The Procrastinator's Flow Chart

Heh, yeah that's about right (HT: Evangelical Outpost).

Maybe I should get back to work...

Quote - Laurence Stookey

Laurence Stookey:

That the very Anointed One of God should die and rise on behalf of us who willfully cried “Crucify!” is a thing at which we must marvel slowly, not something we glance at for an instant.

Have a blessed Holy Week!

River Tam and Shepherd Book Discuss the Bible on Firefly

Yesterday’s post reminded me of a great scene from the short-lived but brilliant show, Firefly. Leave it to an atheist like Joss Whedon to explain my faith better than I can… what’s up with that?



"You don't fix the Bible... it fixes you."

The New Atheism as Inadequate Theodicy

I just discovered Ryan Dueck's excellent blog Rumblings, and an article he wrote on "The New Atheism as Inadequate Theodicy". It's a bit long, but worth reading in full. Here's an excerpt:

The prominence of evil in the new atheism—evil attributed to God, his followers, and the hostile, indifferent planet he is claimed to have made—suggests that the issue is not, as it is often presented, “rational” atheism vs. “superstitious” religion. Rather, the issue is between rival theodicies. If religion is thought to be the root cause of much of the evil in the world, a worldview which urges its removal represents a kind of theodicy. Evil is identified as such, its causes are described, and a way forward is recommended. What is not provided is a plausible account of why human beings should have such a strong moral reaction to the nature of our environment in the first place.

The current instantiation of protest atheism, like similar kinds in the past, relies more heavily on the moral capital accumulated through several millennia of Christian influence than it cares to admit. As such, the theodicy offered by the new atheism, while demonstrating an admirable (even biblical!) degree of moral sensitivity, is, ultimately, inadequate.

Why I Am a Christian

For Carmen’s sake, here is a reworked version of a comment that appeared at the end of my last post:

If you compare the Bible with the myths of ancient Israel's neighbors, the differences are striking. Read Enuma Elish alongside Genesis 1; both describe creation in similar mytho-symbolic language, but the former is ridiculously elaborate and implies theological propositions that simply cannot be maintained, while the latter is simple and profound. Or read Gilgamesh alongside the biblical historical books; both include miracle stories, but while the first is dramatically exaggerated--turning its hero (the first king of Babylon) into a superhuman--the latter seem to go out of their way to emphasize the ordinariness of their heroes.

Though important, biblical miracle stories are surprisingly few and far between, compared to most ancient “histories” (including early non-biblical Jewish and Christian works). Further, the fact that so many embarrassing stories are retained in which central Jewish figures explicitly violate Jewish law, gives us good ground for placing higher epistemic value on these histories than those others.

There are problems with the text, to be sure (which is why I do not subscribe to plenary verbal inspiration), but they are too often exaggerated. Most supposed “contradictions” evaporate with a modicum of scrutiny, and few of those that remain have any impact on the central themes of the Bible.

The remarkable thing is not that there are scattered tensions, historical inaccuracies or exaggerations and unfalsifiable myths--the Bible was written in the language of the ancient world, after all--but that these diverse books, written over the course of at least 1000 years, present such a consistent and engaging historical and theological message at all. The Koran was written over a handful of decades by one man and can’t even get its theology, morality or history straight.

But all of that is window dressing. I don’t trust the Bible because its historical claims are beyond dispute (they aren’t) or because it contains no apparent errors (it does); I trust it because its consistent teachings about human nature and what it takes to live in community, the kind of world that we live in, the kind of God we have access to, and much more, are logically coherent and continually confirmed by my daily experience.

When the Bible says humanity is inherently prone to sin I don’t have to accept that on faith, I can see it for myself every day (it’s the modern claim that “humanity is basically good” that doesn’t stand up to scrutiny). When the Bible says there is healing and freedom in Christ, I don’t have to accept that blindly, I have experienced it myself and know many others who have as well. Ultimately, I trust this book above all others because I find that the harder I work to live in line with its teachings, the better a person I become and the more of God I experience. I would not be the person I am today if it were not for the Bible.

And what of the other religions? I have no reason to deny that they also express a great many truths as well, and I am happy to affirm them when they do. I don’t see any particular reason to claim that only Christians have ever experienced real miracles or revelation, even if not all such claims can be trusted. I don’t even have any a priori reason to deny that other gods exist or that my God has spoken to others (though since I trust the Bible, I must affirm that any such “gods” are secondary beings).

But I also see many aspects of the history and theology of other religions (and sometimes, other Christians) that are not consistent with my experience, or are down right incoherent (some of which I mentioned in a previous comment). Thus, I have no problem at all rejecting such claims where I see them. I don’t embrace “my particular brand” of Christianity because I think everyone else is wrong, but because it is as close to right as I have yet discovered.

But most importantly, I embrace Christianity over all other religions because the central claim of Christianity--God on a cross--makes all other religious claims pale in comparison. If the creator of the universe truly did take human form and die to bring us life, then nothing else could possibly be more important.

Some might object that such a claim is unfalsifiable and therefore meaningless, but that is where I must part ways with them. God on a cross might be unfalsifiable, but it is not meaningless. Rather, it is the most meaningful thing that has ever happened. In his definitive study on the subject, The Crucified God, Jürgen Moltmann insists that the cross is the beginning and end of all Christian theology, yet itself resists all interpretation: The cross is how I know that God is good, how I know what true humanity is, how I know what it means to live fully, how I know that the universe has not yet arrived at its eschatological goal, and how I know that one day it will. Some of these truths are open to a degree of falsification, others are not, but I have found that reality as a whole makes the most sense when viewed from the vantage point of the cross. That is why I am a Christian.

As someone once put it: “I believe in the cross as I believe in the sun; not because I can see it, but because by it I can see everything else.”

God and the Logical Positivists

In a comment on my last post, Drew noted that debates over the existence of God ultimately come down to a question of what qualifies as satisfying evidence. Here is a post I wrote on the subject for Signs of the Times in 2006:

Doctor(logic) has been arguing that statements must be empirically verifiable to be meaningful, and “total undetectability” is indistinguishable from non-existence (e.g. here and here). He thinks this logical positivism implies that metaphysics is an exercise in futility, and claims such as “God exists” are ultimately meaningless.

Doctor(logic) is a clear thinker who has earned my respect, but I see at least two good reasons to reject this claim and accept that some things that almost certainly exist could be, or indeed must be undetectable. Non-verifiability does not equal non-existence nor make a proposition meaningless.

First, he ignores the very real limitations imposed by our finite embodiment. There are things that are true about our physical universe that are simply not verifiable, even theoretically. For instance, due to the finite speed of light, we simply cannot know what is currently happening in distant parts of the universe. When we look at a galaxy that exists light years away, we are actually seeing what it was like long ago, which would be quite different from what it is like now. No matter how long we wait, we will always be seeing such a galaxy as it was in the past. Nor could we travel there without a great deal of time passing (even if it didn’t feel like it).

There is simply no way we can verify what is currently happening in the distant universe (by “we” I mean myself and any other embodied person with whom I could theoretically have contact). Yet surely this does not mean that the distant universe does not exist, or that statements of fact about it (for instance, how many planets and stars currently exist in galaxy X) are meaningless. Our finitude limits what we can verify; it does not limit what can exist.

Second, he ignores the limitations created by personal agents with (at least the appearance of) free will. If such beings exist (I’m not sure if he thinks we qualify or not), then their actions might be consistent and meaningful, while only inconsistently verifiable from a given frame of reference. What I mean is best illustrated with a thought experiment: Imagine some sort of accident secured you to one place so that moving from that spot became impossible. Such immobility would put your interaction with other people entirely in their hands. If they chose to come and visit you, take your calls, provide you a computer, etc –- you would have access to them. But if they instead chose not to visit, took your phone and computer away and boarded up your door –- you would no have access to them at all, no matter how hard you tried.

Due to the limitations of your vantage point, your ability to detect or verify the existence or activities of your fellow human beings would be inconsistent (and in some cases, impossible), even if those actions themselves were consistent (morally, or socially, for instance). One day, your friends might spend hours and hours with you, providing ample opportunity for you to interact with them. Another day they might not come by at all. One day they might take your calls immediately. Another day they might not answer you in any way (for whatever reason). Some things they might do right in front of you for you to see. Other things they might only do elsewhere, and you could only know about them second-hand. Yet surely the existence of your friends would not hinge upon your own ability to verify or detect their actions at will. Would not their occasional interaction be evidence enough, even if there was no possible experiment you could perform to confirm their existence when they chose not to be available?

Now if that is true of a person trapped in one place, is it not also true of the other limitations imposed by our embodiment? The speed of light is a barrier we humans (probably) cannot cross, but if beings existed that were not so constrained, they could interact with us at will, even while we could not do the same with them. Our ability to verify and detect their existence would be entirely dependent upon their choice. If at a particular time and place they were not disposed to submit to our tests, nothing we did could verify their existence, even though at other times they might make themselves as obvious to us as we could ever wish.

Of course, doctor(logic) is correct that it would be foolish to simply assume (without evidence) that such beings exist. But it seems far from clear that the meaning of such claims must depend on our ability to verify them at will. Such beings could be real and have a real impact on our world without our possessing the ability to test for their existence at all times or places. Thus, I have a question for doctor(logic): Given that a great many people throughout history have claimed that such beings have taken the initiative to contact us, how much evidence of occasional interaction would be necessary for a logical positivist to accept the existence of such beings?

Doctor(logic) responded in the comments and the exchange that followed is well worth reading.

"We're All Atheists"

In a recent post, Bill Vallicella (The Maverick Philosopher) ably dismantles the “we’re all atheists” canard which has become increasingly common recently. He cites Christopher Hitchens (author of God Is Not Great), from a debate with Shmuley Boteach:

“We’re all atheists,” Hitchens argued in his dry British timbre. “We no longer believe we need to tear the beating heart out of a virgin to make the sun rise. We no longer believe in the sun god Ra or in Zeus, and we now must go one step further.”

Vallicella notes the absurdity of this argument by offering a parallel: we all reject certain older scientific propositions – that the sun orbits the earth, that light needs a medium to travel (the ether), etc. By Hitchens’ reasoning, it would be logical to go the next step and reject all scientific propositions:

What people like [Hitchens and] Daniel Dennett, another key Dawkins Gang member, cannot get through their heads is that religion might be subject to development and refinement just as science is. Such people cannot understand development of the God concept as anything different from deformation. They think, quite stupidly, that the crudest anthropomorphic conceptions are those with which religion must remain saddled. But they would never say something similar with respect to science. Why the double standard?

Vallicella is of course correct. The problem is that the “new atheists” seem to accept the fundamentalist claim that religion is only authentic if it falls from heaven fully formed. They look at the obvious developmental nature of religion and seem to think this proves it’s all bunk. Yet this is the very thing they praise about science! If the history of religion evidences a willingness to modify old views in light of new evidence or further reflection, is that not a good thing?

Even more basically, what folks like Hitchens seem to miss is that this denial of polytheism can itself be seen as an inference from Christian experience and theological reflection. We Christians have abandoned humanity's polytheistic roots precisely because we have accepted God's continued revelation. We have rejected those old attempts to manipulate him through human sacrifice precisely because we have accepted a more developed view of God's sovereignty and the value he places on human life.

The Christian denial of paganism is not based on some independent standard we share with atheists and apply to other gods but, inconsistently, fail to apply to our own. We deny the existence of other gods precisely because we accept the Christian story. It is not inconsistent for a monotheist to deny polytheism; it would be inconsistent to do otherwise.

Levenson on the Bible as Story

Jon Levenson, writing in an excellent little book called Sinai and Zion:

[T]hose who come to the Hebrew Bible in hopes of finding a philosophical system flowing smoothly from a theorem will be disappointed. The religion of Israel was not a philosophical system; it had no such theorem. To be sure, every religion is the heritage of a particular community with a history of its own, and this element of history introduces a factor that frustrates the philosophical impulse in every religion. But in the relgion of the Hebrew Bible, the philosophical impulse, if it exists at all, is stunted....

Israel began to infer and to affirm her identity by telling a story. To be sure, the story has implications that can be stated as propositions. For example, the intended implication of the historical prologue [to the Sinai covenant] is that YHWH is faithful, that Israel can rely on God as a vassal must rely upon his suzerain*. But Israel does not begin with a statement that YHWH is faithful; she infers it from a story. And unlike the statement, the story is not universal. (pg. 39)

*see here for an explanation of "vassal" and "suzerain." YHWH is the covenant name of God, which Jews (like Levenson) do not pronounce.

Beliefnet Interview on the Religion in BSG

I just discovered this interview with Ron Moore (producer of Battlestar Galactica) on the religious component to the show (HT: Greenflame). If you're a fan, the whole thing is worth reading; here's an excerpt:

Do your own religious views shape the story lines?

I'm an Irish Catholic, not practicing. It probably just reflects my interest in my movement from Catholicism to atheism to agnosticism to interest in Eastern religions. I think the show is a reflection of my acknowledgement that faith and religion are a part of the human experience, even if I'm not quite clear on exactly what it all means and what I truly believe. The most direct reflection of me in the show is this idea that when the Cylons became self-aware, when they became sentient, when they became people, they began to ask themselves the existential questions: "Why am I here? What is this all about? Is this all that I am? Is there something more?"

My view is that that's fundamental to a thinking person. And that inevitably leads you to questions of faith and religion and "what will happen to me when I die?"

Funny how he still calls himself a non-practicing Catholic, even when he has since moved "to atheism to agnosticism to interest in Eastern religions...."

Confess Your Sins...

Charlie at AnotherThink has written an excellent post on Christian "hypocrisy" and the importance of confession:

Walk into almost any Christian congregation in America and you'll find kind, smiling people, well-dressed and freshly-scrubbed. You'll discover families holding hands, beautiful babies cooing and gurgling, fluffy puppies frolicking in the aisles, giggling children and the bluebird of happiness blowing kisses of good cheer to all.

Ok, so I lied about the puppies; you get the picture.

Back home, the scene can be sadly different. Husbands and wives don't speak to each other — or worse, only communicate in the cruelest of ways. Children rebel against parental authority and are sucked into all the risky adventures our drug- and sex-crazed world can dream up. We pretend everything is fine; inside we live in pain....

What would happen if we took off our masks and talked about the things we're ashamed of, the things that make us weep in the darkness, the things that have power over us? Not in front of the whole church, but in a private conversation with someone we can trust?

We pray to be healed from disease. We pray for protection when we travel. How often do we go to someone we've hurt, apologize and ask for forgiveness? How often do we admit that some compulsion, some addiction, some temptation has grabbed us and shaken us senseless? And if we did, would we be treated with compassion or condemnation?

Catholics are much better about this that we Protestants (though confession can become a mere formality for them as well), and we have a lot to learn from them. The trouble, as noted in the comments, is not just that we don't often confess our sins to one another (at least not the ones that really need to be confessed), but that we too often lack the compassion and humility to respond appropriately when people do admit their darkest secrets. God have mercy.

Battlestar Galactica

To balance out yesterday's rant, here’s another repost from the defunct Situation Critical, first written before season two aired (I’ve reworked it somewhat):

Battlestar Galactica (produced by Ron Moore and David Eick) is what television should be – thought provoking, edgy, true to life where it counts but fueled by a fertile imagination and a talented cast and crew. This is a show that unflinchingly confronts some the toughest moral dilemmas in a way that is hugely entertaining, defies pat answers, and leaves an important place for the sacred and the spiritual.

The story centers on a rag-tag group of refugees from a Terminator-esk apocalypse at the hands of their robotic creations, the Cylons. Of twelve colonized worlds, less than 50,000 survivors have formed a small fleet of civilian vessels guarded by the sole remaining human warship (that they know of), the Battlestar Galactica. The Galactica herself is an aging cruiser that had been slated for decommission and only survived because it lacked the advanced electrical systems that were the primary target of the Cylon attack. On the run and short on supplies, this band of humans led by Galactica’s Captain William Adama (Edward James Olmos) and Secretary-of-Education-turned-President Laura Roslin (Mary McDonnell) are in search of the mythical planet Earth. Desperate to hold on to some semblance of civilization but unsure if they can even trust one another, the last remnant of the human race (in that part of the galaxy at least) struggles to survive without losing their humanity.

Beginning with a 2003 miniseries, this “re-imaging” of the 1978 ABC space opera is quite unlike anything else on television. Despite its outlandish premise, this is a show brimming over with characters and stories that are true to life. There are no cut and dried divisions between “good guys” and “bad guys,” no cookie-cutter story-lines or simple solutions to difficult problems. Instead, we are faced with realistic, complex, imperfect people forced into an impossible situation, struggling to do the best they can. In the words of Ron Moore, this show, “dare[s] us to invest ourselves in flawed characters who face ambiguous choices in an imperfect world.”

Galactica also maintains a high view of organized religion that is almost unknown in contemporary television, especially science fiction (a notable but short-lived exception was Firefly). Even better, this is a show that allows not just a vague human “spirituality” in the tame Hollywood sense, but a truly active role for the divine: A priestess known as Elosha (Lorena Gale) is given a positive and recurring role as an advisor to President Roslin, and is sometimes called upon for prayer and religious ceremony. Roslin herself experiences prophetic visions and, on more than one occasion, risks the future survival of the fleet on her faith in these visions and the teaching of certain sacred scriptures. A working downed spacecraft is discovered just after a character offers a desperate but skeptical prayer for aid. A split-second “guess” is (apparently) used by God to secure fuel for the fleet. Such events occur both for the polytheistic colonists and the atheist-turned-monotheist Dr. Gaius Baltar (James Callis). What kind of a theology that presupposes is an open question, but that such things are even granted possibility is a vast improvement over the secular humanism that dominates so much of television.

Battlestar Galactica is by no means a Christian show. It is not for children nor the faint of heart. It explores adult themes, including wartime violence, torture and sexual promiscuity, in a style that draws more inspiration from Black Hawk Down than Star Trek. It maintains a deep belief in moral truth, but an unflinching honesty about the struggles and ambiguities real people face in the struggle to survive. The theology is certainly not Christian, not even allegorically. The original series was marked by strong allusions to Mormonism, and while this re-imaging has avoided that connection, its theology has at least as much in common with ancient Greek myth as with traditional Christianity. But that’s OK, because this is not a show that asks to be accepted unthinkingly, but one to be chewed on and debated.

Writing on the politics of the show, Ron Moore stated that the point is “to raise questions in the minds of the audience, and make them think.” Questions like: Is it ever justifiable to sacrifice some lives for the sake of others? Is lying to and torturing a known spy acceptable if it might save thousands? Is political intrigue warranted if it is necessary to prevent a charismatic terrorist from taking office? Does a positive result justify the questionable risks accepted to achieve it? And is the survival of the human race even worth the trouble if we must abandon everything that makes us human to accomplish it? You will find no easy answers to these questions here, nor will you find characters who always choose correctly, but you will be forced to consider all of them and more. There are no pious platitudes and this is no morality play, but it is a powerful human drama that presents a realistic (though fictional) theistic worldview through a great script, some fantastic acting, and feature-film quality special effects.

The Dark Side of Sci-Fi

The following is an modifed version of the very first post I ever wrote, originally submitted to the old Crux Project blog Situation Critical (no longer available online). This is admittedly one-sided, so please read John's piece for the other side of the coin:

John Colman has written an excellent post defending science fiction’s ability to ask deep questions and point us toward the supernatural. I wholeheartedly agree with him. Ever since I was a kid watching Star Trek: The Next Generation with my dad, I too have loved science fiction. Besides the positive aspects he mentions, I also love the adventure, the dream of exploring the unknown and fighting wicked villains. But most of all, I love the camaraderie that so often characterizes these stories--a tight-knit group of friends facing the future together, come what may!

But our favorite genre also has a dark side that John neglected to discuss. The more I watch these shows, the more I realize just how many of them fairly drip with naturalistic philosophy. Indeed, much of the sci-fi genre is based on thoroughly materialistic presuppositions. And while a lot of mainstream television and film shares these assumptions, sci-fi is uniquely suited to showcase them in that it expresses, more than any other genre, the hopes and fears of a society.

Consider the Star Trek universe, for instance: Here is depicted a future when humanity will finally see past its differences and live in peace and harmony. Of course, there is still war and violence, but not generally among humans or the United Federation of Planets. If every worldview must tell us who we are, what’s wrong, and what's the solution, then Star Trek tells us we are the product of evolution on one of many planets that have evolved life--not the least advanced, but certainly not the most either. What’s wrong with the universe is not human rebellion against her creator, but interspecies strife among the various races in our galaxy. The solution? Not the final victory of God, but the victory of the Federation against all who oppose peace in the universe--whether they be Klingons, Romulans, or the Borg.

Or take another favorite of mine: Stargate SG-1. Where Star Trek generally ignored religion, Stargate tried to reinvent it in light of modern science. The ancient gods were really just powerful aliens who visited earth throughout our history--some, like the Goa’uld, in hopes of enslaving us, others, like the Asgard, to bless and protect us. In this universe, science is king, and God has no real place. Humanity is a fledgling species, teetering on the brink of either a major evolutionary step forward or complete destruction by our own or some malicious alien’s actions.

Just consider the one episode in the show’s ten-season run which included the word “God” in its title ("There But For the Grace of God," Episode 119): Through a “Quantum Mirror” we are taken to an alternate earth (one of the infinite universes that exist alongside ours, we are told) where things have not worked out so fortuitously--earth has been invaded by the Goa’uld Apophis and faces slavery to a false god. In the end, this alternate earth is saved by the intervention of another alien, the Asgard Thor (note the Egyptian and Norse mythology lying behind their names), but it is clear that “the Grace of God” had nothing to do with it. The show does admirably remind us that we cannot save ourselves, but when God is barred from that role, an alien or superhuman is forced to take his place.

For, in the end, shows like Stargate teach that our universe could just as well be overrun with evil as saved by good. Indeed, the fact that there are an infinite number of universes means that an infinite number have been overrun by evil, and there is no good reason why ours shouldn’t be one of them. For sci-fi is not without its pessimists.

Where the ancient Jewish apocalyptic writers maintained an unwavering faith that even their darkest dreams of worldwide catastrophe would be tempered God’s grace, today’s secular futurists have no such assurances. Whether we are threatened with destruction by our own technology (as in Terminator), an alien race (as in Independence Day), or a killer virus (as in Resident Evil), there are no guarantees that human life will survive. Only God could promise that, but he is too often dismissed as a figment of our imaginations, a relic of bygone days when primitive men still believed in a universe controlled by spirits. Now, apart from alien intervention, we must trust our own resources to overcome such dangers and charge ahead to a glorious future, unless of course this is one of those universes that ends badly. I’ll have to watch next week to find out.

"All My Tears"

If I died today, I’d want this played at my funeral - preferably, loud enough to wake the dead (figuratively speaking of course):

So weep not for me my friends,
When my time below does end,
For my life belongs to him,
Who will raise the dead again.

Biblical Studies Carnival

It seems someone submitted the recent inclusivism "bloggersation" (or is it "blogologue"?) to this month's Biblical Studies Carnival. Thanks to Kevin Wilson at Blue Cord for hosting!

DUNE - The Dark Side of Hope and Sacrifice

This week I picked up a used copy of Frank Herbert’s classic novel DUNE for 50 cents at a library sale. I hadn’t read the book – first in an epic science fiction trilogy – since Junior High, and it quickly sucked me in. It’s set in the far future, when humans have scattered across the universe and are ruled by a new aristocracy. Great Houses govern billions across numerous worlds, war amongst themselves, and live in fear of the Emperor’s cruel army of Sardaukar.

The story centers on a boy named Paul Atreides, son of Duke Leto Atreides, whose noble family has ruled on the paradise world of Caladan, but is now forced to move to a desert world called Arrakis, or Dune. Arrakis is a brutal and seemingly desolate planet, but it is vital to the empire as the only source of the mind-altering “spice” melange. Consumption of this spice can grant a person extended perception, even glimpses of the future. Such prescience is valued for many reasons, but especially because it enables faster than light space travel (how it does so is never explained, but such is tangential to the story anyway).

DUNE is an engaging science fiction adventure filled with political intrigue, betrayal, murder and war as the evil Baron Vladimir Harkonnen seeks to destroy the Atreides, and nearly succeeds. Vastly outnumbered by Harkonnen troops backed by disguised Sardaukar, the Duke and most of his people are killed, while only Paul and a handful of others escape into the desert. Taking up with the natives of Arrakis (a fierce people known as Fremen), Paul and his mother plot to restore their House and, if possible, revenge themselves on the Harkonnens, but quickly find themselves in the midst of a religious crusade.

The story is imaginative and richly detailed – Arthur C. Clark considered the depth of its world and characters as comparable only to Lord of the Rings – but what truly sets it apart is its religious component. DUNE is, at heart, an exploration of the nature of religion. Jessica is a member of the secretive Bene Gesserit Order whose power extends all the way to the Emperor himself. For thousands of years, this religious enclave has been sending missionaries to plant “prophecies” amongst the populations of human worlds, preparing the way for a Messiah, a Kwisatz Haderach who would bridge both time and space, and through whom they might control the universe. In pursuit of this goal, the Bene Gesserit have pursued an aggressive breeding program, carefully guiding specific genetic lines – Atreides and Harkonnen included – to produce their Savior.

The Fremen too have been touched by these missionaries, inculcated with prophecies of a Messiah who would transform their desert into paradise. But not even the Bene Gesserit could anticipate how closely Paul’s coming would match their prophecies, yet how thoroughly he could upend their hopes. Paul is the Kwisatz Haderach, but he will not be controlled by the Bene Gesserit; indeed, he’s not even sure he can control his own destiny. As he rises to prominence amongst the Fremen, he is tormented by visions of wild jihad, and seems unable to avoid such a future. In the end, DUNE becomes a story not so much of betrayal and restoration, but of the potential and danger of mounting religious fervor.

I find it interesting comparing my reactions to the book now with those when I read it as a teenager. Back in my fundamentalist days, Paul was the clear hero – a true Christ figure facing and defeating the wicked Harkonens. The only thing I recall disliking about the book was the fact that polygamy was considered acceptable by the central characters. In fact, I was so put off by this that I never bothered reading the rest of the trilogy. Reading the book now, I find the Harkonnens just as evil as I remember, but Paul appears a much more ambiguous figure. Noble at heart, he steadily succumbs to his “terrible purpose,” regaining his former position (and more) only at great cost. He may be the Fremen Messiah, but he seems to have lost an important part of his humanity in becoming so.

Thus, DUNE is a tale of fulfilled prophecy, with echoes of the Christian story, but it also explores the dark side of faith – religious extremism and violence, and the way these things can both unite and divide a community. I have often written about hope and sacrifice, but DUNE presents a new side of those realities. Here we see what can happen when hope for a better future becomes a justification for evil in the present, and how a would-be savior can sacrifice more than just himself for a dubious cause. Perhaps its time I finally finish Herbert’s trilogy.