A working definition of Truth

Scientists discuss their work in elaborate ways.  They invest vast amounts of time and intellectual resources toward writing papers and creating presentations.  Often the organization of work takes as many hours to produce as the original work itself.  There is a reward, however: the more effort put into a paper, the easier it is to understand, the more precise the results, and the more convincing the argument.  But their effort would all be pointless if none of them believed their own arguments.  Instead, each scientist believes they are uncovering a previously hidden part of reality.  Science seeks to discover, not to interpret.

We often take this idea about science for granted, but it is profound.  It implies that when a scientist speaks about atoms, he does not mean that, for him, atoms are a good way of understanding physics, but that there are atoms and the universe is made of them.  To disagree is to be mistaken.

Consider the alternative.  If each of us was allowed to have our own understanding of physics, how could we communicate, how could we make progress?  It seems absurd to suggest that there can be no certainty about the physical world.  Yet, without Truth, we are forced to embrace this absurdity.  Truth is what lets us talk about the real world.  It implies there is a right understanding of reality.  It implies there is something to discover.  But it is uncompromising, because it also implies that we can, at times, be utterly wrong.

This is my working definition of Truth.  There is a reality, and we can discover it.  There is a right and a wrong, a good and a bad, and these words have a meaning beyond mere feeling or interpretation.  It may be difficult to find, but it is there.

Intention

My intention in becoming an atheist was never to do harm to a certain faith or to rebel against a society which sought my conversion or for any other vindictive reason.  It was an effort to rid myself of all superfluous beliefs and their unnecessary baggage.  I attempted to reconstruct a tabula rasa, and strongly held to the conviction that I would not believe anything that I could not see with my own eyes or understand with my own mind.  This is a task undertaken only by those who feel they have the intellect to withstand a full frontal assault from reality.  I felt safe within the intellectual fortifications of the university, which, in its clean room of thought, had already declared war on ignorance and continually won virtually every battle.

Or so I thought.

Go to church

The earliest memory I have of anything related to church is leaving.  Being dragged, in fact, away into the parking lot.  I don't remember specifically what happened, but if my mother is to be believed, I had caused some trouble in Sunday school.  I do remember Sunday school, specifically coloring pictures of Jesus and his disciples, always with sandaled feet and continually in the presence of sheep.  Their faces always seemed serious, and I could never figure out exactly why.  These pictures were not like the books I colored in school.  Even at this age I was a contrarian, so if there was some hint of seriousness in my activities at Sunday school, I acted out.  No doubt, it was for this reason that I was being dragged home.

I do not want to project false, romantic ideas back on my childhood, but I can't help but feel a tinge of what would later lead me toward atheism.  In church, I remember feeling stifled.  The air was thick with condescending looks.  And the word "arbitrary" comes to mind.  Why did we go to this big room and sing boring songs and talk about Jesus?  Jesus was boring, absolutely boring.  There were about a billion better things I could to do than go to church.  Even just thinking of those three words, "Go to church," creates ill flashbacks in my mind.

My family moved often when I was growing up, so there was never a chance to settle into one particular church.  But even when we become more stable in Cincinnati, we seemed to switched churches often.  I remember my parents were fond of a particular church in California, and they wanted to find a replacement.  I don't think they ever did.  So from an early age, I was made aware of a variety of worshiping styles.  Perhaps this led me to think of church as arbitrary.  If God is universal, why doesn't everyone do it the same way?

I struggle to remember anything specific.  It all seems like a wash now, and it was over quickly.  I do not remember when or why, but we stopped going to church, because, as my mother said, "I acted up too much."  She was probably right, I did.  So from the time I was about six or seven until college, I rarely stepped inside a church.  My parents tried, after they rediscovered their faith, but there was no way they were going to get me to go to church.