I Don't Have Enough Faith to Be an Atheist (11 page)

Let’s sum up what we’ve seen so far: truth exists, and it is absolute and undeniable. To say “truth cannot be known” is self-defeating because that very statement claims to be a
known, absolute
truth. In fact, anytime we say anything, we are implying that we know at least some truth because
any
position on
any
subject implies some degree of knowledge. If you say that someone’s position is wrong, you must
know
what is right in order to say that (you can’t know what is wrong unless you know what is right). Even if you say, “I don’t know,” you are admitting that you know something; namely, you
know
you don’t know something else about the topic in question, not that you don’t know anything
at all.

But just how does one know truth? In other words, by what process do we discover truths about the world? The process of discovering truth begins with the self-evident laws of logic called first principles. They are called first principles because there is nothing behind them. They are not proved by other principles; they are simply inherent in the nature of reality and are thus self-evident. So you don’t learn these first principles; you just know them. Everyone intuitively knows these principles even if they haven’t thought about them explicitly.

Two of these principles are the Law of Noncontradiction and the Law of the Excluded Middle. We’ve already seen the reality and value of the Law of Noncontradiction. The Law of the Excluded Middle tells us that something either
is
or is
not.
For example, either God exists or he does not. Either Jesus rose from the dead or he did not. There are no third alternatives.

These first principles are the tools we use to discover all other truths. In fact, without them you couldn’t learn anything else. First principles are to learning what your eyes are to seeing. Just as your eyes must be built into your body for you to see anything, first principles must be built into your mind for you to learn anything. It is from these first principles that we can learn about reality and ultimately discover the box top to this puzzle we call life.

Although we use these first principles to help us discover truth, they alone cannot tell us whether or not a particular proposition is true. To see what we mean, consider the following logical argument:

1. All men are mortal.

2. Spencer is a man.

3. Therefore Spencer is mortal.

The self-evident laws of logic tell us that the conclusion, Spencer is mortal, is a valid conclusion. In other words, the conclusion follows necessarily from the premises.
If
all men are mortal and
if
Spencer is a man, then Spencer is mortal. However, the laws of logic do not tell us whether those premises, and thus the conclusion, is true. Maybe all men are
not
mortal; maybe Spencer is not a man. Logic by itself can’t tell us one way or the other.

This point is more easily seen by looking at a valid argument that isn’t true. Consider the following:

1. All men are four-legged reptiles.

2. Zachary is a man.

3. Therefore Zachary is a four-legged reptile.

Logically, this argument is valid, but we all know it isn’t true. The argument is valid because the conclusion follows from the premises. But the conclusion is false because the first premise is false. In other words, an argument can be logically sound but still be false because the premises of the argument do not correspond to reality. So logic only gets us so far. Logic can tell us that an argument is false, but it cannot tell us by itself which premises are true. How do we know that Zachary is a man? How do we know that men are not four-legged reptiles? We need some more information to discover those truths.

We get that information from observing the world around us and then drawing general conclusions from those observations. When you observe something over and over again, you may conclude that some general principle is true. For example, when you repeatedly drop an object off a table, you naturally observe that the object always falls to the floor. If you do that enough, you finally realize that there must be some general principle in place known as gravity.

This method of drawing general conclusions from specific observations is called induction (which is commonly equated with the scientific method). In order to be clear, we need to distinguish induction from deduction. The process of lining up premises in an argument and arriving at a valid conclusion is called deduction. That’s what we did in the arguments above. But the process of discovering whether the
premises
in an argument are true usually requires induction.

Much of what you know, you know by induction. In fact, you’ve already used induction intuitively to investigate the truth of the premises in the arguments above. Namely, you determined that since every man you’ve observed has been a two-legged mammal, the man Zachary cannot be a four-legged reptile. You did the same thing with the question of Spencer’s mortality. Since all men you’ve heard about ultimately die, you made the general conclusion that all men are mortal including a specific individual man named Spencer. These conclusions—two-legged men, gravity, and human mortality—are all inductive conclusions.

Most conclusions based on induction cannot be considered absolutely certain but only highly probable. For example, are you absolutely, 100 percent certain that gravity makes all objects drop? No, because you haven’t observed all objects being dropped. Likewise, are you absolutely certain that all men are mortal? No, because you haven’t observed all men die. Perhaps there’s someone somewhere who hasn’t died or will not die in the future.

So if inductive conclusions are not certain, can they be trusted? Yes, but to varying degrees of certainty. As we have said before, since no human being possesses infinite knowledge, most of our inductive conclusions can be wrong. (There is one important exception. It’s called the “perfect induction,” where all the particulars are known. For example, “all the letters on this page are black.” This perfect induction yields certainty about the conclusion because you can observe and verify that every letter is indeed black.)

But even when we don’t have complete or perfect information, we often have enough information to make reasonably certain conclusions on most questions in life. For example, since virtually everyone has been observed to die, your conclusion that all men are mortal is considered true beyond a reasonable doubt; it’s 99-plus percent sure, but it’s not beyond any doubt. It takes some faith—albeit a very small amount—to believe it.
⁶
The same can be said for concluding that gravity affects all objects, not just some. The conclusion is practically certain but not absolutely certain. In other words, we can be sure beyond a
reasonable
doubt, but not sure beyond
all
doubt.

H
OW
A
RE
T
RUTHS
A
BOUT
G
OD
K
NOWN
?

So what does observation and induction have to do with discovering the existence of God? Everything. In fact, observation and induction help us investigate the ultimate religious question: “Does God exist?”

You say, “Wait a minute! How can we use observation to investigate an unobservable being called God? After all, if God is invisible and immaterial as most Christians, Jews, and Muslims claim, then how can our senses help us gather information about him?”

The answer: we use induction to investigate God the same way we use it to investigate other things we can’t see—by observing their effects. For example, we can’t observe gravity directly; we can only observe its effects. Likewise, we can’t observe the human mind directly, but only its effects. From those effects we make a rational inference to the existence of a cause.

In fact, the book you are now reading is a case in point. Why do you assume that this book is an effect of a human mind? Because all your observational experience tells you that a book is an effect that results only from some preexisting intelligence (i.e., an author). You’ve never seen the wind, the rain, or other natural forces produce a book; you’ve only seen people do so. So despite the fact that you didn’t see anyone writing this book, you’ve concluded that it must have at least one author.

By reasoning that this book has an author, you are naturally putting observation, induction, and deduction together. If we were to write out your thoughts in logical form, they would look like this deductive argument:

1. All books have at least one author (premise based on inductive investigation).

2.
I Don’t Have Enough Faith to Be an Atheist
is a book (premise based on observation).

3. Therefore,
I Don’t Have Enough Faith to Be an Atheist
has at least one author (conclusion).

You know the argument is valid because of deduction, and you know the argument is true because the premises are true (which you have verified through observation and induction).

Now here’s the big question: Just as a book requires preexisting human intelligence, are there any observable effects that seem to require some kind of preexisting supernatural intelligence? In other words, are there effects that we can observe that point to God? The answer is yes, and the first effect is the universe itself. An investigation of its beginning is the next step on our journey to discover the box top.

But before we look at that evidence for the beginning of the universe, we need to address one more objection to truth. And that is, “So what? Who cares about truth?”

S
O
W
HAT
? W
HO
C
ARES
A
BOUT
T
RUTH
?

We sometimes ask our students, “What’s the greatest problem in America today? Is it ignorance or is it apathy?” One time a student answered, “I don’t know, and I don’t care!”

That sums up the problem in America today. Many of us are ignorant and apathetic about truth—but not when it comes to money, medicine, or the other tangible items we mentioned earlier. We care passionately about those things. But many people are ignorant and apathetic about truth in morality and religion (we know you’re not, because you’re taking the time to read this book). Are the people who have adopted the “whatever” theme of the culture right, or does truth in morality and religion really matter?

It really matters. How do we know? First, even though people may
claim
that truth in morality doesn’t matter, they don’t really believe that when someone treats them immorally. For example, they might claim that lying isn’t wrong, but just watch how morally outraged they get when you lie to them (especially if it’s about their money!).

We often hear that “it’s the economy, Stupid!” But just think about how much better the economy would be if everyone told the truth. There would be no Enrons or Tycos. There would be no scandals or scams. There would be no burdensome government regulations. Of course the economy is important, but it’s directly affected by morality! Morality undergirds virtually everything we do. It not only affects us financially, but, in certain circumstances, it also affects us socially, psychologically, spiritually, and even physically.

A second reason truth in morality matters is because success in life is often dependent on the moral choices a person makes. These include choices regarding sex, marriage, children, drugs, money, business dealings, and so on. Some choices bring prosperity, others result in ruin.

Third, as we pointed out in a previous book,
Legislating Morality,
⁷
all laws legislate morality. The only question is, “Whose morality will be legislated?” Think about it. Every law declares one behavior right and its opposite wrong—that’s morality. Whose morality should be legislated on issues such as abortion or euthanasia? These are issues that directly impact the lives and health of real people. If it’s morally wrong to kill innocent people, shouldn’t that truth be legislated? Likewise, whose morality should be legislated on other issues of public policy that may affect your life, health, or finances? The answers we legislate can dramatically affect every citizen’s life, liberty, and pursuit of happiness.

There’s no doubt that what we believe to be true about morality directly impacts lives. Did it matter that the United States Supreme Court (as reflected in the 1857
Dred Scott
decision) believed that blacks were not citizens but the property of their slave owners? Did it matter that the Nazis believed the Jews were inferior to the Aryan race? Does it matter today what we think about the moral status of people in other racial or religious categories? Of course! Truth in morality matters.

What about truth in religion? That truth can impact us even more profoundly than truth in morality. A fellow naval officer helped me (Frank) realize this back in 1988 when I was a new Christian.

At that time, we were deployed with a U.S. Navy flight crew to a Persian Gulf country. It was near the end of the Iran-Iraq war, and tensions were still high. When you’re in a foreign and dangerous place, you tend to ponder your life and your mortality more seriously and frequently.

One day we were doing just that—talking about God and the afterlife. During our conversation my friend made a comment that has stuck with me to this day. Referring to the Bible, he said, “I don’t believe the Bible. But if it
is
true, then I’ll be in big trouble.”

Of course he was right. If the Bible is
true,
then my friend has
chosen
an unpleasant eternal destiny. In fact, if the Bible is true, then everyone’s eternal destiny can be read from its pages. On the other hand, if the Bible is not true, then many Christians are unwittingly wasting a lot of time, money, and, in some cases, even their lives by preaching Christianity in hostile territories. Either way, truth in religion matters.

It also matters if some other religion is true. For example, if the Qur’an is true, then I’m in just as much eternal trouble as my nonChristian Navy friend. On the other hand, if the atheists are right, then we might as well lie, cheat, and steal to get what we want because this life is all there is, and there are no consequences in eternity.