Daniel Dennett and Richard Dawkins, authors of Breaking the Spell and The God Delusion respectively, are perhaps most responsible for what is popularly called “new atheism”. With Christopher Hitchens and Sam Harris, they have added the concerns of atheist thinkers to popular Western discourse, unapologetically, with no sensitivity for the bruised feelings of theists. Perceived variously as rude, arrogant, unfeeling, or high-handed, their response is generally to point out that, when talking about ideas that are so important to humanity and indeed often dangerous to it, it’s best to leave the kid gloves at home.

The fact is, there is no way to politely point out that another’s views are absurd, irrational, and dangerous, and there is no way to sample the irrationality of religious belief without exposing it. The “new” aspect of atheism represented by this group seems a rather time-tested idea: argue well, with all reason, and refuse to accept illogical absurdities. Through their discourse, they are admonishing us not to retreat into niceties when it comes to certain taboo subjects, but to represent our arguments in the coolest, most reasonable way possible.

The response to this way of dealing with theism is predictable, and could be ramping up. In addition to claims of tactless injuriousness in the arguments of atheists, apologists for theism and religion are adding the element of alarm into the mix. New atheists are dangerous. Beware their ideas.

As usual, this comes when the realm of reasoned discourse has failed, and the only option left is the peddling of fear.

In Faith Attack, Clifford Goldstein, the rabidly fundamentalist Seventh-Day Adventist and former editor of Liberty Magazine, describes new atheism as an unprovoked assault on belief.

In usual style, he diminishes his own arguments with thinly disguised ad hominems; for example, he chooses to quote the word “intellectuals” when describing Dawkins-Dennett, Harris-Hitchens. But in his description of these men as harbingers of a kind of chilling philosophical fascist state, where he imagines the most provocative of their arguments having come to life as draconian law, he has chosen not to address the arguments themselves, but to assume their worthlessness by extrapolating an absurd scenario while making sure to add a healthy dose of fear-mongering along the way.

This is not a challenge to the arguments at hand, but merely a kind of red herring. Attractive though this vision might be to apocalyptic doomsayers and science fiction aficionados, it is a silly counter to very real concerns. One is happy to find that, ultimately, Goldstein does not even take himself seriously.

Fortunately, their views aren’t likely to become public policy anytime soon, and certainly not in the United States (after all, look how well they worked in the Soviet Union).

Here, and elsewhere, he can’t help but draw comparisons between an atheist argument and the Soviet Union. This tiresome trick is described by Alonzo Fyfe as The Hitler and Stalin cliché. It is just as unconvincing when issued by Mr. Goldstein as it is when trundled out by any other apologist lacking a cohesive argument.

Reflecting Dawkins’ assertion that teaching children about hell is a species of child abuse, Goldstein says the same about teaching children evolution, and telling them about the finality of death. This is particularly egregious, not just for the strident insult to the science of evolution, but to the twisted reversal of values that places more importance on selling an arbitrary fantasy to impressionable people, than familiarizing them with the reality of life in the universe.

Expressing dewey-eyed remorse that children might not be taught about their “origins” or “destiny”, and emoting over the fact that kids might be told they’ll never again see Grandma and Grandpa after they’re gone, Goldstein cannot bring himself to imagine that children are stronger than this. What has he to say about Dale McGowan’s daughters, who discovered both their fear of death and their victory over this fear at the same moment? About their ability, at ages six and ten, to understand and reject the argument of First Cause as a logical absurdity? Clearly Goldstein attributes no quality of intellect or reason to children.

By the end of the article, Goldstein ironically recognizes the counter-attack that will soon issue forth from the hard religious right.

[New atheists'] most damaging impact might be…the fertile fodder they provide the Christian Right, long trying to convince the flock that their religion is under attack by secular elites…[T]he extremism of the new atheists will only feed the extremism of the Christian Right, each side pushing the other further in a direction that neither needs to go.

Though there may be some truth to this, he seems to have missed the point that he himself is a carrier of exactly the same kind of fear-mongering these flock leaders would be guilty of. At least in the case of religious extremists, such a reaction is understandable. In Mr. Goldstein’s case, we can only guess that, for want of a cohesive and rational argument of rebuttal, alarmist calls about the falling sky is the only response left.

Louis Argument and Debate, Atheism, Believers Argument, Atheism, Believers, Fundamentalism

I wake Alex up early, and we pack towels, books, and drinks into the car. We’re on our way right on time, and we stop at the usual place for bagels and coffee before setting out on the highway.

It’s a beautiful day, the best of the summer, and the last of the summer. There’s not a cloud in sight. It must be thirty degrees. If only it had been like this the many other weekends before. It has been a summer of rain and false starts and cancelled plans, but now we’re on our way with one last try for a day trip away from home.

The trip is a long one, more than two hours, and on the way we have to fill up. Before, as we’d move west and south, the clouds would gather, and the temperature would drop, but today, the sun stays bright, the sky crisp blue and hot. It’s perfect weather.

When we reach Port Rowan, it’s a further twenty or so minutes on the road leading along the forty kilometre spit toward Long Point. The weather still holds, the air is still hot and beautiful. There are lots of cars around, and as we get near the park, it seems it will be a crowded day in there. But not where we’ll be.

We park, and take out the towels and the frisbee and the umbrella, and start a long thirty-minute walk along the park’s beautiful beach. The lake is stunning. There’s a breeze, but the surface is relatively calm, and perfectly reflects the dark blue of the sky and the slightly pink horizon at the furthest edge of sight. It hasn’t looked this beautiful all year. When we near the water’s edge, we can see right to the soft rippling sand at the bottom for as far as we’re able to look out.

We walk past the rows and rows of moms lying motionless in the bright sun, and kids and dads yelling and laughing in the water. As we near the eastern part of the spit, the crowd thins, and then there are just a couple of families, and then we are at the division line between the park and the boundary along the bird sanctuary. We cross under the metal rope. There’s still a few people even here. A man is taking pictures of his wife and infant daughter playing in a shallow pool of water. “Can you take our picture,” he asks. Of course. It’s always him and the little girl, or his wife and the little girl, and they can never get a picture of all three, he says. They’re very happy, and both of them thank us several times.

Now there is nobody else, but up ahead, we can see one or two bodies along the beach, and somebody’s in the water. We’re here. We won’t have to wear clothes or a swimsuit along this part, at the very edge of the private property that extends to the furthest point of the spit. We find a nice flat space in the sand, and set up our umbrella, and spread out our towels. There’s only a few people here: an older couple at the very water’s edge, where a woman is reading in a lawn chair in the shallows before the lake opens up; a younger couple to our right; one or two others lying in the sand, or moving along the beach.

We walk out into the lake, past a warm shallow full of tiny minnows, and into the expanse of water under the sky. The water is beautiful, reflecting bright blue, and large ripples lap at us as we make our way out as far as possible before the lake would go over our heads. Alex has his goggles. He swims a few short laps of freestyle in the open water.

It looks kind of neat. I go back for my camera, and hold it carefully above the water as I make my way back to him. I get some pictures of him doing strokes, and then he’s standing waist-deep in the lake with the sun behind him, shining off his wet shoulders, his goggles on his head. I take more photos. He glides into the water on his back and free-floats, his face turned to the blue sky. “This feels weird, like I’m falling,” he says.

After a while, we return to our towels. Alex reads. The sun moves toward the western horizon, in the opposite direction of the furthest point of the sand bar. I lie back and doze. I listen to the sound of the waves rolling up onto the sand, the gulls and cormorants croaking or cawing in the distance.

Some time passes, and it’s hot. We take up the frisbee and go out into the lake, and toss it back and forth for almost two hours. It’s the most fun we’ve had. We both lunge as it flies overhead, or to the left or right. You can do this much better in the water, because there’s no danger of a hard fall to the ground. It’s great stretching out into the sky to reach as it flies past, then crashing into the water — either with the disc in hand, or not. The waves sometimes add to the push of water from the lunge, and many times it rolls over my head, or up against my face. I’ve got my hat on, and Alex laughs at the sight. Water pours over the bill in front of my face.

Sometimes I stop while Alex swims for the frisbee. I stand in the deep water and look into the blank horizon, against the wind, which has now picked up. It’s gentle and beautiful, still warm, but holds in its crispness a hint of the coming autumn. Then I fall back and float, looking up at the perfectly clear dome of sky.

We’re done after a while, and return to the beach. The afternoon is getting on to evening; it’ll be turning dusk soon, and we should go.

After we pack, we walk in silence back along the beach. It’s empty now on this part of the spit. Alex is walking slowly many paces behind. When we get to the park’s lakefront, we walk past a little city made out of sand that someone has built. It’s very detailed. There’s even an airport, a parking lot with little sand cars, and a baseball stadium with a diamond and grandstand seating. There’s some buildings with long blades of grass connecting them in arches, and everywhere there are feathers and sticks and grass used as markers and columns. At one end, there are three huge pyramids made of sand. Are they mountains?

Out on the lake, the setting sun is sparkling on the surface of the water at the crest of the little waves. It looks alight, or as though there are small jewels or lights rising above the surface and lowering again.

We’re very tired when we finally reach the car. We drive out of the park, and through Port Rowan toward Simcoe, where we’ll stop and eat. The sun has almost fully lowered. The light is orange and gold, the sky still empty. It’s been such a beautiful day.

We think this was the last day of the summer, at the end of a summer mostly wet and cool that had stopped us from doing the things we’d planned. But now, this last day stands behind us. The most beautiful day, the most perfect company. In the future, we’ll talk about the time we went to Long Point, when Alex swam the freestyle in the lake for the first time, when he stood against the perfect blueness of the sky, and we threw the frisbee and stretched into the perfect clear air of the loveliest day of the summer.

Audio reading of this entry.

Louis About me, Alex, With audio Beach, Happiness, Lake Erie, Long Point

In Canada and the United States, we are asked to “support our troops”. My response is the opposite: I do not support our troops.

This is a dangerous position to take in North American society, where unqualified “support” is demanded of us from bumper stickers on ambulances and fire trucks, and where even a local politician not mouthing this mantra on cue may as well pack up and move out of the country. It isn’t difficult to imagine that many people would be satisfied by adding the phrase “or get out” to this slogan. A popular witticism suggests, “If you don’t stand behind our troops, feel free to stand in front of them.”

The United States has a strong military tradition, and mass unqualified support for it is part of its culture. This is a latent phenomenon in Canada. With the election of a Conservative government in this country, the role of the Canadian military has taken on a new perspective. For example, there has been a shift from a traditional role of peacekeeping, to active, prolonged military engagement in Afghanistan.¹ The government has created the issue of “Canadian arctic sovereignty”, dubiously spending more than four billion dollars of the military budget for it. And, most telling, Prime Minister Stephen Harper paternalistically chided the Canadian public in March 2006, when the debate about Afghanistan began in earnest. Borrowing the phrase “cut and run” from hawkish American discourse intended to make opponents of the Iraq war appear ignoble and cowardly, Harper neatly described the Canadian Conservative world view.

Canadians don’t cut and run at the first sign of trouble. That’s the nature of this country, and when we send troops into the field, I expect Canadians to support those troops.

In Canada, as much as in the United States, the unqualified demand to “support our troops” is issued from all quarters, by the most nondescript soccer mom from the rear of her SUV, and by the most powerful person in the country.

When Mr. Harper says that he expects Canadians to support the troops, he is effectively demanding that all discourse on the subject of troop deployment come to an end. His demand is tantamount to saying, “It doesn’t matter where we send our troops or for what purpose, you are expected to support them.” This line of thought pushes back discussion of foreign policy issues in the public arena, and favours martial sentimentality over discourse. The Prime Minister is actively discouraging dialogue.

The most common definition for regular Canadians sporting bumper stickers with this phrase seems to go something like this: “Support our troops, because they are in harm’s way while performing a dangerous job at great personal risk.” If this is accurate, then what they are really saying is that there is a need for society to collectively support troops, because there are elements that actively want the troops to be in harm’s way. But this is an absurd proposition. While there may be psychotic individuals who would like troops to be harmed, this is hardly a problem that needs to be confronted by common citizens. Clearly something else is implied by the reverse of “support our troops”.

“Support our troops”, coming from ordinary citizens in 2008, holds exactly the same message that Mr. Harper’s comment held in 2006. “Support our troops” means, “It is enough for ordinary citizens to be sentimental about troops.” There is no further form of support, other than sentimental support including signed cards, flags, and home-made muffins, that ordinary citizens can offer troops. From this perspective, support for troops must be unqualified. There is an implicit wishing away of all questions regarding why troops are deployed in the places they find themselves.

I am not informed enough about the issues in Afghanistan to understand whether or not I should be supporting the foreign policy decisions that sent troops there. I can make no judgement as to whether or not the troops are “protecting and guaranteeing Canadian freedom,” which seems to be the popular notion (although I do know that Canada will be free for a very long time, should its troops withdraw from military action in Afghanistan tomorrow). At best, I am by necessity neutral on the foreign policy issues involved. I suspect many Canadians are in my position.

I am not neutral about supporting troops. I cannot support troops without qualification, and I certainly cannot subscribe to a popular chant that seeks to put all Canadians under the umbrella of what is tantamount to a political slogan that holds an underlying connotation of willful ignorance.

The command to “support our troops” is an appeal to emotion lacking any evidential value. Not merely a logical fallacy, since the statement as commonly used does not in itself propose any kind of argument, “support our troops” is an empty juxtaposition of sentimentality with public policy. Everyone should be suspicious of such appeals.

1. The Canadian military was initially deployed in Afghanistan by the Liberal government in 2002, marking its first combat role since the Korean War. The Conservative government has since sought several extensions for troop deployment there despite political opposition, and has increased military spending to $19,000,000,000.00 for 2009. [↩]

Louis Politics Conservatism, Debate, Logical Fallacy, Military, Politics, Troops