Sunday, early afternoon.

Te’a and Mick stayed up late Saturday night, engrossed in conversation about what they have been reading and thinking over the past week. Before they called it a night, Te’a suggested that Mick accompany her on Sunday afternoon to a coffee date she arranged with Dr. Tostig.

Still a bit tired, but enthusiastic to chat with June, they walk to Zeena’s Daily Grind. They order and then join June.

TE’A: Good morning, Dr. Tostig. I hope you don’t mind, but my friend Mick tagged along. We spent all night talking about Dostoevsky and Feuerbach!

JUNE: Marvelous! It’s nice meeting you Mick, and I was delighted to hear that you and Te’a are tackling such difficult material—and without needing to, if I understand correctly!

As they take their seats, Mick chuckles.

MICK: Once I got turned on to these ideas, I needed to keep exploring. I’m hooked!

JUNE: That is the all-too-rare news that warms an aging philosopher’s heart! So, tell me, what specifically have you been thinking about?

TE’A: Mick’s been explaining what she read by Feuerbach, and we spent a lot of time unpacking his claim that god is a fiction.

JUNE: Ah, yes. But can I offer a slight caveat?

TE’A: Of course!

MICK: Please do.

JUNE: Feuerbach definitely argues that god is a projection and reification of our understanding of human perfection, and you’re right that he doesn’t think there is such a reified big man up in the heavens. That is a fantastical fiction. However, he doesn’t think that the divine in general is a fiction. 

MICK: Right! That’s what’s so fascinating. He thinks love is divine, right?

JUNE: Yes, and he’s very clear that when we recognize that god isn’t a real being—that there isn’t what he calls a “divine subject”—we should not go on to reject the reality of what he calls the divine predicate, love. So he’s a realist about the divinity of love, but he’s an antirealist when it comes to some incomprehensible supernatural deity. 

MICK: Yes, that is what I gathered from what Doc and Jack said.

JUNE: Oh! You know Doc?

MICK: Yes, I met him and his friend Jack, who’s a priest, and we’ve been having really interesting late-night conversations in the library.

JUNE: I absolutely adore Doc. He’s such a delightful person. And it happens that I recently met Jack myself. We were hoping that his church would allow our community group to meet there, but it didn’t pan out.

TE’A: What group is that?

JUNE: It’s a secular humanist organization. It’s a bit like the one on campus, but we have children and adult education programs and do community outreach.

TE’A: Huh. (She smiles.) Is it like a non-church church?

JUNE: (Also smiling.) Yes, that’s a way of thinking about. We’re actually called the Secular-Humanist Assembly. If you’ll permit me to be a bit cheeky, since a church was originally called an ekklésia, which is the Greek word for assembly, we’re a real church. (She winks.) Just not a god church. 

MICK: That sounds right up my alley. I might have to join you folks sometime.

JUNE: We’d love to have you. We’re presently without a building, so I’ll have to let you know once we find a new place. 

MICK: What kind of education and outreach do you do? 

JUNE: The outreach program that receives most of our funding is our long-standing housing advocacy work, and that include a tenants’ union, which we sponsor.

She takes a sip of coffee and then continues.

In terms of education, our weekly meetings are inspired by the Ethical Culture Society, which was founded by the transcendentalist philosopher Felix Adler in the 19th Century.¹ When we had a building, we met on Sundays, just like the Christian churches, and we had Sunday school. Our meetings, or services, are sort of similar to religious churches, too. We have readings, sing songs, et cetera. In fact, Feuerbach is someone whom we occasionally read passages from. As the presider, part of my role is to offer a lesson relating to the weekly reading, but we sometimes have guest speakers instead. I also preside over weddings, funerals, baby namings, and so forth. 

TE’A: I had no idea there were such groups! 

JUNE: Organizations like ours are not as common as churches, but there are similar assemblies in most of the bigger cities and in a number of college towns. We’d love to have a broader reach, but it’s not easy to organize people in smaller communities and rural areas. 

MICK: So you’re kind of like a pastor? 

JUNE: Yes. Officially, I’m considered a cleric or a member of the clergy, which is why I can perform state-sanctioned weddings and provide chaplaincy services in the hospitals. 

MICK: What are your sermons, or, um, lessons like?

JUNE: It varies, but I often try to apply the readings to contemporary issues and concerns, and I try to provide guidance about how to live ethically and wisely while nevertheless acknowledging that life is complex and ambiguous. The congregation seems to appreciate it when we talk about things that arise in ordinary life, like working through relationships and divorces, discerning how to be ethical in one’s work, how to address community concerns—things like that. 

She takes another sip.

MICK: That’s really cool. (She turns to Te’a.) I think Will would be annoyed to know about this. 

Te’a laughs and offers June a quick explanation.

TE’A: He’s a student that was chastising Mick for not being religious.

JUNE: Ah, yes, I know that comes up quite often on campus. 

MICK: I’d like to hear how you’d respond to what he said. He claimed that non-religious people aren’t religious because they don’t like the moral constraints and standards that religions place on them.

JUNE: Well, that’s very simplistic and naive. The people in our congregation certainly don’t have that view. The way we tend to think about it is that many religions articulate incorrect moral principles, and they oversimplify some matters while making others unduly complicated. (After a pause.) I also tend to think that at least some religious people like the idea of having moral constraints imposed upon them. When we think there’s an external authority that reigns over us, it alleviates the felt need to work out our ethical responsibilities. That is, after all, a highly ambiguous and difficult undertaking.

MICK: Yes! That’s what I often think. Though, to be fair, talking with Jack has made me aware that not all religious people are like that.

JUNE: Oh certainly. I have a lot of respect for religious people who accept such responsibility. And I should add that a fairly sizable portion of our congregation is actually religious—Christian, Jewish, and Buddhist. We aren’t anti-religion. We don’t define ourselves negatively. Rather, we state our commitments in positive terms: we are committed to discerning how to live rightly and to respect everyone’s dignity. And we commit to helping each other—or, really, everyone—develop a way of life in which we collectively and individually strive to discern what is good, noble, and just. 

MICK: I think you would really enjoy talking with Jack. I get the sense that he thinks the same way.

JUNE: Yes, I’m sure he does. (She smiles.) Based on our conversation, I think we’d consider each other fellow travelers.

TE’A: Of course, he’d probably still understand all of that stuff in religious terms.

MICK: Oh yes, absolutely. But he’s not a typical theist. The reason he recommended Feuerbach is because he thinks he had the right view of the essence of Christianity.

JUNE: Interesting! I wonder if he would accept Feuerbach’s critique of faith though.

TE’A: What’s that?

JUNE: Well, Feuerbach thinks there’s a contradiction at the heart of Christian faith. It’s moral essence is the recognition of the divinity of love. But it retains the old notion of there being a mysterious divine Other who demands obedience, requires orthodoxy, and expects the disciples to root out heretics.² In practice, this means people withhold their love from  non-believers and often abuse and violate them. 

MICK: He does agree with that! In fact, that seems to be what he finds most compelling and accurate in Feuerbach’s account. I don’t want to put words in his mouth, but I think his view is that Feuerbach is factually correct, but things ought to be different. I get the impression he would say that Christians should recognize that it is sinful when they fail to love. Actually, he might have even said that sin is the failure to love.

TE’A: That’s how I think about it, too. If I recall my Moral Theology class correctly, that’s exactly what Father James Keenan once wrote.³

JUNE: If we strip the word “sin” of its damning connotation, I agree. Whenever we fail to love, we have failed. Period. 

TE’A: That relates to something Mick and I were talking about last night. We’ve often heard other students say that calling out people for being sinful is a way of loving them.

MICK: And I have a hard time taking them at their word. 

JUNE: Ah, yes. That’s a tricky problem. Certainly, when we care about and love someone, we don’t want them to act in ways that are unhealthy; we want them to be good and to do good. And we want the people who love us to will our good, to be willing to help us become better. But it can be unloving to be judgmental and overly critical of others. 

MICK: Right! Maybe I’m not being fair, but I don’t think many of the holier-than-thou people I’ve encountered are really loving the people they scold, even though they say they are. It often seems like they are enjoying themselves. (She chuckles.) In fact, it reminds me of when I was a kid and I would tattle on my brother. I was totally being egotistical, even if I dressed it up as “caring” about him.

JUNE: I recognize there were two common pitfalls I used to succumb to when I was a religious zealot.

TE’A: Wait! You were a religious zealot?

JUNE: Haha, yes. I was pretty intolerable when I was a teenager. And intolerant! I didn’t tolerate others, and my way of speaking and acting turned many people off. (She laughs.) Indeed, I suspect I turned more people away from the faith when I was holy roller than have as a secular humanist. Anyways, I think there were two main problems with how I thought about loving other people back then. Or maybe they are one and the same problem, just worded in two slightly different ways: I viewed loving others as a way of appeasing God; and I often thought that loving others was a way to secure my own salvation. I recognize now that was a gross form of supernatural self-interest.

TE’A: What do you mean?

JUNE: Well, I thought of it as a way of making sure that I would be saved and go to heaven. That, of course, wasn’t really loving others for their sake or loving them in themselves; rather, it was loving them for my own sake. So it was egoistic. I now understand that it was theologically unsound and morally abhorrent. 

MICK: I think that’s what has made religion seem so weird to me: religious people often seem to think they are being altruistic and loving, but then they explain why they act the way they do in terms of wanting to get to heaven. That’s so bizarre. 

JUNE: I now also find that bizarre—even despicable. I’m quite ashamed that I used to think and act that way.

TE’A: Why do you think that happens so often? What’s the solution?

JUNE: Well, if you are taught at a young age that this is the way of the world and what you ought to be concerned with, it’s not surprising it would take hold. And if you’ve struggled with difficult circumstances, poor decision-making and social pressures, you might find relief and comfort in transcendent hope. 

In terms of a solution, I’m not really sure. I think most religious thought is ideological and deeply bound up with our social and economic structures. Any kind of large-scale change is likely going to happen as a function socio-economic shifts, not directly as a result of hordes of atheists and agnostics changing people’s minds. Indeed, I think that’s what we have seen over the years. It is eminently plausible that the growing number of “nones”—people who have no religious affiliation⁴—is linked to the rise of neoliberalism.⁵ 

MICK: That’s something we explored in my senior sociology course. It’s really interesting.

JUNE: Yeah. I obviously can’t be totally sure, but there is certainly a temporal correlation between the two phenomena: the marked rise in religiously unaffiliated people follows the implementation and expansion of neoliberal policy.⁶ Of course, that alone doesn’t reveal much. What’s more important is that the attitudes and dispositions of nones comport with the way neoliberalism positions people. Economically, there’s a sense in which we are all supposed to be entrepreneurs and free-agents, creatively adapting to market fluctuations, willing to switch careers multiple times, and maintaining some sort of side hustle.  That’s a precarious way of living that leaves very little free time and little incentive to develop relationships that would deeply root one in a community. In the worst cases, it induces people into conceiving of their relationship to others in terms of competition, rather than mutuality. 

MICK: I don’t think it would be fair to say that religious nones are necessarily competitive. I mean, you’re a case in point: you’re clearly concerned with mutuality rather than competition. 

JUNE: That’s true, but like our religious counterparts, organized secular humanists find ourselves in an uphill battle when it comes to creating and sustaining supportive communities. My sense is that people have turned inward, finding consolation in self-spirituality and largely restricting their social-support communities to their families and close circles of friends.⁷ 

TE’A: That fascinating, but it also seems a bit sad. Or at the very least, it seems like our lives could be richer than that. 

MICK: Yeah, absolutely. I can, however, see myself reflected in your observations, June. I definitely have thought of myself as something like a “free-agent” and my sense of spirituality is largely a private thing. It certainly hasn’t been something that has tied me to other people. I haven’t really thought of myself as living with a loss—it hasn’t seemed like a sad state of affairs—but it is beginning to. (After a pause.) So, you don’t really think there’s any use in trying to change people’s minds? It’s all a function of larger social forces?

JUNE: I certainly think we’re socially enmeshed beings, and broader ideological superstructures influence and constrain our thoughts in ways that go unnoticed. That doesn’t really have any bearing on whether I try to change people’s minds though. (She quickly reconsiders.) Well, I guess it has bearing, but only in the sense of modifying why I try to change people’s minds. I don’t try to change peoples minds as a way of changing society. I’m not idealistic in that sense. But I am a philosopher, so I think it is important to interrogate our beliefs, follow the evidence, and acknowledge the limits of our knowledge. For me, this is more a matter of dignity than it is an idealistic way of changing reality. There’s a subtle but important difference between trying to change people’s minds as means of changing the broader society and being concerned that they have false and dangerous beliefs. Moreover, the fact of the matter is that individuals can and do change their minds. Here again, I’m a case in point. 

MICK: Right. You said you used to think in supernatural egoistic terms and that you used to identify with religious organizations. What led you to change your mind or shift your orientation?

JUNE: For me, it was a function of realizing I couldn’t sustain belief in the literalness of the creeds of the church. In particular, I couldn’t believe in an afterlife in the way the church seemed to require. So, although I don’t really think that changing people’s minds about how they think of the afterlife will result in any sort of broad-based change, I do think it is worth tackling the convoluted doctrine of immortality. I really worry that it leads people to care about the afterlife more than this life, and I want them to take this life seriously. So, when it is appropriate—when I think someone is open to hearing criticisms about that way of thinking—I explain why I think it is wrong to believe that this life is a proving grounds for the soul and that our “real life” awaits us in heaven.⁸ The whole notion of immortal souls and survival after death is part of a dangerous and inhumane ideology.

MICK: I don’t need convincing in that regard, since I wasn’t raised to think about heaven. As I said, I’m one of those nones. However, precisely for that reason—not having been raised to think about it much—I’ve never been able to offer a good response to people who argue that I should care about my soul. Do you mind sharing the arguments you would provide?

JUNE: Sure, but first here’s a surprise: I actually think you should care about your soul. It’s just important to understand what that means. When we talk about a soul, we’re talking about a life. I’m going to set aside the idea that a soul is what provides a life, since I don’t see why we should suppose such a thing. I’m simply going to focus on the more plausible notion that ‘soul’ just means ‘life.’ This is the classical philosophical use of the term.⁹ Anyways, the next step in the argument is to recognize that life is a metabolic process. This is something the ancients didn’t fully understand, and so we inherited their underdeveloped concept. But we’re now in a position to understand life in those terms. Here’s the importance: metabolic processes are chemical reactions, which is to say they are physical or material events and processes. So an immaterial life is a contradiction in terms.

Mick produces a notebook from her bag and hastily jots down the argument. 

MICK: That’s very similar to something I was arguing with Doc about, though we were talking about “an immaterial body.” I think I convinced him that is an incoherent concept. 

JUNE: Yes, that would be another way of stating the matter. I’ve basically built it in to the way I’m formulating it that a life is necessarily bodily. 

TE’A: That makes sense, but how would you respond to people who think that a soul is a thing?—A thing that can become separated from their body?

JUNE: We call that “Cartesian dualism” after the early modern philosopher René Descartes. He argued that since we can conceive of minds and bodies as distinct, and since they have different fundamental properties, they are two different kinds of substance.¹⁰ The problem with this is that it’s a mistake to move from a premise about what we can imagine—what is logically conceivable—to a conclusion about what is really the case. Logical conceivability doesn’t entail nomological possibility.  

MICK: What does “nomological” mean?

JUNE: It refers to the actual laws of nature. Basically, what I meant is that what is really possible in our reality is much narrower than what we can imagine is possible. In the case of Descartes, he imagines or conceives of minds existing independent of bodies or brains. But that’s just because his imagination isn’t constrained by the laws of nature. Once we actually figure out how things work in the physical world, we realize that many of the things we thought were possible aren’t actually possible. Or, they can’t be actualized in reality. The separability of consciousness and bodies is one example, but there are loads of other examples. 

Here’s one that’s much more obvious: when some dude is just sitting in his philosophical armchair, blindly speculating about the composition of the liquid that all living beings need to survive, there are innumerable logical possibilities. The liquid could be sodium hypochlorite, or hydrogen fluoride, or dihydrogen monoxide, or so on. But only one of these is actually possible. Water can’t be anything other than dihydrogen monoxide, or “oxidane,” if you prefer.¹¹ 

MICK: Haha, okay, that makes sense. 

TE’A: Although you stipulated that a soul is just a life, lots of people think that souls can exist independent of living bodies, or that they can be decoupled from one body and coupled up with a different body. They don’t usually think this because they read philosophers. Rather, they seem to believe it on the basis of trust and sometimes they reference documented phenomena that suggests that it’s possible for the soul to survive death.

JUNE: What do you have in mind?

TE’A: Well, things like out-of-body and near-death experiences.

JUNE: Ah, right.  Those are fascinating accounts, and they are actually relatively common.¹² As I understand it, when those are used to justify belief in a soul-substance, the argument is an appeal to the fact that if we had an immaterial soul, which either was our mind and consciousness or the seat of it, then that would explain the phenomena. But that doesn’t really justify the conclusion that we actually have such things. To make the argument work, we’d need to build in some additional premises, including the claim that no other explanation would equally explain the phenomena. But that’s not true. There are other explanations that might be plausible. For example, near-death experiences might result from the brain continuing to function under severe distress.¹³ Maybe what they are experiencing is more like a dream and not a genuinely disembodied perception.¹⁴ Or maybe our consciousness is like a computer program that momentarily operates independently of the computer-generated “body” with which it is usually associated. Of course, that’s just a wild thought experiment, but it’s no more wild than thinking there’s a separate objective substance that leaves the body. My point is that there are plenty of “just so” explanations—and plenty of potentially fruitful scientifically investigable hypotheses—so it isn’t clear to me why we would favor a dualist narrative. 

MICK: I doubt that very many people who already believe in the possibility of going to heaven after they die will find the scientific hypotheses and theories very compelling. 

JUNE: I suspect you are correct. There’s a line in Plato’s Apology—that’s his account of Socrates’s testimony at his trial—and I continually think about it, especially in cases like this. He says it is extraordinarily difficult to persuade someone that something they learned early in life is erroneous. The attempt to “uproot” such long-held beliefs often fails.¹⁵

MICK: Word. That is certainly my experience.

TE’A: It’s funny that you mention Socrates. A moment ago, I was thinking about his own belief in an afterlife. It’s different than Descartes’s view, isn’t it?

JUNE: In some ways, though I interpret what Plato attributed to Socrates to be fairly similar to what Descartes later went on to develop. Socrates thinks it is possible that his life will continue after the demise of his body. So, like Descartes, he accepts a separability principle. However, his reasons are different, and the “life” that he supposes—or at least hopes—might be continuous is that of the intellect. He doesn’t think that anything associated with the body—which includes memories, since they hinge of sensory experience; feelings, passions, and so on—none of that would survive the migration of the philosophical soul when it becomes god-like.¹⁶ 

MICK: What would be left?

JUNE: As I interpret it, the only thing that would be left would be the particular form that he takes to be his true self, and that is a form which is capable of communing with other transcendent forms. (She laughs.) It a vision of the afterlife that only a philosopher would find appealing. It’s just the eternal activity of contemplation.¹⁷ Certainly there are no dogs in Plato’s heaven!

June takes a drink as she ponders a further point. 

There’s another factor—a countervailing consideration—that is relevant to the question of whether there is experiential evidence that supports belief in heaven. There have been a number of documented cases in which people seem to remember being another person in a previous life. People in the eastern world usually reference these cases as confirming their belief in reincarnation, which is different than the Christian notion of resurrection and certainly different from the transmigration of an immortal soul. 

TE’A: I just assume the people who claim to have been someone else in a previous life are either mistaken or lying. 

JUNE: I did too, but I recently read a study that has moved me back to a position of skepticism about what is going on.¹⁸

MICK: Wait, I thought Te’a was saying she was a skeptic about them. 

JUNE: Oh, sorry. The word “skepticism” is often misunderstood. To be skeptical means to not know and to be searching. What I meant was that I used to think I did “know” what was going on: I thought all of those accounts were fraudulent. Now, I’m not sure what to say. That’s what I mean when I say I’m skeptical: I simply don’t know what to think, and it is something I continue to investigate. Or, more accurately, I try to read reports of investigators who are better equipped than I. 

MICK: Ah, that makes sense. 

JUNE: There are aspects of us and experiences that people have, which are surprising and strange. In such cases, we can’t know what to say. Or at least, we can’t know that we know. People can speculate, and many look for confirmation of what they previously believed, but in such cases I think we should suspend belief. (After a pause.) The point I wanted to make was that the strange reports don’t tip the scale unambiguously in favor of a Christian or an ancient Greek conception of an immortal soul. Some of them can plausibly be read as suggesting something very different—something like a “recycling” of the psyche. Or, again, a more contemporary speculative hypothesis couched in terms of computer programming enjoys just as much “support” from those reports as any of the more traditional conceptions of an afterlife. In light of that, the intellectually honest response is skepticism. (She chuckles.)  I often think of something my father likes to say: “Don’t know, can’t say, wouldn’t want to speculate.”

They laugh. After a moment, Mick turns to Te’a.

MICK: Te’a, you’re a Catholic. Do you think about these sorts of things?

TE’A: Hmm. To be honest, no. I might be an odd duck, but I’m not terribly concerned about all this business about how to survive death. In the parish I grew up in, our emphasis was on cultivating ourselves into disciples. I can’t recall ever being told I had to believe a particular theory about the afterlife, and it wasn’t the sort of thing that our priest —Fr. Juan—harped on. In fact, I think he probably would’ve said that being concerned about those matters would evidence a failure to be alive in the Spirit. That’s a line he used that I think about fairly often. 

JUNE: Did he mean that the matter was settled, and so you simply needed to accept it, or did he mean that the matter wasn’t the sort of thing about which one needed to have a view?

TE’A: That’s a good question. I wish I could ask him, but he died a few years ago. I think he meant that it wasn’t the sort of thing we needed to have a view on. What I took away from my religious education was the idea that we are already members of the Body of Christ, so our concern should be about being the hands and feet of God in the world. It wasn’t until I went to college that I realized people use that phrase to mean something like, “convince people in weird metaphysical theories.” He meant it as a call to meet people’s needs and to fight for justice. When I finally encountered Evangelical Christians and other Catholics who were super-concerned with the status of their soul and whether they were going to heaven, it was surprising and off-putting. 

JUNE: He sounds like a good priest. (She looks around in a feigned conspiratorial manner.) Truth be told, I think of myself as a Christian, though in an unorthodox sense. Maybe I would be better described as Jesus follower. At any rate, what you just attributed to your priest is how I tend to think about things. 

TE’A: Really? I never would have guessed that! 

JUNE: Good! As a general rule, I don’t think there’s any reason to share that with my students. 

MICK: Why?

JUNE: Well, there are a lot of things that go into it. First, I don’t think it should matter. Students shouldn’t be receptive or resistant to a viewpoint based on how they perceive the person teaching it. 

When the sex abuse scandals were finally hitting home for people, that solidified my position. I was—and remain—pissed off that people looked the other way because they thought priests were “men of God.” Clericalism is evil. And there’s an analogous but slightly different problem that arises in college classrooms. I’ve seen too many professors, chaplains, and so forth enjoy power and authority simply because their students think they are Christian. Their ideas might be shit, but since they are part of the fold, they aren’t subjected to the criticism, interrogation, and skepticism that others face. 

TE’A: Don’t you worry that people might dismiss you and what you say because they think you’re outside the fold?

JUNE: I know they do, at least some of them. But that’s on them. They shouldn’t relate to people in that way. That’s another thing that goes into it, and maybe this is a bit perverse: I want to test them. 

Mick laughs.

Perhaps a better way to put it is that I want to provide them an opportunity to relate to someone without religious categorizations entering into the equation. Whether they do so is up to them. I don’t need to be liked or appreciated by my students, but I do need to believe that I am acting with integrity. I don’t lie about what I believe, nor do I pretend to have beliefs and values that I don’t have. But I do usually keep those aspects of myself private, since I don’t think it is pedagogically appropriate to share them. 

TE’A: That’s interesting. And your secret is safe with us. If I am able to become a professor, I should give some thought to how I think about that. 

JUNE: I don’t mean to say my way ought to be the ways of other people; you might not arrive at the same conclusion I did, and that’s fine. I have opted to position myself in this way because there are plenty of people who do things differently. I like to think I’m introducing a bit of variety. 

MICK: Do you go to church? I mean, beyond the humanist organization?

JUNE: No. Since we started the Secular Assembly, that’s become my church. I should add, though, that I don’t really conceive of what happened to me as the loss of my faith or giving up what I once believed. That part—giving up on old beliefs—occurred when I was in college, and it is what led me into a renewed sense of Christian faith. I think of what has happened since in terms of further growth and development. Being part of the Assembly is an outgrowth of the values and commitments that were nurtured and developed when I was a professing Christian. There are plenty of people who yearn for communion but don’t find it in Christian churches, and I wanted to be part of a community that meets such people where they’re at, on their terms.

She runs her finger around the rim of her mug.

I was profoundly influenced by the philosopher, political agitator, and mystic Simone Weil. She was a Christian—in fact, she reported having a number of mystical experiences in which Christ appeared to her—but she opted to be in solidarity with those who were outside the Church. And, actually, I think those two things—her mystical experiences and her decision to remain an outsider—were very much linked. What I took from reading her works was that sometimes the way we can be Christ in the world—the way we can make loving and healing connections with people—is by staying on the periphery.¹⁹ It’s not a route that is for everyone, but it is for some of us. So, when I was invited to help start a community that was open to both religious and non-religious people who were seeking communion, that was appealing to me. 

TE’A: (Thoughtfully.) ‘Communion’ is one of those words which I know means more than what is done at Mass, but it’s hard to disassociate it from the Eucharist.

JUNE: I understand. For Christians, it has become synonymous with the sacrament.

TE’A: Can we put our philosophy caps back on?

JUNE: Of course! (Smiling.) Why do we ever take them off?

They all chuckle.

TE’A: There are a couple of words and concepts that are similar to communion, and I wonder how we should distinguish them.

MICK: Which words?

TE’A: Well, ‘community’ and ‘union’ are the two I chiefly have in mind. Are community and communion the same thing?

MICK: Hmm. I don’t think so. I think of a community as a social entity. It’s not exactly a heap of individuals (they all chuckle) but membership in a community doesn’t require that people feel a certain way. There feelings aren’t terribly important. The exact opposite is the case when it comes to communion. It necessarily involves feeling. I think of it as a feeling—or at least an experience.²⁰

TE’A: Ah, right. A community can be composed entirely of people who don't feel any real sense of belonging. Or, at least it is possible that they don’t identify with the community they are a member of. For example, prisoners who are trapped against their wills might properly be said to belong to a community. Or as another example, we often say that the students, faculty, and staff at Julien constitute a community.

JUNE: That’s a good point. I concur with Mick that communion involves feeling, specifically a sense of fellowship or an identification with the group.

TE’A: So my next question is whether communion is a type of community or whether it is something different. I think of it as a type of community, but Mick, you said it is a feeling or experience.

JUNE: Certainly, if someone described oneself as feeling in communion, but they didn’t feel that in regard to a group—to a community—I would suspect they were misdescribing their feelings. Perhaps they simply meant they felt at peace or something like that. However, what that shows is that communion is associated with community; it doesn't necessarily follow that communion is a type of community. To establish that, we would need to add more to the account.

MICK: Right. Embarrassment is something we can feel only in social situations, so it is an example of a feeling that is associated with community, but doesn’t amount to it being a type of community.

JUNE: Very good, Mick. That’s an excellent analogy.

TE’A: So, what are the characteristic feelings that are bound up with communion? I think a felt sense of togetherness is part of the story.

JUNE: I agree. As a social entity, a community is, necessarily, a type of togetherness, but that is an objective matter of proximity or structure. Communion involves a recognition of that togetherness and something like a pleasing emotional response to that recognition.

TE’A: Right. It involves a sense of being at ease. If someone said they felt a profound sense of communion but were ill at ease, I would find that puzzling.

MICK: Yeah, it would probably be more accurate for them to say that they were experiencing the force of being in community, and that was what made them feel ill at ease. (She laughs.) That’s what I would’ve said about my experiences in my high school “community.”

JUNE: I’m with you on that! The relevant sense of ease is associated with  feeling valued and respected as a member of a community or group. When we feel ill at ease in a community, it is often because we don’t feel valued or respected within it. 

TE’A: Right. So while someone can be in community, where that simply means they occupy a place in a social group, in order for them to be in communion, or to experience communion, their judgements about the nature of the community are crucial, and they have to feel certain things in response to those positive judgements. (She pauses.) But I still think someone can be a member of a communion; it seems like a type of group or community.

JUNE: Perhaps ‘communion’ is simply an equivocal term. Sometimes it refers to a cluster of feelings and sometimes it refers to a particular kind of community in which members characteristically experience those feelings.

MICK: That seems right to me. And I think that takes care of the other word you mentioned, Te’a. A union is a relationship in which two or more people constitute a single unit. A community is a type of union, but unions can also exist between communities—like when we talk about a union of states. But people that are part of a union can either experience or fail to experience communion, even though they are in a union.

JUNE: Would it be appropriate to say that communion is a success term? In other words, should we say a group constitutes a communion when it is a type of community or union in which the recognition and feelings we mentioned are realized?

TE’A: Yes, that sounds right to me.

MICK: Does that fit with what you had in mind, June, when you indicated that your group tries to provide for people who are seeking communion?

JUNE: Yes, absolutely. And I would say that has been, at least implicitly, the standard we use to evaluate our decisions and actions. When we realize we are failing to foster a sense of felt togetherness and the associated feelings of being at ease and warmly appreciated, we try to correct course.

TE’A: And that would be why Christian churches refer to the Mass or Eucharist as communion: it is intended to bring people together in that way.

JUNE: Right, though of course the churches face a paradox that arises as a result of centering that communion around God and the eucharist. To accept and participate in the eucharist requires that one meet certain criteria: one must be baptized, have undergone initiation, and one must be in a state of grace, as defined by the church’s doctrine.

TE’A: How is that a paradox?

JUNE: Well, perhaps ‘paradox’ is too strong of a word. What I had in mind was that I could image a person showing up who doesn’t meet the criteria, yet they are seeking communion. In such a case, they probably won’t feel or experience communion.

TE’A: Yes, I have friends who have said that. Of course, I would hope that a church community would demonstrate and foster communion beyond simply participating in the Eucharistic celebration. And even if a visitor feels excluded from the Eucharistic celebration, I think we should still acknowledge that the people who meet the criteria will, presumably, experience communion. Or at least they are supposed to.

MICK: I think I understand what you have in mind June: church is supposed to be a paradigmatic form of communion, but since it has in-group-out-group dynamics at play, it can constitute a place where people feel the exact opposite.

JUNE: Right. They feel excommunicated or out of the communion.

TE’A: Does that really mean it isn’t genuine, enacted communion? I think it just means that some people experience it and others don’t, but for those who do, it is authentic communion.

JUNE: Yes, I suppose that is correct.  (She pauses for a moment.) What motivates my involvement in the secular humanist group is that I think it is good to provide a community in which there aren’t such criteria.

TE’A: That makes sense. Though I wonder if there aren’t still criteria? Imagine someone shows up who is intolerant and is opposed to your group’s values and your project. Wouldn’t you say they fail to meet the criteria for being a member of your community and thus could rightly be excluded from the communion of your members?

JUNE: That’s an excellent question! Hmm. Yes, we face a paradox of our own, which is a version of what Karl Popper called the paradox of tolerance. A tolerant group can’t tolerate intolerant people.²¹

MICK: Do you view that as a problem?

JUNE: I suppose not. (She pauses for a moment in thought.) This much I’m sure of: I think people need to experience communion. It is a vital need associated with our social nature. However, you have made me recognize that I don’t think people need to experience communion in every particular instance or circumstance. Communion needs to be available to all—we have what philosophers call an imperfect duty to be open to, participate in, and welcome others into communion—but no group has a perfect duty to ensure all people experience communion in that particular group.

MICK: Can you explain what you mean by that?

JUNE: Yes, of course. Imperfect duties set ends we ought to pursue, but they grant a lot of latitude in terms of how we go about pursuing or acting on those ends.²² For example, moral philosophers usually agree that we have an imperfect duty to contribute to others’ happiness and flourishing, but how we do so is largely an open matter. Perfect duties are more stringent. They obligated us to perform or refrain from performing certain actions.²³ For example, most philosophers agree that we have a perfect duty to respect the autonomy of other people. This duty doesn’t allow for latitude. It is something which we simply must do. It is a categorical imperative.²⁴ 

MICK: Okay, I see. And what you were driving at is that participating in your organization is a way in which you carry out your duty to provide opportunities for people to be in, or experience, communion.

JUNE: Right. And since it is an imperfect duty, as long as we don’t prevent people from experiencing communion in their lives, it’s okay to have criteria for who can experience communion in our group.

TE’A: And the same would go for the churches, synagogues, mosques and so forth?

JUNE: Yes, I see your point. I would have to grant that. (She thinks for a moment.) I’m now thinking about cases when communion goes wrong and how that bears on our assessment.

TE’A: What do you mean?

JUNE: Well, one way of describing the groups we call “cults” is that they are highly effective at fostering feelings of communion—or, at least what seems like communion. 

MICK: Oh, right. 

JUNE: If we accept that they do so, then communion isn’t an unqualified success, or at least it can be put to bad ends. A community can be successful at fostering communion without being a “successful” community, all things considered. I am assuming, of course, that cults aren’t successful communities. 

TE’A: Certainly not; they’re bad. Cults, in the sense that you are using the term, use manipulation and control to establish a sense of communion. Cult leaders use fear and isolation to create a sense of belonging among their members. 

MICK: I’ve never been very clear on the difference between a religion and a cult. 

JUNE: That’s understandable. I’ve thought about the issue a bit, and I am doubtful that cults are different in kind from religious groups and religious sects. Rather, they seem to fall on a continuum. There are family resemblances between the various groups we label “churches,” “sects,” and “cults.”²⁵ However, I doubt there is some essential difference between them.²⁶ 

TE’A: Hmm, I don’t know what I think.  On the one hand, I’ve occasionally thought that the difference is simply one of time and survival. I mean, I sometimes wonder if groups that were once cults or sects have, over time, transformed into socially acceptable religions. I suppose that means I agree that they are on a continuum. But on the other hand, I think there are pretty stark differences between, say, a Catholic Worker community and the Peoples Temple Agricultural Project!

MICK: What’s that?

TE’A: It’s the name of the group founded by Jim Jones—the group we usually call Jonestown. That group has always fascinated me because what they claimed to be their animating values—things like social, economic, and racial equality—are things I think of as good. But it also involved the things I mentioned a bit ago: it was a community that was controlling and manipulative, and Jones instilled fear in his members and isolated them from others.

JUNE: One of the particularly noxious elements of Jones’s program was the insistence on loyalty, both to Jones himself and to the cause, as his inner circle articulated it.²⁷ 

MICK: I suspect that’s a danger that attaches to any group that defines or understands itself as possessing the capital-T “Truth.” 

JUNE: Yes, I think so—at least when that “Truth” is understood as something like a secret or mystery, which only the elect have access to. And perhaps especially when that secret or mystery is thought to be the solution to everything that is problematic in life.  

MICK: That’s a really key point. If the “Truth” wasn’t viewed as a secret or mystery that only certain people could access or understand, it would be hard to see how a single figure or a small group of insiders could be the object of fanatical faith. 

JUNE: That brings to mind an important consideration. Ordinarily, Christian communion is distinguished from other forms of social belonging by centering faith, hope, and love in relation to god.²⁸ For many Christians, this serves to constrain and direct their communal life so they don’t slip into cultish behavior. 

TE’A: Right. Their faith, hope, and love are directed to God, not to the priest or minister. 

JUNE: Exactly. And when people slip or are tempted to direct their loyalty, fidelity, and hope to something or someone other than god, the tradition provides them with resources for criticizing this. Since god is transcendent, whenever a finite being tries to take god’s place, the community of believers has a way of resisting that. 

MICK: Of course, it goes wrong sometimes. There have been plenty of Christians who have fallen into cultish behavior. 

JUNE: For sure. I have recently been reading about the Good News International Church in Malindi. It is a terrifying example. The leader encouraged his followers to fast to the point  of starvation. Many people died, and he has been charge with almost two hundred counts of murder.²⁹

MICK: So it’s not as if having faith, hope, and love in god is a guarantee that people won’t be sucked into bad forms of life. 

JUNE: Certainly not. 

Mick is clearly thinking through something. She eventually continues. 

MICK: There’s something Jack said that struck me as fascinating, and I think it may be relevant here. He said that he thinks of god simply as love, and so anytime we talk about god, we should be able to substitute in the word ‘love.’ In other words, if someone says, “God wants you to do x, y, or z,” we should be able to translate that as meaning, “Love should lead you to do x, y, or z.” I wonder if that could serve as a correction to ways of thought that lead people into cultish behavior.

TE’A: How so?

MICK: Well, imagine someone said, “God demands that you cut ties with your family and friends—your social support system.” I think we could reveal the absurdity of that claim by using Jack’s reformulation. It is easier to see that the claim is false—at least in ordinary circumstances—when it is translated as “Love should lead you to cut ties with your family and friends.”

JUNE: Hmm. I suspect people could still justify all sorts of bad things using such formulations. 

MICK: Really? I think it is far easier for people to think that a god—some superhuman master—can demand that they do things that are unethical or unhealthy. Could someone really think that love, or being loving, would require them to abuse themselves or others?

TE’A: I see what you mean, Mick. Out of obedience to God, people were willing to engage in crusades, pogroms, mortification of their flesh, and so forth. But if they hadn’t conceived of God as a superhuman master, as you put it, and instead centered their thoughts on love and what would be loving, surely they wouldn’t do those sorts of things. 

MICK: Exactly. 

JUNE: There may be some truth to that. What I hear you saying is that if love, rather god, served as a matter of ultimate concern, it would tend towards more pro-social behavior rather than the anti-social behavior that is sometimes associated with religions. 

MICK: Right. Jack argued that this is what Christians should think, but they often don’t. 

JUNE: Perhaps. Part of the problem, as I understand it, is that even when Christians affirm that god is love, they still think that love belongs to god. Even in the best cases, when they affirm that Jesus was love incarnate, they still say we should love because he has loved. So, rather than thinking about love in fully human terms, they continue to think about it in superhuman terms, or as a quality of god. But that’s precisely what people like Paul Mackenzie, the leader of  the Good News International Church, put to evil ends. He told his followers that they needed to stop eating as they waited for Jesus to appear; he said that by fasting, they would “see Jesus.”³⁰ I presume that his followers assumed rather than rejected the notion that Jesus is love incarnate. Their love of, and desire to be with, Jesus was part of the problem.  

MICK: Ugh. That is horrible. Do you think people would be willing to do such things if they thought of love as a purely human affair? Is the problem that they continue to think of it as something belonging to the divine?

JUNE: I don’t think there are any guarantees, but that’s my wager. If we think of love as chiefly belonging to a god and only by extension to us, then appeasing or relating to that god becomes a necessary medium for love. If people think of love in superhuman, supernatural terms, then the human realm and this world always stands as a potential obstacle. 

TE’A: But if we don’t think of love as something that transcends us, it seems we are caught up in whatever is immanent. Being ordered to God as love inspires people to change the world, or at least to strive to change the world. I think of Dorothy Day as an exemplar.³¹ For every religious person that uses theology to justify evil, there are also saints who use it to motivate their genuine love of others. 

JUNE: Yes, I agree with that. However, I don’t think we need to imagine that there is a transcendent god-being who possesses love in order for love to be transcendent. That’s a point that Feuerbach makes. It’s what he means when he says that we can drop the divine subject but retain the divine predicate. On his view, we should “kill god,” or stop thinking in terms of a superhuman god-being, but we shouldn’t “kill love” as a transcendent good. 

TE’A: Do you agree with that? You said you are sort of Christian. I guess I took that to mean that you still believe in God. 

JUNE: Well, what I chiefly meant is that I think what was elucidated through Jesus’s life, ministry, and death was life-giving and freeing. The way I would put it is that, through Jesus, a truth that was already embedded within Jewish thought and the tradition of the Israelites was subjected to what we call an Aufhebung. 

MICK: Haha, what?

JUNE: It is a fascinating and useful German word. You really should learn to use! It simultaneously means to lift up, to abolish, to preserve, and to transcend. 

MICK: Uhh…

JUNE: I know, it’s technically contradictory, but bear with me. What I had in mind is that within the Jewish tradition, there was already a sense in which any conception of god was bound to be idolatrous. This didn’t lead them to abandon all talk about god, but it did introduce into their tradition a profound and useful kind of theological skepticism. Because God was transcendent and “other-than,” that opened up the possibility that whenever humans thought they understood god, they could be mistaken.³² Their conceptions could be deconstructed. In other words, claims about what god desired or demanded could be subjected to critical interrogation. It was possible for people inside the faith to critically examine their people’s practices and commitments—not that they necessarily did so with any regularity. Regardless, it was theologically open for them to ask, “Is this just a way of controlling people? Is this merely a way of expressing and rationalizing our desires? Is it just an expression of the prevailing ideology?” In many cases, god-talk crumbles under interrogation. But sometimes it doesn’t! Some things cannot be deconstructed.³³ So, what emerged was a sense that whatever the unnameable and infinitely mysterious god might be like, the divine Other—insofar as it is the “God of gods” or the “most high”—it must stand for justice, peace, and love. Otherwise, it isn’t really god. It isn’t really deserving of worship, praise, and thanksgiving. And people who are faithful to the “God of gods” can critically ask whether their enacted forms of justice are truly just—truly the will of god.

MICK: Okay, that makes sense to me. But what does that have to do with that weird German word?

JUNE: So, the way I interpret the Christian tradition is continuous with this. What was performed on the cross was an Aufhebung of god, as god was understood at the time. God was simultaneously reaffirmed to be the mysterious, transcendent Other, but god was also affirmed to be love—immanent and fully present in and as Jesus in a way that both “consummated and annulled” much of what was associated with divinity.³⁴ After Jesus’s death, god was further affirmed to be present as what united the community of disciples once their master wasn’t with them in a physical, bodily sense. And it united them in a subversive way, not as a nation, family, or tribe, but as a community without organic boundaries or markings.³⁵ This simultaneously “lifts up” or elevates the notion of god and what it is to be the people of god, even as it abolishes and transmutes those notions, preserving them in a sense, but also shifting the focus and leaving some things behind.

MICK: This makes my head hurt!

JUNE: Haha, yes, it’s a difficult idea to hold in mind. Here’s another way to think about it: the completely mysterious god of, say, the Book of Job, which was characterized primarily by divine alterity, was viewed as being identical to—the same god as—Jesus of Nazareth, and also identical to—the same god as—the spirit that indwelled in the community of disciples. I know classical theologians like to pretend that this makes sense, but I don’t think it does—and that’s a feature, not a defect. This consolidation of god into a trinity is a radical Aufhebung. It resolves god into humanity, even as it preserves god as a transcendent reality to which humanity must relate itself.³⁶

TE’A: How does this bear on the question of whether you believe in God?

JUNE: Oh, right. Well, I think this sublimation of god entails that the superhuman god-being of popular imagination is off-base. In a manner that is in keeping with the Israelite’s in-principle theological capacity to interrogate their assumptions of divinity, the narrative of god dying on the cross and being resurrected as a living corporate body licenses us to continue subjecting god-talk to ongoing deconstruction. And it ups the ante, so to speak. The Jesus followers reoriented god-talk to be all about love and they reoriented worship to be all about loving other people. Again: in theory. In practice it’s a whole other story. Anyway, nowadays, when we have reason to suspect that god-talk and worship is a hinderance to love, we should boldly consider  whether we ought to drop the god-talk altogether. I know this is heresy to Christians, but I, myself, think of it as being a faithful extension of what was handed done through the Jewish and Christian traditions. 

TE’A: You still haven’t said whether you believe in God! 

JUNE: (She chuckles.) Okay, fine. I trust in love as the way to live. I believe love is holy. It is against love that we should judge all things, including churches and god-talk. I think that means I am Jesus follower, but it also means I don’t believe in god the way many people do.

MICK: That is exactly what Jack has said! I really want to get you two in the same room—and to listen in!

JUNE: Haha, well, I would enjoy that. 

TE’A: But hold on. Do you believe and have faith in love because God is love? 

JUNE: No. I believe and have faith in love because of what love is. 

TE’A: In your talk to the secular humanist group the other day, you said that you think there are truths expressed through the Hebrew Bible and the Christian New Testament. I guess I sort of see what you mean, in light of what you just said, but it also seems like you’re saying you’ve left them behind. Is that fair?

JUNE: No, I haven’t left them behind, but I relate to them in—oh, I don’t know—maybe a “looser” way than many people. (She pauses.) I think there is a really important lesson embedded in those scriptures, which is perennially relevant. It is basically that we should shed our existential anxiety and stop despairing over being human.³⁷ Roughly speaking, I think of almost everything in scripture as a testament to what we need, not what some supernatural god-being needs. We’re all a bit like Adam and Eve or Abraham or Peter: we don’t really believe that we’re worthy or ultimately fine, even though we are.

Here, let me read something I wrote. 

She unlocks her phone, opens her notes app and begins reading. 

TE’A: Oh man, I’ve never thought of it in that way. 

MICK: It’s interesting that you treat scripture like its literature, a play. Oh! (She slaps the table.) You’re treating it as literary rather than literal!

JUNE: (She chuckles.) Yes, exactly. I don’t know whether it would pass muster with my colleagues in the Theology department. I should ask them. 

Te’a gives her a sly look.

TE’A: Would it really matter what they said?

June laughs and shrugs.

JUNE: Obviously, I think there’s a lot more going on in scripture, but that’s an encapsulation of how I approach it. 

“Salvation history,” as Christians call it, strikes me as a story of human beings constantly trying to achieve an understanding of their divine patriarch, even though he already gave them a home and his blessing. And when they matured into adults with moral consciences, he sent them on their way. The brilliance of the scriptures is that it recognizes and affirms this desire, even as it disturbs and subverts it. The people’s conceptions of the divine patriarch are constantly being destabilized, dethroned, and exposed—a bit like how the Wizard of Oz is unmasked. Except that in the scriptural story, there is no man behind the curtain! It’s the inverse: the people want there to be a man behind the curtain, yet the Holy of Holies is empty. Nevertheless, when the divine patriarch does take human form—when they get what they want—it’s offensive. Turns out, they didn’t really want a man, a human, but instead the Grand Old Wizard. So, he gets himself crucified, because once the human core of religion is exposed, the story must progress in that way, at least to the extent that the tragically flawed humans want to preserve the mysteriousness of the divine father. They are like a perpetually anxious adult child always worried about what daddy wants. They can’t tolerate their father’s presence, but they also can’t tolerate his absence. 

That is what I find so interesting about Christianity. It effectively affirms that at the heart of religion is the human heart, and it dramatically depicts the all-too-human reaction to this self-exposure: the real god is crucified as a farcical false god. And when he returns, it is to turn over the keys—to decisively renounce our self-imposed father complex.

TE’A: Hmm. At the end, you said that it is foolish to wait for another appearance. Are you effectively rejecting the Christian claim that Christ will come again?

JUNE: Yes. That’s where I take leave of Christianity and why I’m a heretic. Or, perhaps a better way of putting it is that I don’t take any of that any more literally than I do anything else, so perhaps that makes me a heretic. I do think the story in Revelation is literary, as Mick put it, but I don’t think it is literal. That is what makes me an outsider in relation to the religion, at least as far as I can tell. If one doesn’t accept the literalness in some sense, one’s not in the fold. 

TE’A: Father Juan always said we shouldn’t read the Bible literally. He said it was more like poetry.

JUNE: Yes, it was good of him to teach you that. But it is my impression that the creeds are to be understood more or less literally. And they are condensations of what is expressed in scripture. So, although Catholics and mainline Protestants will say that the Book of Revelation, for example, shouldn’t be read literally, they will nevertheless affirm in their creeds that Christ will come again to judge the quick and the dead.³⁸ But I don’t buy it—though not in the way other atheists don’t buy it. I think that looking and waiting for a second coming—and really, it would be a third coming!—is a failure to understand the drama. At least that’s my interpretation.

They all sip their coffee, which has long turned cold. 

MICK: Weirdly, I think I’m beginning to feel connected to these religious traditions. A month ago, I wouldn’t have imagine I would say such a thing, but you and Jack and Doc have really shifted my way of thinking.

JUNE: I don’t know whether to apologize or to be grateful for having played such a part! 

MICK: I’ll say it again: I want you and folks to get together. 

JUNE: Well, here’s an idea. I occasionally have people over to my place for philosophical salons—basically, relaxed gatherings where we talk about philosophy. I should plan one and invite both of you, as well as Jack, Doc, and some colleagues. 

TE’A: I would love that!

MICK: Me too!

JUNE: Oh good. I’m glad! Do Sunday evenings usually work for both of you?

MICK: Yes, that would be great.

JUNE: How about you, Te’a?

TE’A: Yes, I normally don’t have anything then, and if I do, I’ll clear my schedule. 

JUNE: Perhaps we could model our get-together on Plato’s Symposium—the topic will be love. Everyone could bring something to share about how they understand love. How does that sound?

MICK: That would be great! 

JUNE: It’s settled then! 

They continue chatting, and June resolves to make invitations that evening. 

After they say their “goodbyes” and go their separate ways, Mick heads back to  her apartment and resumes reading the copy of Feuerbach’s book, which Doc gave her. 

Notes

1. Howard B. Radest, Toward Common Ground: The Story of the Ethical Societies in the United States. From the series, Milestones of Thought in the History of Ideas (Fredrick Unger Publishing Co., 1969), see 14ff.

2. Ludwig Feuerbach (1893), The Essence of Christianity, Third Edition, trans., Marian Evans (Kegan Paul, Trench, Trubner and Company), Chapter XXVI.

3. Keenan says, “Sin [is] the failure to bother to love.” See James F. Keenan, Moral Wisdom: Lessons and Texts from the Catholic Tradition (Rowman & Littlefield, 2010), 55.

4. See Peter Smith, “The Nones: U.S.” Associated Press (October 5, 2023), projects.apnews.com/features/2023/the-nones/the-nones-us.html.

5. For an analysis of neoliberalism as political theology, see Adam Kotsko, Neoliberalism’s Demons: On the Political Theology of Late Capital (Stanford University Press, 2018), 5-6. Following Milton Friedman, Kotsko argues that neoliberalism is a political program and economic model in which state power is used to create and sustain markets on terms favorable to capital. This differentiates it from both laissez-faire capitalism and social democratic politics. The former sought to disentangle state power and markets and social democratic politics; the latter sought to use the state to limit the disastrous effects of markets (p. 3-6). Neoliberal politics transforms states into market-protection and market-promotion systems, characteristically through privatization policies (e.g., “Obamacare”), deregulation policies (e.g., repeal of the Glass-Steagall Act), and various forms of marketization—i.e., making new, novel markets (e.g., carbon-capture programs). Kotsko argues that neoliberalism “aspires to be a complete way of life,” motivating society to transform in such a way that  the ethos of market competition becomes the norm for social relationships and the lens through which we understand ourselves. “We are always ‘on the clock,’ always accruing (or squandering) various forms of financial and social capital” (p. 6). Rogers-Vaughn concurs, writing, “Society is reconceived as an arena where the ‘survival of the fittest' is the order of the day.” Bruce Rogers-Vaughn, Caring for Souls in a Neoliberal Age (Palgrave Macmillan, 2016), 45. 

6. Neoliberalism began to be implemented in the late 70s and became a more or less explicit aim of both “liberal” and “conservative” political parties in the US and UK in the 80s and 90s. It remains the reigning paradigm. According to the Pew Research Center, the percentage of Americans who are religiously unaffiliated markedly increases in the early 90s and it rapidly increased over the following decades. Pew Research Center, “America’s Changing Religious Landscape (Appendix C: Putting Findings From the Religious Landscape Study Into Context),” Religion & Public Life Project (May 12, 2015), pewresearch.org/religion/2015/05/12/appendix-c-putting-findings-from-the-religious-landscape-study-into-context/.

7. See Karen Turner, “Secularism Is on the Rise, but Americans Are Still Finding Community and Purpose in Spirituality.” Vox (June 4, 2019), vox.com/first-person/2019/6/4/18644764/church-religion-atheism-secularism. For a literature review concerning self-spirituality, see Nurit Zaidman, (Western) Self-Spirituality: Literature Review, Conceptual Framework and Research Agenda,” in Yochanan Altman, Judi Neal, and Wolfgang Mayrhofer (ed.), Workplace Spirituality: Making a Difference (Walter de Gruyter, 2022): 213-224.

8. This is a common turn of phrase. For example, Piper writes, “life is not a game with no lasting consequences. The way we live our lives has eternal consequences. Life is a proving ground where we prove who we are, whom we trust, and what we cherish. Eternal life, the upward call, the crown of righteousness — all these hang on what our life says about who we are, whom we trust, and what we love.” John Piper (1992), “How Then Shall We Run?,” Desiring God, desiringgod.org/messages/how-then-shall-we-run.

9. Specifically, this is the sense in which Plato and Aristotle use the term ψῡχή, or psūkhḗ, which literally meant ‘breath,’ and is the word from which the term ‘soul’ is derived. 

10. Descartes’s strongest argument is that there are at least two metaphysically distinct kinds of substance, which are distinguished by appeal to their respective primary attributes. The first kind, material bodies, has the primary attribute of being extended. The second kind, minds, has the primary attribute of being thinking. See René Descartes, Principles of Philosophy, ed., Bennett, Early Modern Texts (2012), earlymoderntexts.com/assets/pdfs/
    descartes1644part1.pdf, §53. What Descartes doesn’t satisfactorily address is how a particular being can be both a material body and a mind, nor whether it might be in virtue of our materiality that we are minded. Most contemporary philosophers have learned from neuroscience and think it is highly likely that our consciousness is a function of its status as a physical being.

11. The technically correct chemical term for water is rarely used, except when pulling pranks on scientifically illiterate people. The term dihydrogen monoxide was initially used in an April Fool’s Day edition of the weekly paper, Durand Express. See Fred Fedler (1989), Media Hoaxes (Iowa State University Press), 199.

12. Nelson notes that over 18 million Americans reported having near-death experiences, according to a 1997 report. Moreover, in a study of 13,000 individuals, 5.8 percent reported having an out-of-body experience. Kevin Nelson (2015), “Near-Death Experiences: Neuroscientific Perspectives on Near-Death Experiences,” Missouri Medicine 112(2):92-96.

13. Ibid., Nelson suggests that a number of features associated with near-death experiences—e.g., the feeling of entering a tunnel and/or seeing light, appearing dead, feeling out-of-body, or having a “mystical experience of oneness”—could have physical causes that are already well-known within the neuroscientific community. These include retinal ischemia, atonia, temporoparietal association, and Serotonergic-2a receptors (see Table 1 in his article).

14. Ibid., Nelson writes, “In spite of the differences between near-death and dream narratives, near-death can be almost identical to lucid dreams, whereby the dreamer retains self-insight. This normal manifestation of dreaming conceivably arises when dorsolateral prefrontal cortical activity, instrumental to logical executive cognition and normally shut down during REM, persists during REM consciousness.”

15.  Plato, Apology 18d-e.

16.  Plato, Phaedo 79c-80e.

17.  In this regard, Socrates (or Plato’s) view as presented in Phaedo might not be terribly dissimilar from a point Aristotle makes in De Anima 3.5 There, he argues that passive intellect is perishable whereas active intellect is not. 

18. Jim B. Tucker (2021), Before: Children’s Memories of Previous Lives (St. Martin’s Essentials).

19. For an accessible and brief introduction to Weil’s perspective on the Church, see Nathaniel Hunter (2021), “Simone Weil, a Kindred Spirit for Church Outsiders.” U.S. Catholic (blog), uscatholic.org/articles/202101/simone-weil-a-kindred-spirit-for-church-outsiders/. For an introduction to her writings, see Weil, Simone Weil: An Anthology, ed., Siân Mills (Grove Press, 2000).

20. Donal Dorr writes, “Communion is, first of all, an experience—a sense of ease, closeness, and warmth which we may have in our relationships with other people, with God, and with nature.” Dorr (2012), “Communion,” The Furrow 63(12): 210.

21.  Karl Popper, The Open Society and Its Enemies (Routledge, 2012), 581. 

22. Robert Johnson and Adam Cureton, “Kant’s Moral Philosophy,” The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy (Fall 2022 Edition), ed. Zalta and Nodelman. plato.stanford.edu/archives/fall2022/entries/kant-moral/. Sections 5 and 13. 

23. Ibid.

24. Immanuel Kant, Fundamental Principles of the Metaphysics of Ethics, trans., Kingsmill Abbott (Longmans, Green, and Company, 1900). 

25. Ludwig Wittgenstein developed the concept of “family resemblances” as an alternative to conceptual analyses that seek to articulate the necessary and jointly sufficient conditions for a thing being a member of a kind. Wittgenstein, Philosophical Investigations, ed., Hacker and Schulte; trans., Anscombe (John Wiley & Sons), §65-71.

26. Stark and Bainbridge have argued that the differences are as follows: churches are conventional religious organizations, whereas sects are unconventional organizations that retain traditional beliefs and practices. Cults, like sects, are deviant groups, but unlike sects, they have nontraditional beliefs and practices. Rodney Stark and William Sims Bainbridge, A Theory of Religion (David Lang, 1987), 124.

27. Mary McCormick Maaga, Hearing the Voices of Jonestown : Putting a Human Face on an American Tragedy (Syracuse University Press, 2020), 114ff. McCormick Maaga writes, “Peoples Temple developed the level of loyalty that led them to suicide in part because its view of the world was based on a highly developed ‘insider-outsider ideology’ and also because the views of only one group of people—the inner circle surrounding Jim Jones—were privileged over those of the others.” She goes on to suggest that part of the attraction of Jonestown, especially for “smart, ambitious women,” was that they had an opportunity to be part of something that was otherwise place out of reach: namely, they felt they were part of a group that had answers and provided the solution to social problems. Ibid., 137-138.

28. Dorr, op. cit., writes, “the most important ‘mood’ in which Eucharistic communion is experienced should be one characterized by faith, hope, and love. We come close to each other and to God in holding and professing the same faith... Our Eucharist is also a nourishment and expression of our hope that the Reign of God is assured and is actually being realized... And the Eucharist is intended to reassure us that we are loved by God and also by one another…” (emphasis in the original).

29. Anne Soy, “Paul Mackenzie: Kenyan Cult Leader Charged with 191 Murders,” BBC (February 6, 2024), bbc.com/news/world-africa-68214749.

30. Ibid.

31. See Dorothy Day, The Reckless Way of Love: Notes on Following Jesus (Plough Publishing House, 2017).

32. Smith writes, “The Jews were reaching out for the most exalted concept of the Other that they could conceive, an Other that embodied such inexhaustible worth that human beings would never begin to fathom its fullness.” Huston Smith, The World’s Religions (HarperOne, 2009), 273. See also Terry Eagleton, Radical Sacrifice (Yale University Press, 2018), 21.

33. Terry Eagleton, op. cit., 28. Concerning the philosophical movement known as deconstruction, which was developed by Jacques Derrida, Caputo writes, “Everything in deconstruction is driven by the undeconstructible, fired and inspired, inflamed and impassioned, set into motion by what is not deconstructible. Deconstruction is internally related to the undeconstructible and is incoherent without it. What is undeconstructible—justice, gift, hospitality, the tout autre, l’àvenir [the completely different, the future]—is neither real nor ideal, neither present nor future-present, neither existent nor idealizable, which is how and why it incites our ‘desire’…” John D.  Caputo, Deconstruction in a Nutshell: A Conversation with Jacques Derrida (Fordham University Press, 1997), 128.

34. Terry Eagleton, op. cit., 28.

35. Slavoj Žižek, The Fragile Absolute: Or, Why Is the Christian Legacy Worth Fighting For? (Verso Books, 2020), 111.

36. Terry Eagleton, op. cit., 32.

37. Michael Himes, The Mystery of Faith: An Introduction to Catholicism (St. Anthony Messenger Press, 2004), 22.

38. See both the Apostles’ Creed and the Nicene Creed.