Column
Atheism
Creed
6 min read

Confessions of an atheist philosopher. Part 3: the secret about truth I learned at seminary

In the third of a series, philosopher Stefani Ruper recalls learning a crucial lesson about her knowledge and her truth claims.

Stefani Ruper is a philosopher specialising in the ethics of belief and Associate Member of Christ Church College, Oxford. She received her PhD from the Theology & Religion faculty at the University of Oxford in 2020.

An unfocused views down on to stacks of books in an old library.
Jana Kowalewicz on Unsplash.

My name is Stefani. I was a committed atheist for almost my entire life. I studied religion to try to figure out how to have spiritual fulfillment without God. I tried writing books on spirituality for agnostics and atheists, but I gave up because the answers were terrible. Two years after completing my PhD, I finally realised that that’s because the answer is God.  

Today, I explain how and why I decided to walk into Christian faith.  

Here at Seen and Unseen I am publishing a six-article series highlighting key turning points or realisations I made on my walk into faith. It tells my story, and it tells our story too.  

 

For the first 20 years of my life, I thought religion was for stupid and weak people. I carried a copy of Richard Dawkins’s The God Delusion in my purse. I studied science as a way to defeat religion. 

But one day, while titrating an iron solution in a laboratory, a sudden realization crashed over me. I remember just staring at the orange solution simmering in the beaker, thinking, “oh no, oh no, oh no, oh no, oh no.” 

The realization was that I had dismissed religion as stupid without ever engaging it. I had never even asked religious people what they thought! I had done all this while priding myself on open-mindedness.  

This struck me as deeply hypocritical. I had always thought that one of the hallmarks of a good argument was being able to defend the ideas of your enemies. I wasn’t even close.  

So, I printed 500 pages from the Zygon Journal of Religion and Science. I sat down with a cup of tea. And after reading just two pages, I set the stack of paper back down on the desk and thumped my head down on top of them. 

Oh no.  

The theologians had a point

To seminary 

Twelve months later, I dropped my duffel bag on the floor of my new room in Theology House. Theology House was the residence of the most earnest students training to be pastors at the Boston University School of Theology. 

I was an atheist, but the seminary administrators gave me the benefit of the doubt when I told them I wanted to be as immersed in the world of faith as possible. We had house-dinner planned for that night, and school was to begin Monday. I couldn’t wait. I was going to get a master’s degree in theology as an atheist.  

I spent the next two years proving my old self wrong. It was delightful. Every day was a new opportunity to unearth another bias I didn’t know I had, or to discover another philosophical approach I hadn’t known existed. It was occasionally difficult to let go of certain cherished ideas, but it was more than worth it. The intellectual richness of faith blew my mind over and over. 

About six months into my studies, I ran into a secular friend I used to sit around and bash religion with.  

“So, what have you learned at seminary?” he asked me, grimacing. I told him the simple but life-changing truth: Christianity is intellectually rigorous. It’s reasonable. It can even be beautiful.  

“Did you become a believer?” he asked. “No,” I said, shrugging. “But I’m beginning understand why other people do.”  

Why do we believe what we believe?  

The most important question I ended up asking at seminary was about the nature of belief itself. I needed to understand: how could my roommates and I all work so hard to be reasonable, but still believe such different things?  

Rationality, I learned, is always contextual. All of us would like to think that what we believe—what seems to us the obvious, “rational” conclusion—is the truth. But it’s not. There are eight billion people on this planet and every single one of us thinks we are right about everything.  

Each conclusion each of us draws comes from deploying our best possible reasoning to the model of reality that lives in our heads. These models are always under revision; they are the result of the model of one minute ago plus whatever happened in that minute. This process stretches all the way back to before birth, since exposure to different sounds and nutrients in the womb impacted how we began making sense of the world. Then we were born into contexts that came pre-laden with various metaphysical presuppositions, attitudes, and values. Throughout life we did and continue to do our best to reason within these models and to steer their development. 

This “best reasoning” is never pure intellect. There is no such thing as reason unbiased by feeling. It is now an accepted scientific fact that thought and feeling are always intertwined. 

Indeed, rationality itself may be best thought of as a feeling. The philosopher William James says we deem things true when they give us the “sentiment of rationality”—that is, a feeling of satisfaction or harmony that occurs when an idea fits well with our current model of reality. This doesn’t mean reason and reasonableness don’t exist; it means that, contrary to the popular myth that quality thinking is free of emotion, emotional awareness is a key element of it.  

My friends and I were all reasonable while believing different things because we each made sincere effort to improve our reasoning as thought-feelers born into different models of reality. None of us could claim with 100 per cent certainty that we were correct. What we could do was welcome new insights into ourselves, one another, and the world that would help us keep developing our models in the direction of truth. 

The path to truth  

By the time I graduated from seminary, I hadn’t changed my mind on God. I remained a firm atheist. 

But I had learned a crucial lesson: my knowledge and truth claims were far from perfect. If I wanted to say true things or to keep getting closer to the truth—which I very much did, my loyalty to truth still my highest value—I needed to do two things:  

First, I needed to keep untangling my own personal history, thoughts, and feelings. Only through self-awareness could I unpack my own biases, hone my capacities to reason amidst emotion, and discern the elements of my worldview worth keeping or leaving behind.  

Second, I needed to keep engaging people who were different from me. Only through exposure to new ideas could I expand or develop my own.  

 Today, my model of reality includes something I thought it never would: God. But this change took twelve years of the most careful, self-aware, humble, prudent, and open-minded quest for truth I could manage. 

I’m not done revising the model, and I won’t ever be. God will almost surely remain a part of it, but I’m open to the possibility He will not. I’ll keep learning about myself; I’ll keep learning about others; I’ll keep steering my model as responsibly as I am able. 

The ultimate truth of things beats at the heart of all our eight billion different perspectives; the best any of us can do is keep working to beat in harmony with it. 

  

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Confessions of an atheist philosopher. Part 2: The making of rage against religion | Seen & Unseen (seenandunseen.com) 

  

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Article
Creed
Nationalism
Politics
6 min read

Love is not an executive order: what Christian Nationalism gets wrong

Fear has never been a motivator of wise, just, and righteous action.

Barnabas Aspray is Assistant Professor of Systematic Theology at St Mary’s Seminary and University.

A protester wearing a Union Jack flag and hat and holding a cross, points while a man looks on.
Far right protesters, Portsmouth.
Tim Sheerman-Chase, CC BY 2.0, via Wikimedia Commons

The term “Christian nationalism” means different things to different people. John Stackhouse defines nationalism as “love of one’s nation, identification with it, and special concern for its well-being” and sees nothing wrong with it from a Christian point of view. But this is not the normal way the term is used today. Rather, it means an ideology that seeks political power in order to merge Christian identity with national identity. In other words, it means Christians seeking to impose Christian values on all citizens of a nation by the force of law. 

That’s not as bad as it may sound at first glance. Everyone thinks some values should be imposed for society to function – for example, human rights, private property, democracy. In one sense, there’s nothing unusual about Christians wanting their values to become law. Everyone – Muslim, Secular, pluralist – wants the law to reflect their values. How could anyone have values and not want their nation’s laws and policies to reflect them? 

But for Christians, there’s a catch. “Christian values” include not forcing people to live Christian lifestyles who do not identify as Christian. Christian values are founded on the teaching and example of Jesus, and he was never coercive. He aimed at people’s hearts, seeking willing rather than coerced obedience. His goal was that people should follow him and live by his teachings because they wanted to more than anything else in the world, not because they would be imprisoned or disadvantaged if they don’t. The gospel is an invitation to the most rewarding and fulfilling life imaginable, not an executive order to be obeyed out of fear. 

Jesus explicitly taught that Christian politics should be different to anything else the world has ever seen: 

“The rulers of the nations lord it over them, and their high officials exercise authority over them. Not so with you. Instead, whoever wants to become great among you must be your servant.”  

With these words (recorded in the gospel of Matthew), Jesus set a political agenda for his followers radically different to that of every other movement, religion, institution, or nation. Where others have always used power to dominate, control, and coerce obedience, Christians are to use power to serve those under them and to pursue their flourishing. With his own life Jesus showed what this looks like. The Jews expected the messiah to be a great military leader who would rally an army under his banner, shake off the Roman oppression, establish Israel as a nation, and rule it with absolute power and authority. Instead, rather than commit any violence, he submitted to death at the hands of the Roman oppressors. 

Jesus did not mean that his followers should not seek power and influence in the world, or that they should lie down and let themselves be trampled on like a doormat. The “Christian difference” is not to be non-political, withdrawn from all engagement in worldly affairs as if God did not care what happens in the world. No: the Christian difference is twofold: (1) never to seize or maintain power through violence, coercion, lies, manipulation, or any means that supposedly justifies the ends, and (2) to use power (when we are freely and willingly given it) in service to everyone regardless of their belief or lifestyle, especially the powerless. 

A truly “Christian” nation would never try to coerce Christian behaviour from anyone. 

Christians have not always done politics this way. In the centuries since Jesus walked the earth, they have often succumbed to the temptation to do politics like the rest of the world: grasping at authority and holding onto it by any means necessary, using it to benefit ourselves and our agenda in ways that harm and oppress others. The treatment of Jews in the late medieval period is a sobering example. Jews were forced to live in ghettos and wear conical hats. They were forbidden to hold public office, to build synagogues higher than any church, or to walk in the street on Sundays. Eventually they were forcibly expelled from several European states in order to leave no impediment to the fashioning of a truly “Christian nation,” i.e., a nation with only Christians living in it. 

Today, many Christians in Western nations are engaging in efforts to fight back against world views they believe are encroaching on them – secularism, Islam, and liberalism. They want to reassert Christianity as the dominant cultural force. It seems to me that these efforts are largely motivated by fear, brought about by the decline of Christian influence. There is a strong urge to self-preservation when one feels oneself increasingly marginalized. They feel that if they don’t regain power, then all the values and lifestyle that held dear will be swept away. They must protect themselves and seek to preserve Christian values by whatever means available. They must take back control, using financial, political, and cultural capital to regain governance and re-establish Christian laws in ‘our land’. 

Yet fear has never been a motivator of wise, just, and righteous action. Fear draws our attention away from the poor and needy towards our own plight. Fear makes us strike back with a self-protective instinct. When we are afraid, we feel justified in putting our own needs and priorities first. Violent behaviour is labelled “self-defence,” cutting aid budgets is labelled prudence, and refusing admission to refugees who have lost everything and are fleeing persecution is seen as the only sane course of action in a world of finite resources. Fear drives us to seek our own advantage, something Jesus never did. Perhaps Jesus knew that fear can be the greatest force to prevent us from living a Christlike life of service. Perhaps it’s not a coincidence that “do not be afraid” is the most frequent command in the Bible. 

For Christians, like me, there are better motivators for political action: things like wisdom, justice, and peace. (Dare I say love? Or is that too controversial?) But the best motivation of all is the desire to follow Jesus’ teachings and example not only once we have obtained power, but in how we seek it and how we hold onto it. 

There’s nothing intrinsically wrong with the idea of a “Christian” nation, if that means a nation that acts towards people – both citizens and non-citizens – the way Jesus did (and supposing the nation was not constituted by violence in the first place – but that is another story). A truly “Christian” nation would never try to coerce Christian behaviour from anyone. It would respect people’s freedom to live and believe what they chose, and would give equal opportunities, equal benefits, and equal rights to Christians, Muslims, atheists, and Jews alike. It would use its power to serve all people, especially the most vulnerable and least able to look after themselves. It would welcome and protect any foreigner who fled there to save their life or freedom, having lost everything at home.  

Such a nation would not be characterised by fear of losing its power. It would not seek to preserve its influence by blocking non-Christians from citizenship or positions of government. If the tide turned against it, it would humbly relinquish power rather than do anything coercive to hold on to it, just as Jesus humbly went to the cross rather than use violence against his oppressors. 

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