressed by the strength of certain arguments of natural theology, from history, science and philosophy, for the existence and nature of God. Especially after reading Edward Feser's The Last Superstition, I have much more confidence in the classic philosophical arguments. Kantian skepticism does not have a solid foundation. And I say this as someone who up until fairly recently was part of the chorus of naysayers about natural theology, who insisted that God can only be known through faith and that the arguments are at best inconclusive. New work by Mark Wynn, Holmes Rolston, Rodney Holder, Brad Monton and others have greatly strengthened my Christian faith, along with Greg Boyd, James Dunn and Michael Bird, among others, in biblical studies.

Aside from the positive evidence, which is admittedly tentative and subject to revision, the thing that does most to keep my faith stable is my meta-perspective on the formation and procedures for criticism of religious beliefs. Coming to understand how people actually form their beliefs, what roles affectivity and tradition play in all rational deliberation and when it might be reasonable to abandon a particular belief system enable me to keep calm in the face of apparent challenges, because they often turn out to be just that: apparent and not actual. The best book on this whole subject by far is Basil Mitchell's Faith and Criticism.

I have been a member of Princeton Evangelical Fellowship for the past four years. In all that time, though I have sometimes been challenged about some of my more unorthodox (at least to evangelicals) opinions on certain issues like inerrancy or the problem of evil, I have never, ever been 'shut down' by the ministers or been in fear of being ostracized or condemned for my doubts. On the contrary, they have encouraged my questions, patiently heard me out as I wrestled with my fears and worries and always been there for me. I go there every Friday night and on various retreats not because I fear hell or retribution if I don't, but because my soul is nourished there. Just tonight I heard an astonishing, moving sermon on the power and challenge of radical forgiveness. The minister laid out his talk calmly and rationally, never once intimidating the students or ignoring hard questions. In short, PEF is the most spiritually and intellectually stimulating environment I've ever been in. I can't wait for Friday to come around again so I can partake of more biblical wisdom and fellowship.

This is not to say that I am insulated from the 'outside' world and surround myself only with people who think as I do. I often have very stimulating, fascinating interactions with atheists, believers from other religions and agnostics, some of whom are my best friends. In my experience religious disagreement is healthy and I don't think it should lead to agnosticism about the truth claims of one's own tradition, but rather a deeper understanding of that tradition and the issues at stake. Conversion from one paradigm to another is never a step-by-step, linear affair anyway. There is no algorithm for worldview change.

This is also not to say that I don't occasionally suffer doubt or worry that some arguments aren't actually as strong as I thought. I do not fear this doubt, although it is uncomfortable. I see it as a healthy thing for a religious believer, as long as it does not escalate into isolation, self-doubt or depression. When I face a challenge I hadn't encountered before or new information comes to light which could have significant bearing on my beliefs (like the Jesus Family Tomb two years ago or the Bloodline tomb this year), I throw myself into research. I am generally very skeptical in my use of sources, generally avoiding popular apologetics on both sides in favor of the most up-to-date, comprehensive scholarly literature. I try to get in touch with the people who can give me a helpful way of framing the problem. I generally find that the challenge wasn't as strong as I feared it was going to be, as a rule. To give just one example, I approached John Beversluis' critique of C.S. Lewis with considerable trepidation, worrying that he was going to debunk one of my favorite writers and show him to be nothing but a fraud and intellectual welterweight. When I actually read the book, I was surprised by how unsophisticated were his reconstructions of Lewis' arguments, despite extensive citations and obvious familiarity with the secondary literature. In discussing Lewis' moral argument, for example, he completely ignores a whole batch of pages from The Abolition of Man which anticipate and refute several objections he lodges against it in that chapter. After my thesis is done I plan to do a thorough critique of Beversluis. I wonder why I was ever quaking in my boots about it.

I wholeheartedly admit that I have an emotional investment in my Christian faith. Belief in a God who is active in this world, who raised Jesus from the dead and will bring about a new heavens and new earth is the only solid basis for hope I have found in a world torn by strife, corruption, violence and decay. Of course I'd rather go to be with God when I die, rather than sinking into oblivion (that desire is particularly strong now when I'm so young, and there are so many experiences I still want to have). I also admit that sometimes wishful thinking has clouded my judgment of certain arguments. Despite my commitment to the Way of Jesus I often act selfishly and intentionally so. I find myself objectifying women in Swimsuit Illustrated or looking down on poor people. I often catch myself telling little 'white' lies, either to impress someone or shirk a responsibility. I feel the influence of the powers of sin and death in my own life, and far too often do not take up arms against them.

But despite all this, when all is said and done I can reflect on my faith with satisfaction at its firmness, not a result of ignorance but precisely its opposite, a deeper understanding of my tradition and the disciplines which Loftus claims lead people away from faith (as Francis Bacon remarked long ago, a little learning inclines people to atheism, but more learning brings them back to theism). I do not defer to authority except when I deem it warranted. My faith is my own, forged in crises, interaction with other people and scholarly exploration. That is why I have to chuckle when I read Loftus's bulverisms. They are so far from applying to me it's almost comical. And I have no doubt that the same can be said for many other educated Christians.