In Skeptical, author Bob Moores describes his atheistic/humanistic philosophy and traces its roots back to early childhood epiphanies where he first began to question certain axiological teachings. He argues against creationism and religious fundamentalism and defends scientific naturalism, critical thinking, and a rational approach to understanding the world. Moores attempts to show readers how recent scientific discoveries, especially in biology, are more exciting and uplifting than any form of biblical mythology. Using lay terms, he explains the significance of D.N.A. and why a scientific theory is more than just a guess. He argues that modern humanistic values are superior in many ways to those venerated in ancient texts, and he shares his belief that humans are both the greatest threat and greatest hope for the preservation of life on Earth. Moores hopes that Skeptical will challenge readers to consider views and information that may conflict with their comfort zones, allowing them to broaden their perspectives. He argues that if we are too protective of our own paradigms, if we stubbornly believe that our way is the only way, then the tribes of earth will never come together to solve the most urgent need of all - our continued existence.
SKEPTICAL
Show Me Evidence—Then I'll BelieveBy BOB MOORESiUniverse, Inc.
Copyright © 2011 Bob Moores
All right reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4620-5774-0 Contents
Preface................................................ixChapter 1—My Early Years.........................1Chapter 2—Reality................................15Chapter 3—The Universe...........................35Chapter 4—The Earth..............................39Chapter 5—The Origin of Life.....................47Chapter 6—Biology................................85Chapter 7—Humans.................................95Chapter 8—Religion...............................109Chapter 9—Christianity...........................145Chapter 10—God...................................189Chapter 11—Wrapping up...........................205Acknowledgements.......................................215References.............................................217Index..................................................225Verses Index...........................................241
Chapter One
My Early Years
God give me the courage to face a fact, though it slay me. T. H. Huxley
Now I will tell you a little more about myself. This is not an ego thing. In the grand setting of the universe I am as unimportant as anyone can be. The reason why I want to tell you about me is so you can understand how I came to think as I do.
My first epiphany: an uncomfortable truth
Epiphany: a moment of sudden and great revelation.
December 1946. I had just turned eight the month before. That fall my family had moved from my grandparents' farm in rural Carroll County to the big city. I had started the third grade at Pimlico Elementary School in Baltimore.
Somehow the subject of Christmas came up in a conversation with one of my classmates. I told him what I had asked Santa to bring me for Christmas. My friend said "What? You still believe in Santa Claus? It's your mom and dad. There is no Santa Claus." I told him he didn't know what he was talking about, but was anxious to get home that day. Finding my mother in the kitchen, I related to her what my friend had told me. Mom said, "Do you really want to know who Santa is?"
At this point I must pause to give you a little background on the importance of Santa. Each year, in writing my letter to Santa, my parents allowed me to ask for three items from the Sears Christmas Catalog where Santa's inventory was on display (If that was a clue, I suppressed it). There was a good possibility that Santa would actually deliver two of the things I asked for, and on a good year, all three! Thus, Christmas was my main opportunity to score big in the "new toy" category. This opportunity was not to be squandered.
Returning to Mom's query of "do you really want to know?," her question gave me the answer I sought, but still I hesitated to reply. I had a difficult choice to make. I could go along with what I now realized was a deception, comfortable in the idea that my annual Christmas bonus would continue, or have an uncomfortable fact confirmed.
After a few seconds, I decided. Yes, I wanted the truth, and to hell with the outcome. Mom enlightened me. My point? As an eight-year-old, I, like Huxley, wanted the truth, even if it was bad news for me. Truth, tested against comfort on the balance scale, was more weighty for me. If you think back, you have had life-shaping moments that were more impactful than others. This was one of mine.
My father was an electrician. He worked on big commercial projects for a company called Riggs-Distler. Dad was a foreman, which I took to mean some kind of boss. His best friend was another electrical foreman named Otz Parsons. Otz and Ann Parsons, with son Bunky, lived in a large log house in the woods. My family would visit the Parsons', and vise-versa, at least once a month. Dad, a.k.a. "Reds," and Otz would talk for hours, mostly about target shooting, deer hunting, and people "on the job" who were screwing up.
The thing I remember most about our visits to the Parsons' is the time it took for Dad and Otz to say goodbye. Goodbye happened in stages. First we would get our coats on. Then there would be a lengthy conversation in the kitchen (where the front door was located). We would then proceed to the front porch, where the same lengthy conversation continued. Finally we would get into the car. Dad would roll down the window so he could have one last lengthy conversation with Otz before we actually departed. The entire process of saying goodbye took at least thirty minutes, and this was after several hours of talking about the same stuff! I mention this anecdote simply to point out that I did not inherit Dad's gift of gab.
In most ways Dad was my role model. He was mechanically savvy, always fixing things around the house, especially his car. Those fixes were more along the lines of "improvements" to an imperfect design. I was his helper. I fetched tools that he needed, and watched intently as he used them. There was always "the right tool" for a given job. Never ever use an open-end wrench when you can employ a box wrench. Things like that.
Dad was also very good at making logical arguments. Whenever he decided to phone someone with whom he had a problem, I would sit transfixed, listening to his spiel. He had a way of calmly convincing the person on the other end of the line that he should get his way.
Several times I accompanied Dad when he went to buy a new car. Those negotiations held my attention in the first hour, but became tedious as the day went on. Even after the deal was sealed, Dad would usually wrangle an extra wheel from the frustrated salesman. That way Dad could always keep two snow tires mounted (a spare in the car, the other in the garage) in preparation for the winter season. For you youngsters, in those days we did not have all-weather tires.
Perhaps because of the inner-city conditions in which he was raised, Dad harbored certain prejudices. He had labels for various groups, particularly by race, nationality, and religion. I learned those names as well, but did not have many opportunities to use them because, except for blacks, the other group members were hard to identify. My mother never used those names, but her silence did not mitigate my adoption of Dad's nomenclature. Don't get me wrong. Dad was not a hateful or bitter person; his prejudice was as natural to him as it was to most of his friends. I found after he died that his favorite poem was Abou Ben Adhem., by James Henry Leigh Hunt (1784-1859). It became my favorite also:
Abou Ben Adhem, may his tribe increase!
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
And saw, within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich, and like a lily bloom,
An angel writing in a book of gold:
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,
And to the presence in the room he said,
"What writest thou?"-The vision raised its head,
And with a look made of all sweet accord,
Answered, "The names of those who love the Lord."
"And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so,"
Replied the angel. Abou spoke...
