Some True Believers fear the worst;
They say all sinners, Eden-cursed
Have only till May twenty-first.

Though earnestly these groups have beckoned,
I think it’s not as they have reckoned:
We’ll still be here the twenty-second.

Since well before Leon Festinger made a name for himself with When Prophecy Fails, end-of-days cultists have been busily proving themselves fools. So, why would a Cuttlefish even mention yet another misguided attempt at prophecy?

It’s not the prophet. It’s the profit.

I am, selflessly, making my donations button available to any True Believers who wish to demonstrate their limitless faith by divesting themselves of all their worldly goods. For those whose faith is not quite at 100%, I will even agree to refund you a portion of your donation after May 22nd (the portion is up to you–if you are only 10% faithful, you could get 90% back; 50% faithful, 50% back, and so on). Of course, god is watching (as far as you know), so be honest about your faith!

For the rest of us faithless bunch, I join with many others in hoping some news organization puts a camera on some of these people in late May. The ultimate reality show–“Confronting Reality”–in which the gradual realization that one has been an idiot is captured for the entertainment of others.

The New Year’s rolled around once more—
As hopeful as can be—
And so I took some quiet time
To brew a cup of tea
It wasn’t for the calming drink
Oh, no, I wanted more:
I had to read the leaves to see
What this year has in store.

This year, to find my fortune,
Reading tea-leafs is the way!
Why trust in Nostradamus
When you could have had Earl Grey?
But with the sort of clarity
Enlightenment achieves,
When I looked into my teacup
All I saw were… soggy leaves.

I had to try a second time—
Perhaps it’s in the stars!
Some interactive influence
With Jupiter or Mars.
Positions of the planets,
I believed with all my heart,
Would tell me of the coming year,
And so I made my chart.

Astrologers had told me,
“As above, so too below”
But as I worked the numbers
It was clear, I didn’t know—
Our lives do not depend
On distant balls of rock or gas;
Some ancient fortune-teller
Pulled the whole thing from his ass.

The third time is a charm, they say,
And so, to test that quote,
I thought I’d read some entrails
So I sacrificed a goat.
I’d heard it said, with skill and care,
My future could be seen
In length of small intestine
And position of the spleen.

I dumped out all its viscera—
Its liver, lungs, and heart,
Esophagus to rectum, and
I wondered where to start
Consulting with the ancient charts
I thought I might be nuts;
The only thing I really saw
Were lots of smelly guts.

I thought I might try augury,
But found it for the birds
My Ouija Board was useless,
And it spelled out nonsense words
My tarot deck, a waste of time,
And so, of course, was prayer;
No use to talk to heaven
When there is no heaven there.

A Cheiromancer told me
She could read it in my hand
When she asked me for some money
I began to understand
So… no more reading crystals,
Smoke, or fire, or cookie crumbs—
For Two Thousand And Eleven
Take the future as it comes!

Source

Religion began as a means of control,
And a Grand Explanation, perhaps;
From the simplest of spirits to greatest of gods
We’re just trying to fill in the gaps.

Why does the sun rise? Why does it rain?
Why is there death, and disease?
Religion began, cos we didn’t know how
To find answers to questions like these.

Where base superstition and ignorance thrives
Knowledge brings power and perks,
And when good information is scarce to be found,
Then making up bullshit still works.

So, do what I tell you God tells me to tell you—
Obey me, each woman and man!
Don’t question my word—now, that’s rule number one—
And that’s how religion began.

Cuttlecap tip to PZed.

It is christmas morning at cuttlehouse. I am the only one awake at the moment, aside from the cats who woke me. Years ago, by this time, our young children would have been whispering excitedly back and forth from their rooms, eager to pounce on their presents. Christmas morning was magic for them, and because of that, it was magic for us.

This year, the Cuttlekids are back from college. Sleeping in holds more appeal than the early start on presents. But they are both here, and so there is a new sort of christmas magic for me. Perhaps in a few more years, the cycle will repeat itself. For now, I am enjoying this calmer, quieter magic.

Happy Christmas to all of you, too. I hope it is a good day for you. We all could use a few of those, I’m sure.

Hush-a-bye puppy
Here on the bed
No need for barking
Lay down your head
I know it’s scary
When everything’s dark
But Daddy’s still grading,
Puppy, don’t bark!

On the plus side, no burglar will ever come within 50 feet of the house without the dogs barking their heads off. On the minus side, I will have habituated to this barking, and will sleep soundly while the burglar relieves us of our valuables. On the plus side, we have no valuables. On the minus side, we have no valuables.

There are promises made of a life everlasting,
Though first we bid this one good-bye,
Of a feast up in heaven we all will be tasting—
I’m happily waiting to die.

There is beauty around me—I choose to ignore it—
To heaven I’m casting my eye;
Though heathens fear death, I am eagerly for it
I’m happily waiting to die.

The atheist folks are so angry and bitter
As heaven itself they deny
They fight against death; I am gladly a quitter;
I’m happily waiting to die.

They see beauty on earth, or they look through the Hubble
At galaxies strewn through the sky,
What a miserable lot—why, it’s not worth the trouble—
I’m happily waiting to die.

When loved ones pass on, why, the atheists grieve them
I can’t for a moment see why;
There are stories of heaven—why can’t they believe them?
I’m happily waiting to die.

The atheists all must be daft or deluded
They listen to me and they sigh
I’ve looked—not around, but inside, and concluded
I’m happily waiting to die.

You know, it doesn’t take much translation to turn a perfectly ordinary sermon into the rants of Jim Jones, Charles Manson, or Marshall Applewhite. “Life everlasting”, that extraordinary reward that comes after this miserable existence here on earth, sounds so wonderful. Golly gosh, let’s all go gentle into that dark night!

Except, it’s not just a lie, it’s an insult. My brother died this year; are his daughters supposed to be happy that their daddy is in an even better life now than the mundane one he stumbled through with them? How much happier he must be, lounging around adoring a deity instead of working in the garden with them.

No wonder people like Tim Moyle find that all atheists are angry. I suppose if horseflies or mosquitos were to describe humans in one word, it would be “slappy”.

Maybe Moyle isn’t bitter, himself… but he’s a carrier.

It’s tough to be Christian, when Christmastime comes,
What with Santa, and reindeer, and elves,
With other religions, or secular folks,
And people who think for themselves

The Christian religion has changed, over time,
And it makes us all anxious as hell,
When the season arrives, and it’s not just for us,
But for other religions as well!

My neighbors are having their holiday feast
And it’s making me angry to see—
Devoutly expressing their deeply felt faith…
But a different religion than me!

The Christian majority’s under attack,
When the holidays force us to share—
We need recognition that’s Christian alone;
Without it, we don’t have a prayer.

Oh, yes, Christmas is a tough time for believers, according to the New York Times’ Ross Douthat, in December 20th’s op-ed

Christmas is hard for everyone. But it’s particularly hard for people who actually believe in it.

Mind you, that depends on what your definition of “it” is. I love christmas, but I doubt that I believe in the same christmas as Douthat, or he in mine.

In a sense, of course, there’s no better time to be a Christian than the first 25 days of December. But this is also the season when American Christians can feel most embattled. Their piety is overshadowed by materialist ticky-tack. Their great feast is compromised by Christmukkwanzaa multiculturalism. And the once-a-year churchgoers crowding the pews beside them are a reminder of how many Americans regard religion as just another form of midwinter entertainment, wedged in between “The Nutcracker” and “Miracle on 34th Street.”

These anxieties can be overdrawn, and they’re frequently turned to cynical purposes. (Think of the annual “war on Christmas” drumbeat, or last week’s complaints from Republican senators about the supposed “sacrilege” of keeping Congress in session through the holiday.) But they also reflect the peculiar and complicated status of Christian faith in American life. Depending on the angle you take, Christianity is either dominant or under siege, ubiquitous or marginal, the strongest religion in the country or a waning and increasingly archaic faith.

Oddly enough, it doesn’t bother me at all that Douthat celebrates as he does, or believes as he does. But it does seem to bother him that I, an atheist, have a christmas tree, with christmas presents underneath it, and christmas cookies, and songs, poems, traditions, and the like, and not a bit of it dependent on Douthat’s notions of Christmas. And I suspect that, if he ever actually got the chance to read my blog, he’d have noticed if I had written “Xmas” instead of “Christmas”, but thought nothing of the odd term “Christmukkwanzaa”, since demeaning terms for other traditions are fine.

Yes, it’s tough to be a christian at christmastime.

When we battle slings and arrows
And the path before us narrows
Or when shock or illness harrows
Us, and bedrock yaws and pitches
Though we battle against giants,
We find aid, in our defiance,
When we use the tools of science—
Why? Because they work, bitches.

(click to embiggen!)
(image from XKCD, of course)

At least three times a week, my first stop (after letting the dogs out and making coffee) is XKCD. My guess is, the vast majority of my readers do the same (unless, of course, they don’t have dogs). But in case you hadn’t checked yet, here it is, once again with a message as simple yet powerful as those stick figure drawings. If you are a regular follower, you’ll recognize “this illness” as having particular poignance this time. After this year, I can relate.

As published in 1863…

When Johnny comes marching home again
Hurrah! Hurrah!
We’ll give him a hearty welcome then
Hurrah! Hurrah!
The men will cheer and the boys will shout
The ladies they will all turn out
And we’ll all feel gay
When Johnny comes marching home.

The old church bell will peal with joy
Hurrah! Hurrah!
To welcome home our darling boy,
Hurrah! Hurrah!
The village lads and lassies say
With roses they will strew the way,
And we’ll all feel gay
When Johnny comes marching home.

Get ready for the Jubilee,
Hurrah! Hurrah!
We’ll give the hero three times three,
Hurrah! Hurrah!
The laurel wreath is ready now
To place upon his loyal brow
And we’ll all feel gay
When Johnny comes marching home.

Let love and friendship on that day,
Hurrah, hurrah!
Their choicest pleasures then display,
Hurrah, hurrah!
And let each one perform some part,
To fill with joy the warrior’s heart,
And we’ll all feel gay
When Johnny comes marching home.

So, after the Senate’s vote last night, I was toying around with a couple of different potential verses (may still work one of them out), including possibly re-working some traditional song. This one came to mind, and I thought about either writing one with a modern, gay Johnny, or perhaps one with John McCain as Johnny (Republicans will whine and pout, that no-one ought to serve while out”), and I realized I needed to take a look at the original lyrics.

They were already perfect.

Amazing what a change of context can do. So, yeah–let love and friendship on this day their choicest pleasures now display! This is a good day for anyone who actually cares about equal rights.

Add oomph to your writing;
Make science exciting—
Cos everyone loves a nice scan!
Make “neurotheology”
Look like biology—
Look! It’s the brain of a man!
Both god-contemplation
And deep meditation
Show frontal-lobe action, it seems;
But scanning a brain
Doesn’t really explain
All that neurotheology dreams.
Whether fishers of men
Or seekers of zen,
In the scan, we can see what we wish;
But now, let’s examine
The brain of a salmon—
Is there god in the head of a fish?

From NPR again, a story that combines some of the things I really really hate about the new, sexy machines that neuroscientists can use. A mediocre study that might not get a second glance gets gussied up with a brain scan or two, and suddenly it’s cutting edge science. Humbug. What’s more, a brain image, even an image of a brain at work, is a snapshot. Brains are not snapshots. Looking at a scan of the function of a number of adult brains really tells us very little about what those brains are doing, and tells us nothing at all about what sort of history led to the activity seen today.

The researchers found an increase in frontal lobe activity during meditation.

“They had improvements of about 10 or 15 percent,” [Dr. Andrew] Newberg [director of research at the Myrna Brind Center of Integrative Medicine at Thomas Jefferson University and Hospital in Philadelphia] says. “This is only after eight weeks at 12 minutes a day, so you can imagine what happens in people who are deeply religious and spiritual and are doing these practices for hours a day for years and years.”

Yes, imagine. You’ll have to, because the study did nothing of the sort. In fact, brain scans of experts (say, for instance, in chess) show less activity than novices, arguably because they are so good that there is less actual effort expended. So, can we assume that 8 weeks of practice can be extrapolated to a lifetime? I don’t know. Frankly, I don’t much care; others can be interested in what’s going on in the brain–I’m more interested in what’s going on in the interaction between the individual and their environment over the years that shape them. The brain is not the “why”–the brain is part of the “how”.