The Problem of the Shifting Scientist

Richard Dawkins is known for consistently repeating one his favorite comments:

Because of the beautiful coherency of natural selection to explain the mechanism by which evolution has occurred, we now  no longer need to believe that a god is necessary for creation and life.

Anyone who has heard him say this can even now hear his smug British accent speaking the words with a satisfied smirk on his face as if there could not possibly be an answer to the comment. The case is closed. Let us quickly forget the 2000 years of Christian history so we can move on finally into the brave new world. The last domino of Christianity has now fallen and now there is absolutely no reason for a god.

I won’t even bother to point out the poor theology which assumes in ignorance that Christians think all God did was create and so once we explain creation there is no reason for God. Nor will I point out that all evolution does is explain how a creation that has already been created may work, but still does nothing to explain how the creation came about in the first place. None of that is important to me for it would simply be answering Dr. Dawkins according to his folly. Continue reading


Poem: The New Hollow Ones

This poem is inspired partly by T.S. Elliot’s “The Hollow Men.” He was a great man who had an interesting life. Though my poem cannot touch his poem, I hope I can at least continue to do what he did: revealing the nature of the culture that surrounds us. Rest In Peace, Mr. Elliot.

The New Hollow Ones

(From the Elliot observatory)

We are the ones that believed the lie.

We were told that there is no meaning to life, no reason that we are here.

There is no God. We are merely insignificant specks of dust floating in a random universe that has no concern for us— a relativistic world where everything is fading away.

Life is fleeting. All we have are the moments—the moments of laughter and pleasure; moments of thrill and joy; moments of indulging our appetites—and then nothing.

We came out of nothing; we will return to nothing; we are nothing.

We were told we are just animals who are slightly more evolved than others, creatures whom are pulled by our genes to an inevitable conclusion, which some poets have termed “destiny,” but we know now it’s merely genetic impulses.

Look into our eyes and if they seem empty, it’s because they are. We are the hollow ones.

We don’t believe in morality unless there’s something in it for us. We don’t believe in sacrifice unless we can get it on sale. We live for temporary gratification in whatever form it might come in—the more flavors to choose from the better.

We are our own authority. We are independent and free, free to do whatever we desire. It’s healthy for the soul (if there was such a thing).

We believe that being young in heart means chasing after our childhood dreams and we refuse to grow up and to become like our parents. We live to escape responsibility.

We are addicts. Entertain us. But good luck we get bored easily, and there is nothing more loathsome and offensive, nothing more abominable than boredom.

We have no transcendent desires—we’re the hollow ones. We don’t believe in empathy. We don’t believe in anything except our own sense of self-esteem.

We are the hollow ones. Do not speak to us of hope, that belonged to a long-dead, barbaric age of superstition—we are beyond that. We know there is no rhyme or reason. The universe simply doesn’t care.

We are the hollow ones, the ones that believed the Lie.

“Hollow, Eerie, Lonely, Plucked!”

                                    —The Scarecrow