Andrew Fiala, Ph.D.

February 25, 2012September 18, 2014

It’s difficult to see God in holy sites

Fresno Bee, February 25, 2012

Since Biblical times, Jerusalem has been a place of violence and war. Romans, Muslims, and Christians have each ruled the city. In 1967, Israel seized the whole city. But Palestinians and others still contest the legitimacy of Israeli rule.

One focus of continued conflict is the Temple Mount. Tradition holds that on this modest hill in the old city, Adam was created, Noah made sacrifices, Abraham bound Isaac, Jacob climbed a ladder to heaven, and Solomon built the first temple. Some Jews want to rebuild the Temple. And some Christians support the idea, seeing this as a way to hasten the second coming of Christ.

However, there are two mosques on the Temple Mount: the al-Aqsa mosque and the beautiful Dome of the Rock. The Dome on the Rock is built on top of the rock where Abraham supposedly bound Isaac. Muslims believe that Mohammed was transported to the Temple Mount during his night journey—to the al-Aqsa mosque. He then communed with Moses and Jesus, ascending to heaven from the sacred rock.

Last week, posters were hung in Jerusalem calling for Jews to go to the Temple Mount to “Purify the site from the enemies of Israel who stole the land, and build the Third Temple on the ruins of the mosques.” Muslims gathered on the Mount to protect the mosques. The police prevented Jews from entering the site.

This led to cries of outrage by some Jews, who claimed their rights were being violated. Meanwhile, Muslims continued to fear that Jews were planning to violate their holy sites. On Sunday February 19, tourists visiting the Temple Mount were stoned by Palestinians defending the place. Eighteen were arrested.

The violence of this week—minor by historical standards—gives me further reason to be skeptical of religion. I find it difficult to understand how, in a universe that is infinitely vast, a single rock in Jerusalem can be all that important. Why did God choose that rock as the focal point? There is something too convenient in the way that all of these stories point to this rock, to this hill, and to Jerusalem itself. There are surely bigger, more beautiful rocks and more impressive hills in the world. Why would God come here but not to Half Dome?

This got me thinking about Rousseau’s discussion of religion in Emile. Rousseau suggested that to discover the truth of religion, you would have to visit all of the world’s holy places. It is not enough to believe the testimony of others. You need to go and see for yourself whether the stories are true. During Rousseau’s time—he died in 1778—it would have been impossible to undertake such a journey. Rousseau concluded that since we can’t actually do the research, we should learn to tolerate one another.

Rousseau is right: the way forward has to be a path of mutual toleration and an end to religious violence. But I don’t think he fully imagined what happens when you actually visit the world’s religious sites. In these places, you see architectural and artistic wonders that human beings have created. You see pilgrims and street vendors and tour guides. But God is hard to discern.

I’ve been to the Vatican and the other cathedrals of Europe, to the Lama Temple in Beijing, to Shinto shrines in Japan, and now to Jerusalem. I visited the place of Christ’s crucifixion and the Western Wall, where Jews gather to mourn the loss of the Temple. In none of these places have I witnessed anything more divine than what I have seen from the top of Half Dome or in the face of my own children. In none of these places have I witnessed anything that is worth killing for.

Religious people will undoubtedly say that I am just not looking carefully enough. That God is really there—in the churches and temples and rocks. But I worry that when people see God in these places, they also see reasons to kill each other. And I can’t help but think that if God could observe any of this, He would be disappointed to find that we value rocks and buildings more than we value each other.

February 11, 2012September 18, 2014

Step out of comfort zone to learn about others

Fresno Bee, February 11, 2012

I’m writing this column from Tel Aviv, Israel. I’m on sabbatical, working on a book on justice, ethics, and religion. A day after arriving, a friend drove me to Ajami, an Arab suburb south of town. He said that the falafel there was delicious. As the muezzin sang the call to prayer from a mosque near the old port of Jaffa, he explained that middle class Jews from Tel Aviv rarely set foot in such neighborhoods.

As we prowled dark, dusty streets looking for parking, I realized that there were no more signs in English. My mind was spinning with jet lag and cultural dislocation. The locals were oblivious to the foreigner munching falafel. Kids played tag in the traffic. Beautiful women walked by in headscarves and high-heeled shoes. Families walked by with babies in strollers. We ate in peace.

You don’t have to go to the Middle East to feel uncomfortable in certain neighborhoods. There are parts of Fresno where middle class Fresnans never go. We stick to familiar places and operate according to unconscious prejudices. And so we rarely see the problems of those living just across town. But it is important to cross the boundaries we impose upon ourselves every now and then.

Jane Addams described one of her first memories as a trip across town. When she was six, her father took her to some nearby slums. Young Jane asked her father, “why people lived in such horrid little houses so close together.” From that original, naïve insight that some people live rough lives, Addams went on to found Hull-House in Chicago and eventually to win the Nobel Peace Prize.

One of Addams’ important insights, derived with her work with immigrant families in Chicago, is that cosmopolitan cities help people overcome prejudice. She thought that living and working in proximity with diverse others teaches us to get along and reminds us all people deserve equal respect.

I was reminded of the importance of cross cultural interaction even before arriving in Israel. We were stuck for most of a day in Istanbul, due to a snowstorm. Istanbul is the crossroads of the world. The airport was full of stranded travelers: Chinese men in business suits, Muslim women in black burkas, Indian families, and African students.

The counter for rebooking cancelled flights was a mess. There was no line—just a mass of people pushing toward the counter, complaining in various languages. A German who had been stranded for a couple of days, pushed back against the masses, trying to establish order in the line. A flushed American got into a shouting match with a clerk about a misplaced passport. A tall dark man in a three-piece suit elbowed his way to the front. He pounded on the counter and loudly demanded to know who was in charge and what was going on.

Those of us who had been waiting smiled and laughed: no one was in charge and nobody knew what was going on. Despite this, most everyone waited patiently and things eventually worked themselves out. Hope for the future is to be found in the patient forbearance of the vast majority, who just want to go about their business and get on with their lives.

This is true despite vast cultural differences. It is reassuring how easily people from different parts of the world get along. But unless you leave your own neighborhood, you don’t notice this. Segregation, poverty, and prejudice remain problems. This is true at home and abroad.

Future progress will depend on taking these problems seriously, stepping outside our usual comfort zones, and truly seeing the challenges confronting people around the world and across the city. Jane Addams once said, “the highest moralists have taught that without the advance and improvement of the whole, no man can hope for any lasting improvement in his own moral or material individual condition.”

It is difficult to put yourself into the shoes of someone else. It takes effort to venture across town. Courage is needed to confront your own fears and prejudices. But there is no excuse for ignoring the problems of our fellow human beings. And if you take an unfamiliar path to the other side of town, you just might discover that the falafel there really does taste delicious.

January 28, 2012September 18, 2014

Democracy, education diminish our cruelty

Fresno Bee, January 28, 2012

People are becoming less cruel and more humane. This is the thesis of Steven Pinker’s optimistic new book, The Better Angels of Our Nature. Pinker, a Harvard Psychologist, provides extensive data to support his conclusion, citing a variety of developments from low homicide rates to the demise of dueling and the abolition of slavery and torture.

He attributes some of our improvement to the fact that people are getting smarter. He notes that rising IQ scores during the past century bode well for a more peaceful world, since smarter people are less violent. He notes, for example, that smarter people tend to commit fewer violent crimes. He concludes, “people with more sophisticated reasoning abilities are more cooperative, have larger moral circles, and are less sympathetic to violence.”

There are reasons to be skeptical of any straightforward attempt to link intelligence with virtue. Individuals with low IQ’s can be compassionate and kind; and some psychopaths are exceedingly clever. But Pinker does provide some reasons to think that better education produces gentler people.

One causal mechanism for this sort of progress is literature. Pinker thinks that representations of cruelty can change our attitudes toward violence. And he argues that reading is a useful tool for developing empathy. Reading demands that we imagine our way into another person’s point of view. Widespread literacy—made possible by printing technologies and mandatory schooling—may well be a major cause of moral progress.

One sign of this progress is that fact that warfare has become less cruel. Pinker thinks it is significant that despite the horrors that are still occasionally unleashed in war, we have self-consciously refrained from using our worst and most deadly weapons. He suggests that nuclear warfare has become “too dangerous to contemplate, and leaders are scared straight.”

This conclusion hinges on the intelligence of our leaders. Indeed, Pinker claims that there is a correlation between Presidential IQ and deaths in war. According to Pinker, smarter presidents wage fewer wars and produce fewer wartime casualties.

Such a blithe conclusion should be taken with a grain of salt, since it assumes that presidents wage war in a vacuum without the input of the military or the cooperation of foreign allies. And such a conclusion ignores the fact that our representatives in the Congress have some control over how wars are fought.

This points toward a central question: do wise and virtuous leaders cause moral improvement? The Greek philosopher Plato thought so. Plato rejected democracy as rule of the uneducated and unvirtuous masses. He thought we would do better under the watchful eye of a wise and benevolent ruler who would protect us from our own vicious and ignorant ways.

We are no longer sympathetic to this idea. Instead, we tend to believe that we are smart enough and good enough to govern ourselves. Pinker’s analysis gives us reason to trust this democratic impulse. It is our modern democratic state and its educational system that has made us smarter and better. Most of the moral progress that we’ve made during the past millennia has occurred under democratic government and has been facilitated by the expansion of literacy and education.

People are not born smart or good. We are born with the capacity to learn and with a basic capacity for empathy. But we must learn all of the specifics, including how to control our own violent impulses. Education is essential for understanding the complex moral and political problems that confront us in our globalized world. Intelligence and virtue develop as a result of the sustained effort of parents, teachers, and a supporting social environment. And our moral and intellectual skills develop further, as we exercise our own capacities for self-government.

It is amazing how much moral progress we have made. We no longer allow slavery or torturous punishments. Women have been liberated. And we recognize that our most destructive weapons are immoral. Good for us for figuring this out!

These moral developments were not imposed upon us by philosopher-kings. Rather, they resulted from democratic procedures and were produced by our system of education. The key to future progress is to trust ourselves and to continue to believe that democracy and education can make us both smarter and better.

January 14, 2012September 18, 2014

Recent Nobel winners echo King’s wise words

Fresno Bee, January 14, 2012

Martin Luther King was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize in 1964. In December of 2011, the Peace Prize was awarded to three women: Ellen Johnson Sirleaf, the President of Liberia; Leyma Gbowee, a peace activist from Liberia; and Tawakkol Karman, a leader of the Yemeni version of the Arab Spring. These women represent the power of women’s movements for peace in Africa and the Middle East. In their Nobel Prize speeches, they each cited Martin Luther King as a source of hope and inspiration.

Gbowee’s speech recounted the terror of war in Liberia, which included rape and sexual abuse. Despite the horrors she had witnessed, she remained hopeful that nonviolence can improve things. She quoted King’s words: “Violence never brings permanent peace. It solves no social problem; it merely creates new and more complicated ones.”

Sirleaf spoke of the need for continued expansion of democracy and women’s rights. She said, “I urge my sisters, and my brothers, not to be afraid. Be not afraid to denounce injustice, though you may be outnumbered. Be not afraid to seek peace, even if your voice may be small. Be not afraid to demand peace.” And she cited King’s optimistic idea that “The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice.”

Karman is the youngest person, and the first Arab woman, to be awarded the Peace Prize. In her speech she said that King’s idea of “the art of living in harmony” remains the most important thing we need to master. She expressed her hope as follow: “Mankind’s feeling of responsibility to create a decent life and make it worth living with dignity has always been stronger than the will to kill life. Despite great battles, the survival of the human race is the clearest expression of mankind’s yearning for reconstruction, not for destruction, for progress, not for regression and death.” Despite obstacles in Yemen and elsewhere, she foresees “a humane, prosperous and generous history full of love and fraternity.”

The spirit of hope in the face of violence and injustice is central to King’s message. In his last sermon in Memphis on April 3, 1968, he acknowledged the threats against him. But he explained that the struggle for justice was more important than his own life. King concluded: “Like anybody, I would like to live a long life. Longevity has its place. But I’m not concerned about that now. I just want to do God’s will.” He was killed the next day at age 39.

In that last sermon, he explained how moral courage works by retelling the story of the Good Samaritan. In Jesus’ original parable, two people—a priest and a Levite—walk past a wounded man on the road to Jericho. Only the Samaritan stops and helps.

King suggests that the first two men were too afraid to stop. The road to Jericho was dangerous—a prime place to be ambushed. The priest and the Levite may have been concerned about their own safety, possibly worrying that the injured man was faking it in order to take advantage.

King explains that they may have thought, “If I stop to help this man, what will happen to me?” But the Samaritan reversed the question: “If I do not stop to help this man, what will happen to him?”

This reversal is the key. When we stop asking, “what will happen to me?” and start asking, “what will happen to him?” our perspective is changed. Suspicion is replaced by care. Fear is transformed into hope. And self-interest becomes compassion.

It is hazardous to help others and to speak out against injustice. Evil dictators crush resistance; and bad guys do take advantage. But people who risk doing good, tend to experience the world in a hopeful, optimistic way.

In his own Nobel Prize speech, King admitted that “those who pioneer in the struggle for peace and freedom will still face uncomfortable jail terms and painful threats of death.” But in the end King says that it is possible to see “a tunnel of hope through the dark mountain of despair.” The fact that this message is being shared in places like Yemen and Liberia is good reason to remain hopeful.

December 31, 2011September 18, 2014

Let’s Raise a Glass for Those Days Gone By

Fresno Bee, December 31, 2011

New Year’s Eve is a time for nostalgia and regret. It is a time for remembrance about time gone past. It is a time for dreaming abouttomorrow. And it is a time for that old drinking song, “Auld Lang Syne.”

We sing that song at New Year’s, even though most of us don’t really know what it’s Scottish words really mean. The song goes: “For auld lang syne, my dear, for auld lang syne, we’ll take a cup of kindness yet, for auld lang syne.” Imagine raising your cup and swaying to the music, as you sing it. The cup is raised in a toast to the old times—the “old long since,” as it might be translated. We drink a salute to days gone by.

New Year’s Eve is for reminiscing: about both the good times and the bad. We celebrate our new friends and mourn those we’ve lost. We count our blessings and chew over our failures. Along the way, we might cook up some resolutions for the next year: ways of ensuring that the future is more satisfying and less disappointing.

Life is not, of course, without disappointment. And New Year’s Day often begins with a disillusioning hangover. A groggy morning is the bitter-sweet remembrance of the previous night’s elation. A hangover reminds us that no joy comes without pain.

The bleary-eyed melancholy of the morning after also reminds us that we are usually not very good at judging our own future interests. Concerns about tomorrow’s wooziness are rarely considered in deciding whether to get drunk tonight. That is why we borrow money, overeat, and fail to plan for retirement. If we were rational about these things, there would be no regrets. And we would keep our New Year’s resolutions.

Mark Twain mocked this human-all-too-human tendency in a column he wrote in 1863 for the New Year’s Day edition of the Virginia City newspaper. “Now is the accepted time to make your regular good resolutions. Next week you can begin paving hell with them as usual. Yesterday, everybody smoked his last cigar, took his last drink, and swore his last oath… Thirty days from now, we shall have cast our reformation to the winds.”

Twain was not opposed to drinking or to smoking. He is often pictured with a big cigar in hand. He said, “It’s easy to quit smoking, I’ve done it a hundred times.” Twain routinely mocked the advocates of temperance, who were lobbying to regulate alcohol consumption. He seemed to think that drinking made it possible to deal with life’s tragedies. He once remarked: “sometimes too much to drink is barely enough.”

Twain is not alone extolling the virtues of drink. Human beings have been consuming alcohol and other intoxicants for millennia. The ancient Egyptians brewed beer. Hammurabi’s Code includes regulations for tavern owners. And, of course, Jesus turned water into wine.

This last point is not insignificant. The origin of religion may have something to do with intoxication. The human mind craves varied and altered states of consciousness. We dance, we play, we sing, and we get drunk. And we willingly suffer from our excesses. If the original ecstasy is great enough, we can easily accept the suffering of the morning after.

One of Plato’s most interesting works—the Symposium—represents a wine-drenched drinking party. In fact, the Symposium takes place on the day after a previous night’s round of drinking: most of the participants are already hung-over. The topic for discussion at this party is love. Love is another sort of intoxication that we crave, even if it costs us significant suffering.

Plato also links love and drunkenness to wisdom. Drink loosens tongues. It allows the artistic imagination to wander. It helps people fall in love. It lubricates philosophical discussions. And it opens the memory to those days gone by.

Yes there are dangers here: drunken driving and alcoholism can both be deadly. Some form of moderation is in order: there is a right time and a right way to get drunk. We know that there may be hell to pay tomorrow. But for tonight, let’s raise a cup of kindness for those days of auld lang syne.