a quartet for humanity

A few days ago, I had the privilege of bearing witness to a beautiful experience. The C train was stopped at Hoyt-Schermerhorn station; four older gentlemen had a quick discussion on the platform, and decided to board the train together before the doors of the train closed. One man held a small paper bag. They surveyed the car, smiles on their faces, until one said to the others "Let's tell them about it. Let's talk about Him." With this, they began to sing a harmonious quartet; they sang a Christian hymn, and engaged people gently. It was a welcome change to the crowded isolation and social sterility that so often characterizes the anonymity of riding on a train. A good many people dropped money into the small paper bag. At the next stop, a homeless woman stepped onto the train, and stood by the door, withdrawn, while the men continued to sing. The lead singer approached her quietly, reached into the bag, and handed her some bills. She accepted the money without a word, signing the cross on her torso in gratitude. She seemed obviously hard up, and the scene was heartwarming (I use this word with the full knowledge of the cliche it normally carries).

Irrespective of my views on the accuracy and validity of their literal message, I felt as though I was seeing something fundamentally good. The men had visible warmth in their hearts, and nobody on the train seemed bothered-- on the contrary, most people I saw were smiling at the scene. These externalities of benevolence are, in my mind, some of the strongest reasons to view organized religion and communities of faith as a good thing. Examples abound, whether they are soup kitchens, free schools for the destitute, or the men lightening up so many days with their subway song. Put simply, people who profess to be religious often do great things, and in many cases, will assert that religion motivates them to act in the ways that they do.

On the other hand, if our measure is to be a utilitarian one built on tangible outcomes, then reason demands that we examine the full range of consequences. Now the picture is more muddled. What so often brings us together perhaps more often divides us. Think of the way certain major religious groups have sought to suppress the teaching and discovery of new and relevant scientific knowledge on global warming and on evolution. Consider the way Hindu fundamentalism has been used to galvanize large segments of the Indian population into tacitly and actively supporting the alienation and displacement of so many Indian Muslims. And this is only a start to the list. It is hard to think of any major community of faith whose name has not served at one point or another as cover for systematic killing and displacement.

There are some clear problems with my reasoning above. First, it could be argued that in each of the examples above, the behaviour of some small subset of a group is being used to describe the group as a whole. I take exception with this characterization. Those who choose a community, and then resort to complacency and a failure to actively tackle wrong behavior from within said community bear some of the responsibility. Furthermore, the sorts of division and communalism frequently engendered by fervent political movements seem to affect more than an insignificant minority. Perhaps more persuasively, my reasoning glosses over the fact that historically, religious and political systems have been so closely intertwined. Thus, attributing the actions to religious rather than political motivation can be seen as an arbitrary decision. To this, I would respond that many consider themselves more beholden to their religious convictions than to their political convictions. The fact that systems of political power may exploit this is hardly a defense of the negative impacts of religious communities of belief.

Ultimately, however, these arguments of consequentialism and of political and religious power are rendered moot by the 'truth card.' These contingent arguments are irrelevant if a religious philosophy espouses absolute truth (a claim confidently and impossibly made by most all religious groups). I remember one day when we were rehearsing Bach's St. Matthew Passion, our choir director said "this music makes you want to believe." I've fallen into this sort of thinking myself. How can something so beautiful not be divinely inspired? This sort of reasoning is flawed, and sells humanity short. Isn't a better explanation that the majority of composers at this time were working for some sort of religious institution? Has the last century, with its proliferation of secular artists, failed to produce beauty? We need to recognize the potential and ability of humanity itself to inspire, independent of the need to believe.

On consequences, there is no clear answer. If the question comes down to truth, then we are left in an intractable situation, for no amount of reasoning will lead to concensus. And critically, vast numbers of people are claiming ownership on absolute truths that are, to be plain, contradictory. Do I believe in God? Probably-- but I doubt that anybody knows very much about him, least of all those who profess most loudly to.