What sort of atheist would I be?

[Above is the image for Loyola University Chicago’s 2016 conference, “The Challenge of God: Continental Philosophy and the Catholic Intellectual Heritage.” All credit goes to Jacob Torbeck

Christ is in the grave. From Good Friday through Holy Saturday, Christians often imagine the world waiting with bated breath for the Son of God to burst forth in glory on Easter Sunday, but the Gospel accounts suggest otherwise: the disciples — before Holy Saturday was ever Holy — were coming to grips with the fact that their Messiah had failed. Perhaps more traumatic, their friend was dead. Anastasios is far from anyone’s lips.

What would it be like to live in that space — perpetually?

I’ve lived on both sides of the A/theist binary and still straddle it more than is comfortable most of the time in an expression of what Colby Dickinson likes to call my “Protestant intensity.” Philosopher Jacques Derrida once said that he “rightly passe[d] for an atheist,” a statement which provoked all sorts of mental gymnastics from his interpreters. In her book on the subject, professor Pamela Caughie defines “passing” as closely related to theories of “performativity,” including the notion that “any ‘I’ comes to be a subject only through a matrix of differential relations that make certain kinds of being possible.” Identity, in other words, is “something we do, not something we are,” and these doings tend to be “ethically and politically motivated” by a desire to respond to our various situations (4, 14). Thus, Derrida “rightly passed for an atheist” because it was the cultural category which he could inhabit most comfortably, even if it didn’t define him all that well.

Under that rubric, it could be said that I “rightly passed for a Christian” throughout my later high school and college years. “Christian” was a language and a set of habits I had learned; I knew how to Christian, as Gilles Deleuze might put it, placing the emphasis on the verb, identity being something we do rather than something we are, after all. “Faith” is a bad word for whatever I had then; it was theatrical rather than dramatic, a pure form without content. In fact, it was probably something more intense: I was an ironist, with deep contempt for the role I played.

In my actual thought-life, the Christian narrative had become a sort of mythical appendix to a different reality. I never fully fleshed it out to myself, but for me Jesus was a kind of blip on a cosmic radar; it was an event, maybe one that even had real effects, but none that pertained to me or even the vast majority of people I knew. St. Paul provided the rubric — “If anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation” (2 Cor 5:17) — and personal experience taught me that I didn’t fit. The Christian narrative didn’t include me, so I needed to know where I stood, and ultimately I settled into a few basic premises: Matter was (probably) conscious; the cosmos was (therefore) conscious; and the consciousness of the cosmos appeared to be beyond good and evil in a way that could easily be either alien or infantile. I coped with that the best I could and suspected that I would continue to do so eternally, through various forms of (non-) embodied existence.

Then the change came, and any account of that invites judgment. I had been, up to a certain point, what William Lynch calls a “facer of facts,” for whom “the beautiful thing… is to accept the absurdity and limitations of reality with nerve, sincerity, courage and authenticity” (20). Under another rubric: my courage failed; I fell back on religion, “escap[ing] into a tenuous world of infinite bliss,” and the rest is history. This is not how I would tell my story, but it is a hard story to tell without falling back on categories which, as Adam Kotsko says, appear regressive and naive in the modern world:

In debates over divine transcendence, the burden of proof is most often on the person who wants to reject it — and that position does make sense, as the Christian tradition has mostly embraced divine transcendence. That said, the cultures in which Christianity has mostly moved have also mostly embraced divine transcendence as a kind of cultural common sense. That is no longer the case in the Western world, however. In making sense of the world around us, the “God hypothesis” is obviously no longer necessary. Insisting on divine transcendence, therefore, means pushing up against an amazingly successful explanatory system that virtually no one questions in any serious or thorough-going way. There had better be a damn good reason to take that on! In short, I think that in the contemporary world, the burden of proof is on those who want to maintain divine transcendence.

I have to admit that Kotsko’s assessment feels right to a certain extent; there are certain “amazingly successful explanatory systems” within which God need play no role. I’m not talking about the typical positivist drivel which comes from the likes of Richard Dawkins or Jerry Coyne, but Deleuze’s account of purely material “becomings” along a “plane of immanence” is deeply compelling to me. This purely univocal account of being and experience seems to match up with my reality quite well, but metaphysically it also tends toward a sort of pantheism which is indistinguishable from atheism. As political theologian Clayton Crockett puts it, “I would see Christ more as a singular entity who expressed a powerful vision of life and then died, but that death is itself the resurrection into a repetition of difference that is both absolutely unique and completely inter-related to all other forms of life. There is a Christ-event, but also a Confucius-event, a Spinoza-event, etc.” Frankly, this sounds a lot like my old way of looking at things. I don’t know — maybe I could still find a form of life for myself in there somewhere.

… And yet, I can’t shake the feeling that this is too simple. In many ways, I find that my mental dilemma has reversed: whereas a few years ago I felt that Christianity filled in the holes of the world I’d made for myself, now I feel that same conviction clinging to me despite a wealth of alternative explanations. It may, perhaps, be an act of bad faith to cling to such convictions — and yet I know that to abandon those convictions would be an act of bad faith, totally and absolutely.

Maybe this is what leads me back to “Atheism for Lent” — belatedly, of course, since Lent has already passed us by. In this instance, “Atheism for Lent” means using the Lenten season to engage with historical criticisms of Christianity, allowing such criticisms to refine away the idolatries which so often accrete around our faith and allowing us to repent of them. However, such a process falls under heavy criticism from Kotsko and others who believe that such attempts to “resuscitate” Christianity in order to leave its “core” free from criticism are (what else?) acts of intellectual bad faith.

I don’t agree with this claim. I see many, many problems with it — but I also find it intimidating, and feel compelled to engage with it. I feel that this type of performance-art atheism — the sort which empties Christian forms of their spiritual content and repurposes them for more material, social uses — is the type of atheist I might be if I could manage to be one.

So by way of engaging the question “What sort of atheist would I be?”, I am working through Katharine Sarah Moody’s book, Radical Theology and Emerging Christianity (Ashgate, 2015) over the coming weeks. I’ll be posting part-reviews, part-meditation as I work through each chapter of the book and think about what I believe, what I don’t, and why. Should anyone want to come along for the ride, I hope you will find something helpful regarding the strange field of “radical theology,” but at minimum I hope that your imagination will be sparked; after all, I hardly think that any theology can live without such a spark.