God Bless Me, It’s a Best-Seller!
One of America’s most seminal books is William James’s The Varieties of Religious
Experience, in which he argues that the subjective experience of the divine can be
understood only by the believer. I have just been finding out how true this is. You hear
all the time that America is an intensely religious nation, but what you don’t hear is that
there are almost as many religions as there are believers. Moreover, many ostensible
believers are quite unsure of what they actually believe. And, to put it mildly, the
different faiths don’t think that highly of one another. The emerging picture is not at all
monolithic.
People seem to be lying to the opinion polls, as well. They claim to go to church in much
larger numbers than they actually do (there aren’t enough churches in the country to
hold the hordes who boast of attending), and they sometimes seem to believe more in
Satan and in the Virgin Birth than in the theory of evolution. But every single time that
the teaching of “intelligent design” has actually been proposed in conservative districts,
it has been defeated overwhelmingly by both courts and school boards. A fascinating
new book, 40 Days and 40 Nights, describes this happening in detail in the small town
of Dover, Pennsylvania. Its author, Matthew Chapman, is the great-great-grandson of
Charles Darwin, which helps make Dover the modern version of the Scopes “Monkey
Trial,” in Dayton, Tennessee, in 1925, with the difference that this time the decision
went the other way. A Republican-appointed judge described the school board’s
creationist effort as “breathtaking inanity.”
Could there be a change in the Zeitgeist coming on? I think it’s possible. A 2001 study
found that those without religious affiliation are the fastest-growing minority in the
United States. A generation ago the words “American atheist” conjured the image of the
slightly cultish and loopy Madalyn Murray O’Hair. But in the last two years there have
been five atheist best-sellers, one each from Professors Richard Dawkins and Daniel
Dennett and two from the neuroscientist Sam Harris. As the author of the fifth of these
books, I asked my publishers to arrange my book tour as a series of challenges to the
spokesmen of the faithful, and to send me as far as possible to the South. The following
is an account of some of the less expected moments of the trip.
April 22, Little Rock, Arkansas: I leave the Vanity Fair party, given at my apartment
after the White House Correspondents’ Dinner, at 4:30 a.m. to catch the red-eye from
Washington to the Arkansas Book Fair. My last memory of the D.C. bash is of Justice
Antonin Scalia debating some of the sharper points of Catholic doctrine with California
attorney general Jerry Brown. I decide against wearing my black-tie evening attire for
the day-trip. On the road from the Little Rock airport is an enormous black-and-yellow
billboard bearing the single word jesus: this is just how people like to imagine Dixie. My
book isn’t even technically published, yet there’s an overflow Sunday crowd. I start by
mentioning the sign. I know the name, I say, and I have used the expression. But on its
own the word “Jesus” seems to say both too much and (somehow) too little. This gets
more of a laugh than I might have predicted. At the end of the event I discover
something that I am going to keep on discovering: half the people attending had thought
that they were the only atheists in town.
May 1, New York City: An evening at the Union League Club, sponsored by the
conservative David Horowitz. A full house of upscale right-wingers who at least agree
with me on the single issue of fighting Islamic jihadism. A generally receptive and
friendly audience as I am interviewed by the publisher Peter Collier. He’s just closed the
meeting when a man in a clerical collar puts up his hand. In a magnanimous mood, I
say, Fair enough—let’s extend the event for a man of the cloth. This turns out to be
Father George Rutler of the Church of Our Saviour, who announces that he’s on the
committee of the club and will make sure that I am never invited there again. There’s
some shock at this inhospitable attitude, but I think: Gosh. Holy Mother Church used to
threaten people with eternal damnation. Now it’s exclusion from the Union League
Club. What a comedown. In a brisk exchange near the elevator, the good father assures
me that I shall die a Catholic. Why do people think this is such a good point?
May 3, New York City: To the Lou Dobbs show, on CNN—Mr. Middle America at prime time.
Mr. Dobbs displays a satirical paragraph from my book, about the number of virgin births that
all religions have always claimed. He tells me off-air that he quit Sunday school as a very small
boy, and that he’s raised all his children without religion. He lets me bang on a lot. At the end,
he refers to my new American citizenship, the oath of which I swore at the Jefferson Memorial
on April 13 (Mr. Jefferson’s birthday, and mine). I get to try out my latest slogan, echoing what
Jefferson said about the “wall of separation” between church and state: “Mr. Jefferson—build up
that wall!” Mr. Dobbs leans over and, on-camera, pins an American flag to my lapel. Patriotism
and secularism in the same breath, on middle-class TV. It can be done. As I leave, Dobbs says
wryly that he’ll now have to deal with all the e-mails. I promise him that they will be in his favor
and ask to have them forwarded. The mailbag eventually breaks about 70-30 in support, though
one woman does say that she’ll never tune in to CNN again.
May 7, New York City: To the New York Public Library to debate Al Sharpton, a man
who proves every day that you can get away with anything in this country if you can
shove the word “Reverend” in front of your name. To a question about Mormonism and
Mitt Romney, I reply that it’s high time the governor was asked about the official racism
of his Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints: a policy of exclusion that persisted
until 1978. Sharpton responds that the “real” Christians will be numerous enough to
defeat Romney next year: a remark which earns itself a 24-hour media life. I notice
again how much the Christians love one another, and I get the chance to go back to Lou
Dobbs and say so on-air.
*May 11, Washington, D.C.:*In the studio of The Christian Science Monitor to debate
with Pastor Stephan Munsey, leader of a mega-church in Indiana, plus a Baptist
theologian from Wake Forest University. The Baptist theologian rather astonishes the
host by saying that he basically agrees with me, and Mr. Munsey rather astonishes me
by announcing that the good lord cured his daughter of Hodgkin’s disease (though he
waited until she had lost most of her hair and her body weight before deciding to do so).
Hodgkin’s disease is actually much more easily cured these days, largely owing to
advances in stem-cell research which will now be halted or delayed to please the faithful.
May 14, Austin, Texas: A phone-in with WPTF (“We Protect the Family”), a
conservative talk-radio station in North Carolina. The questions are very civil until the
end, when I am asked if I know the anti-Christian works of Friedrich Nietzsche. I say
that I have my differences with Nietzsche, but that I know his stuff. Am I aware, inquires
the questioner, that when he was writing that very stuff he was suffering from terminal
syphilitic decay? Slightly baffled, I reply that I have heard as much but don’t know it to
be true. Do I think, comes the next question, that there is a similar explanation for my
own work? Should have seen that coming. My response is that I obviously can’t be the
best judge but that it’s very compassionate of him to ask.
In the evening to debate with Marvin Olasky at the L.B.J. Library. Olasky is the man
who coined the term “compassionate conservatism” and helped evolve Bush’s “faithbased initiative.” He’s a convert from both Judaism and Communism. He tells the
audience that his record as a married man improved after he became a Christian. I’m
ready to believe it. He also mentions many nice people who do good things because of
their faith. I reply that I am ready to believe that too, as long as it’s admitted that many
people behave worse because of their religion. My challenge: name an ethical statement
or action, made or performed by a person of faith, that could not have been made or
performed by a nonbeliever. I have since asked this question at every stop and haven’t
had a reply yet.
Olasky’s book on presidential morality (which sadly was written before this president
took office) says that George Washington won the Revolutionary War because he
forbade drinking and swearing in the ranks of his army, whereas the British forces were
awash in immorality. I argue that the war was won largely by the French, who were not
strangers to wine or oaths, and that the American troops at Valley Forge were much
inspired by Thomas Paine, who may not have cursed all that much but who never left
the brandy bottle alone and who thought that Christianity was a joke. Moreover, the
Brits—indicted by Olasky for their indulgence in adultery and even buggery—did
manage to hold on to Canada, India, much of the Caribbean, and much of Africa in spite
of divine disapproval. “God on Our Side” is one of the oldest and weakest arguments in
human history.
May 15, Raleigh, North Carolina: At the airport, strangers approach to say, “Thanks for
coming to take on the theocrats.” Apparently the good folks at WPTF announced after
my appearance on their show yesterday that I was going to hell. This doesn’t prevent a
huge crowd from showing up, which in turn means that Quail Ridge Books has to move
the event into a neighboring Unitarian church. (The rector whispers to me, “I ought not
to say this, but the church has never been this full before.”) My opponent tonight is the
very courteous Dr. Adam English, from the religion department at Campbell University.
He’s another Baptist, but when I ask if he believes Calvin’s teaching about hell and predestination, he doesn’t love the question. Southern hospitality is rightly famous, and he
may think it would be rude to condemn a visitor to hellfire. Then again, he can easily tell
that the audience is not with him. Many southerners are annoyed by the presumption
that they are all snake handlers and shout-and-holler artists, and the most critical
questions all go to Dr. English, who has unwisely told the local paper that he’ll win the
argument because god is on his team. Again I notice two things: the religious types are
unused to debate and are surprised at how many people are impatient with them, or
even scornful.
Jerry Falwell—another man who managed to get away with murder by getting himself
called “Reverend”—dies without being bodily “raptured” into the heavens. Indeed, his
heavy carcass is found on the floor of his Virginia office. The cable shows start to call
and I have a book to sell: maybe someone up there does love me after all.
May 16, Atlanta: My publishers had at first told me that I couldn’t find a debater in this
great city, but the Margaret Mitchell House now asks if I can do not just one session
with an opponent but two sessions back-to-back, in order to accommodate excess
demand. The museum and library are magnificent and show a picture of the young
Martin Luther King Jr. in the little-boys’ choir at the opening night of Gone with the
Wind. I consider myself free of superstition, but I have to confess that I still find that
quite arresting. The defender of the faith on this occasion is Timothy Jackson, a
professor of Christian ethics at Emory University, and he cheerfully agrees to do the
“second house.” He’s by far the best yet, and obviously enjoys the argument, but is
clearly surprised by the roars of applause that greet any of my attacks on Falwell. (One
sees the same pinched and flabby look on the faces of Sean Hannity and the other TV
hosts who want me to say at least a compassionate word about this departed fraud. At
one point, Hannity wheels out Ralph Reed as a mourner, as if unaware that ostentatious
grief from the friends of Jack Abramoff is exactly what the Christian right might have
wanted to avoid at this moment of bereavement.)
The motto of the Confederacy was Deo Vindice, or “God on Our Side.” Atlanta was
burned to ashes by people who thought that the deity took the other view. I basically
implore the audience to get over it, and to consider the strong possibility that heaven
takes no side at all in human affairs. I know that this is still a minority position, but it’s
quite easy to defend and very difficult to disprove, as I think the devout Dr. Jackson
might agree.
May 17, Coral Gables, Florida: I owe an apology. It is absolutely not true, as urban
legend has it, that Orthodox Jews conduct sexual congress through a hole in the sheet. I
should never have mentioned this slander, even in passing, in my book. (It won’t appear
in the reprint.) At the Temple Judea, a Reform synagogue that seats a thousand people,
I make this concession in an exchange with Nathan Katz. But when I go on to attack the
Jewish prayer that thanks god for not making you a woman or a Gentile, I get quite a bit
of applause. As well as featuring Katz, the panel of my critics contains a Muslim woman
scholar, a Buddhist nun, and a charismatic Catholic. What if all these people were to
walk into a bar at the same time? Surely the barman would ask if it was some kind of
joke.
The Second Presbyterian Church in New York puts up a sign in big letters, reading,
christopher hitchens doesn’t know what he’s talking about. These are the people whose
early dominance of America was described by Jefferson as witchcraft and inquisition. As
against that, my book is climbing the best-seller list and is outselling the Pope’s volume
on Jesus Christ.
June 5, Los Angeles: A three-hour debate with the Reverend Mark Roberts, senior
pastor of Irvine Presbyterian Church, in Orange County, on Hugh Hewitt’s conservative
Christian chat show. Very nice of Mr. Hewitt. The Rev doesn’t accuse me of not knowing
what I’m talking about: indeed, he’s very civil about the book. At one point I ask him if
he believes the story in Saint Matthew’s Gospel about the graves opening in Jerusalem
at the time of the crucifixion, and the occupants walking the streets. Doesn’t it rather
cheapen the idea of resurrection? He replies that as a Christian he does believe it,
though as a historian he has his doubts. I realize that I am limited here: I can usually
think myself into an opponent’s position, but this is something I can’t imagine myself
saying, let alone thinking.
June 7, Seattle: A host on the local Fox radio station says he’s appalled that I can’t find a
debate partner for this evening’s event at Town Hall. After all, Seattle is the home of the
Discovery Institute: powerhouse of the “intelligent design” movement. We go on to
debate matters on-air, and when I say that I also can’t find any Catholic who really
believes in the Virgin Birth, he responds that he jolly well does. No you don’t, I reply, not
really. Yes I do, he insists. I believe in the Immaculate Conception of Jesus Christ. I have
to break it to him that the Immaculate Conception and the Virgin Birth are two different
things: it was Mary who, according to a Vatican dogma dating back only to 1854, was
immaculately conceived. I run into this kind of thing all the time: what else do people
imagine they are believing? And hasn’t it come to something when I have to tell
Catholics what their church teaches?
June 10, Washington, D.C.: It’s been weeks on the road, and after a grueling swing
through Canada I am finally home. I tell the wife and daughter that’s it: no more god
talk for a bit—let’s get lunch at the fashionable Café Milano, in Georgetown. Signor
Franco leads us to a nice table outside and I sit down—right next to the Archbishop of
Canterbury. O.K., then, this must have been meant to happen. I lean over. “My Lord
Archbishop? It’s Christopher Hitchens.” “Good gracious,” he responds, gesturing at his
guest—“we were just discussing your book.”
The archbishop’s church is about to undergo a schism. More than 10 conservative
congregations in Virginia have seceded, along with some African bishops, to protest the
ordination of a gay bishop in New England. I ask him how it’s going. “Well”—he lowers
his voice—“I’m rather trying to keep my head down.” Well, why, in that case, I want to
reply, did you seek a job that supposedly involves moral leadership? But I let it go. What
do I care what some Bronze Age text says about homosexuality? And there’s something
hopelessly innocent about the archbishop: he looks much more like a sheep than a
shepherd. What can one say in any case about a religion that describes its adherents as a
flock?
According to a report in The Wall Street Journal, my book is selling particularly well in
the Bible Belt, on a “know thine enemy” basis. And I get encouraging letters from
atheists in foxholes in Iraq and Afghanistan, as well as from people who feel that they
are at last emerging from some kind of closet. One day a decent candidate for high office
will say that he is not a person of faith, and the sky will not fall. Everywhere I speak, I
find that the faithful go to church for a mixture of reasons, from social to charitable to
ethnic, and take their beliefs à la carte or cafeteria-style, choosing the bits they like and
discarding the rest. The Christianity Today Web site, which has hosted me in an online
debate with its champion Douglas Wilson for the past two months, writes to say that Mr.
Wilson wants to send me a wheel of Washington State cheese, as a token of
appreciation. A nice surprise. Blessed are the cheese-makers.
Christopher Hitchens