The
famous atheist buses have come to Oxford. What do they mean -- other
than that the illustrious Richard Dawkins has found a new venue for
self-promotion? I have already commented
on the peculiar place -- or, at least, what seems peculiar to someone
who has generally lived in basically secular, non-theocratic countries
-- of religion in the public sphere of the UK, which appears to
outweigh by far its importance in the private sphere (but maybe that's
just Oxford). It's hardly a surprise, then, that the Anglican atheists
would crave public acknowledgement of their private obsessions. The
public forum par excellence is
the public bus. The Christians are already there, and the atheists now
have their gospel plastered on the side, saying "There's probably no
god. Now stop worrying and enjoy your life." (Or is it "no God"? Hard
to say, given the typography...) For those craving more detail, there
is a url for Dawkins's website.
(Which, interestingly, when I checked it just now, featured a large
photograph of the man himself, with the slogan "The Enemies of Reason".
He seems to be selling DVDs, which perhaps reveal whether he is
numbered among the enemies, or the enemies of the enemies. I've heard
he once had ambitions to be a scientist, which explains a lot, when you
think about it.)
To those of us outside the movement, it seems like an odd slogan on many counts. Here
are some poll results about the top issues that people say they are
worrying about, and God doesn't seem to be on the list. Admittedly, the
survey is a year old, and it's American, so it could very well be that
God would place more significantly in an up-to-date UK poll. And the
focus is mainly on environmental issues, which God certainly is, if you
think about it, but maybe not in such a way as to leap the appropriate
synapse. Let us stipulate, then, to the belief that, if not a majority,
at least a substantial number of Oxford denizens are troubled, or, at
the very least, made uneasy by God's threat to exist, or to continue
existing if He has already been doing so. Would this declaration that
there is "probably" no God set their minds at rest (so that they could
enjoy their lives, finite though they may be)? It certainly seems an
uncomfortable fit to the chosen medium of omnibus billboard, where more
conviction in the message being promoted is rather the rule. This may
be merely a matter of economics. You would not want to cover the buses
with penetrating commands to adopt the new best-of-the-best washing
powder, only to be forced to scrub them off a month later, when new
evidence demonstrates that this detergent wasn't so hot after all.
Usually the expensive bus-advertising campaign comes pretty late in the
game, long after the advertisers have convinced at least themselves of
the truth of some reasonably assertive slogan, or at least of its
plausibility. "Branton's Bramble-based Blueberry Bread is probably as
good as most, and often reasonably fresh" may be a true statement at
some point, but there are less prominent venues for this message, and
the side-of-the-bus-in-foot-high-letters can wait until you have a bit
more confidence.
We posit a finely balanced nervous temperament
-- call him Søren -- quite capable of skepticism on all points, but
fearful and trembling at the near-certain or quite likely prospect of
divine judgement, but would greet the good news that divine justice is,
while possible, not
probable -- plastered on the side of a humble public conveyance, surely
Søren would smile at the irony of that -- with a shudder of relief. And
so, he would at long last rush out to marry pretty Regina and sire a
brood of lively, happy, atheist children. And yet, we can imagine this
Søren, and feel for his plight, but still wonder whether there are
enough British Sørens to justify spending well over £100,000 to spread
the good news. (He might be a Scandinavian tourist, though. The
cost-benefit calculation is more challenging than you might think at
first.)
Thomas Jefferson famously remarked "I tremble for my
country when I reflect that God is just, and his justice cannot be
denied forever." Perhaps, had he believed merely that "his justice
might not be denied forever", or even that "his justice probably will
not be denied forever", then old Tom could have given up his trembling.
But then, if he weren't kept awake nights trembling before the spectre
of divine justice, who else would have found time to invent the swivel
chair? Perhaps they could take a leaf from the book of the US
Department of Homeland Security, broadcasting a constantly updated
"Divine Threat Level", based on the most up-to-the-minute, as evaluated
by a crack team of atheologians. (Would they be allowed to resort to
"enhanced interrogation methods" to procure information? We would hope
it would not come to that, but confronted by a being who not only is
believed to have the capacity to snuff out all life in the universe,
but is known to have boasted of this ability and made specific threats
in that direction, collecting actionable divine intelligence must have
the highest priority.)
So, if the message doesn't seem to make
much sense, could it be that the goal is something else? There was
recently a fair amount of publicity
attending a bus driver who refused to sit at the wheel of an atheist
bus. Of course, there's no such thing as bad publicity, and I have no
doubt that this little dust-up helped fill the atheist coffers. What
would provide even better publicity? What if a religious fanatic blew
up a bus full of heathens with blasphemy stenciled across its side?
That would certainly attract attention, and the pictures of the burning
bus with "There's probably no god" would be beamed around the world,
demonstrating once and for all the nature of the enemy. Not that I
think any of the leading humanists is actually hoping for a terrorist
attack. They are honourable men and women all. But Dawkins, who not
only replied off the cuff to a questioner that the suffering of
children molested by paedophile priests pales in comparison to the harm
inflicted upon those same children by their parents in choosing to
raise them Catholic, but was proud enough of this jolly bon mot to
boast of it in a book, clearly thinks that ideological purity is worth
quite a bit, when paid in the currency of other people's trauma.
