What Reza Aslan gets wrong on Star Trek: The Pod Directive

Two great tastes that taste great together: who wouldn’t be excited about the appearance of one of the most well-known Muslim-American religious thinkers on the new official Star Trek podcast featuring two great comedians? Reza Aslan is, admittedly, an unexpected choice for the second episode of this officially sanctioned interview podcast, but his insight into The Next Generation’s episode on allegorical language is interesting for Trekkers and non-Trek-people alike. His idea of the future of religion, though, seems to have some holes, and not only in the context of a Star Trek future.

I recognize that a casual pop culture podcast isn’t a rigorous academic argument, and that his rhetoric was decidedly targeted towards an audience who didn’t tune in to hear him pontificate on obscure religious topics. Aslan and I share a great many opinions about the state of religion in the modern world, but his vision of a Star Trek era of religion seems off, it isn’t even reflected in the Star Trek universe as it exists, and seems to miss key elements of his own religious definitions.

First, Aslan notes that early Trek was modeled after Gene Roddenberry’s atheistic inclinations, and that the lack of religion in the Roddenberry years was a reflection of his idea that it would become obsolete.

“For Roddenberry, when he imagined a distant future, that’s the assumption that he had [that science would render religion obsolete]. No one in their right mind makes those claims any longer, because they have all proven to be spectacularly false.”

He references data that there is not, in fact, an inverse correlation between economic or social progress and religion; the move to middle class causes more religion, not less. He’s referencing the World Catholic Encyclopedia, and the span of time involved is vast. Yes, viewed over a hundred years, we see that religions have spread, but this ignores the more recent trend away from organized religion. Religious “nones” are on the rise. In America, many may identify as spiritual, but not religious.

Of course, even this recent American trend is misleading, because, across the world population, religion is projected to increase significantly over time. This is basically because religious people tend to come from religious families, and religious families tend to have significantly more children. Projecting 40 years into the future, we see how religion continues to dominate world culture. But what about 200 years in the future? And what about American culture specifically? How might growing irreligiosity in the states influence worldwide trends?

His prediction is that the global population with continue to become scientifically advanced and technologically literate, which will eliminate the need for religion to answer those questions. The divide between religion and science, he claims, has narrowed over time; that, surprisingly, the mystics from 1000 years ago are now being shown to describe some of the most theoretical discoveries that science has to offer today.

“When you look in the distant future, […] what you are going to see is not the eradication of religion, or the dissociation of religion from society, or even more the complete separation of religion and science, you’re going to see the complete opposite. You’re going to see the convergence of religion and science.”

We’ve already seen this trend among the religiously affiliated and “nones.” Believers have been forced to reckon with their supernatural beliefs in the face of scientific evidence, just as non-believers have been forced to acknowledge that some of religion’s outlandish claims are, in a certain sense, borne out by evidence. As the amount of knowledge undiscovered by science continues to diminish, we’ll be further forced to recognize scientific answers to big questions over supernatural ones. This trend seems inevitable, and demonstrable with current trends, but Aslan loses me with the next step:

“If you ask me, ‘what will religion look like 200, 300 years from now?’ We’ll just call it science. There won’t be a difference between religion and science. That’s primarily because they answer two different questions: […] science’s fundamental question is ‘how?’ Religion’s fundamental question is ‘why?'”

What he’s describing is similar to the philosophy of Stephen Jay Gould, who conceived science and religion as “non-overlapping magisteria,” that is, two separate realms of thought which don’t infringe on one another. This way of thinking hasn’t stood up well to scrutiny over time, and for obvious reasons: things in the domain of science are frequently (and historically) appropriated by religion. For instance, if we wanted to study the efficacy of prayer, would this fall in the magisteria of religion or science? Certainly if we can conduct a study, this is a scientific pursuit; if science can be used to examine all physical phenomena we experience, where does the realm of religion even begin?

If, far into the future, science is able to chip away at the questions religion has historically answered, will that make science and religion converge? Wouldn’t that imply a unified world religion? There’s only one science, after all, yet many religions. If science leads us, universally, to the same conclusion, and we all understand that conclusion in the same way, there isn’t room for any religious interpretation. This converged science-religion isn’t much of a religion at all.

He seems to arrive at this conclusion by imaging a world where “how and why” are the same question, and he asserts that the Roddenberry idea that religion might be abandoned in the future (in favor of scientific discovery) is thus false. Host Tawny Newsome briefly mentions the robust religious identities of Klingons and Bajorans before the conversation pivots away from religion. These examples are, of course, post-Roddenberry and may not adhere to the same post-religious, scientific future that Roddenberry represented. But their example is actually a great counter to Aslan’s idea of a science-religion future.

The Klingons’ robust religious belief seems supernatural only in their concept of the afterlife, which provides a powerful psychological support as they frequently (and often recklessly) risk their lives in battle. The myriad customs surrounding their relationships (lots of hand slashing and bloodletting) all seem conducive to real-world applications for a warrior society. They don’t battle because “Khaless demands it” but because they have a cultural understanding that it is honorable, their God doesn’t demand sacrifice but rewards altruism. Outside of some lip-service paid to prayers, their beliefs seems remarkable non-supernatural. Their faith isn’t at odds with science.

The Bajorans believe lots of supernatural things, but these are, in the universe of Star Trek, actually scientific truths which are beyond the current understanding of their society. Their Gods are aliens in a spacial anomaly, and while no one quite understands their technology or non-temporal existence, it is made clear that these beings are constrained by the laws of the universe in some way. This is a demonstration of Arthur C. Clarke’s third law: any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.

There are so many religions depicted over the several series, like the Vulcans who treat logic as a sort of deity, or the Romulans, close biological relatives of the Vulcans, whose major difference is that they have abandoned this religion. There are episodes where science is used to dispel religious myth (Audra the Devil comes to mind), but never is an entire culture’s religion invalidated by a scientific argument. These religions co-exist with scientific truth, not only because they don’t attempt to explain scientific truths but because they codify a cultural understanding of the relationship between religion and science.

Aslan’s conception of religion is fundamentally semiotic. Consider his definition:

“[Religion is] an institutionalized system of symbols and metaphors that provide a common language for a community of faith to communicate, with each other and to themselves, the ineffable experience of being.”

Which is the whole point of his analysis of “Darmok,” that semiotics influences our experience. We’ll always need a common language to discuss the things which we struggle to name, and this will be the case for as long as communication is as limited as we currently experience it to be.

Perhaps I’ve misinterpreted Aslan’s “religion becomes science.” Perhaps he’s saying the same thing I am, that even once we’ve discovered all there is to discover about science, we’ll still need a way to discuss the things which science cannot describe. Science and religion always intersect, they cannot be “non-overlapping,” but our personal experience of scientific truth can be described in a variety of ways, and the diversity of religious options provide us a number of structures by which to conceptualize these relationships. Science cannot be a religion in this way, even by Aslan’s own definition, because it doesn’t attempt to communicate anything about “the ineffable experience of being.”

I see the future of religion more or less in the way Star Trek depicts it: a huge diversity of religious belief, much of it central to cultural identity, but all subservient to scientific truth. Science and religion can never converge, but they can peacefully co-exist, much as they do now in people like Reza Aslan, or in myself, a Catholic Atheist.

A final thought: imagine far into the future where we’ve not only discovered all the scientific truth the material world has to offer, but we’ve also transcended linguistic communication as we know it today. Maybe we’ve developed psychic abilities, or created technology to merge consciousness without language. Will we still have a need for religion in this future? If in the beginning was the Word, once we dispense with the need for words, does that imply the end of religion?

God and the Gay Christian

I consider Matthew Vines’ thoughtful work on biblical exegesis regarding sexual orientation to be seminal. Whenever confronted with the opinion that homosexuality is “unchristian” or “against the Bible,” I refer to this book first and foremost. By opening with quasi-memoir, Vines reveals his own deeply held beliefs, beliefs with closely mirror those of many who would dispute the conclusions of this book, and that gives him an extraordinary authority to be making these conclusions in the first place.

I’ve been somewhat shocked, though, to find that many evangelical literalists don’t find this compelling. They say that Vines uses “loopholes” or misapplies a cultural context to obscure biblical truth. I never imagined that I was biased in support of this book because it affirms my preexisting beliefs; I don’t agree with Vines on most of his theological beliefs in the first place. Still, was I uncritical in reading this book because it provided such a great answer to conservative evangelicals?

It is often hard to take any sort of biblical scholarship on its own terms. For instance, Vines uses some specific translation examples to show how the use of homosexuality in the text carries some connotations which mark it as different than our use of the word today. In fact, homosexuality wasn’t even addressed directly as such in English translations until well into the 60s! This opens a much larger debate about biblical translation and divine inspiration. If the Bible is divinely inspired anyway, then why are there so many translations? Is it only inspired in the original language? If the version of the Bible I’m reading isn’t the inerrant word of God, why should I treat it with such a high view?

The inability of anyone to address these issues directly is why literalists can avoid Vines’ arguments. Instead of engaging with the meat of the argument, they can simply say that they don’t believe in his analysis of the translation, or his reading of cultural context. And what can you say to that? The rules of the debate are fluid, so any dialogue in good faith is stymied. Of course, if anyone knew how to get around this problem, we’d have a much better cultural dialogue between evangelical Christianity and secular belief. As it is, we’re left with trying to engage with literalists on whatever ground they allow us to engage, which isn’t a great way to have a conversation!

I think Vines’ insight that committed same-sex relationships didn’t exist at the time of the writing of the Bible is worldview-changing. You don’t have to know a lot about cultural circumstances 2000 years ago to understand that they would understand homosexuality in some different way than we do today. I mean, you only have to think back 10 years to remember a time when we thought about orientation differently, so of course millennia past would be dramatically different!

I also understand the critique that the Bible should stand on its own, but frankly, it doesn’t. So much of literal interpretation is reliant on a preexisting knowledge of Jewish sacrificial rites, for instance, that we can’t possibly assume that everything within those pages would be timeless and self-contained. It’s why I find critiques of Vines cultural context argument silly; why should we need to know the historical context of Pontius Pilate and regional governance systems, but ignore the cultural systems surrounding same-sex relations?

I’m still going to use this as a touchtone whenever I’m faced with homophobic evangelicalism, of course. And I’ll probably be met with the same resistance I’ve described, of course. But those disagreements are part of a larger pattern of biblical literalists failing to argue in good faith, not a failing of this book’s powerful arguments.

After God

I came to the BBC docu-series The Sea of Faith by way of the Samuel Barber musical setting of the Matthew Arnold poem which its title references. I later discovered it’s author and narrator, Don Cupitt, was a prolific writer and former priest. I’ve been familiar with his work long enough to cherish his contributions to religious thought but I only recently revisited After God, a stunning gem of a book which is made even more remarkable by how prescient it seems nearly 25 years after its publication.

Cupitt’s writing is so unusual because he splits his attention between laypeople and academics yet never fails either. His references to the philosophical canon are deep, yet if you don’t know the citation you’re immediately made aware of its importance without his ever being patronizing. He is fluent in the technical language of Kant but speaks as directly and colloquially as a friend.

His writing, viewed some 25 years later, rarely feels dated. His interest in Derrida, Foucault, and the post-structuralists feels of it’s time: those writers today are relegated to a historical tradition which doesn’t place them much higher than other writers, but much of the writing from the later half of the 20th century feels like a direct response to them. His construction of religion as language feels steeped in Wittgenstein; I don’t think a contemporary writer would try to frame his argument thus nor rely so heavily on the construction of language.

The prescience he demonstrates in his examination of religious history is culminated in his remarks about literalism. He nearly predicts our current climate of intensely divided ideology. He links this dying conservatism to authoritarianism, which is clearly demonstrated in a current day Republican Party which follows no ideology but seeks only power-for-power’s-sake. He presages the continued decline of religion- since he wrote in the 90s, the number of religiously unaffiliated people has probably doubled, or more. What seemed like a crisis in the 90s today is an unabated trend.

And yet there are still believers! I agree with him that, in the future, all philosophy will be naturalistic. Yet we’re still arguing those basic points today! The Sea of Faith has ebbed but not emptied. Its supporters believe it can be refilled, without any major reformation. His writing is unequivocally one of the greatest influences on my own belief in The Catholic Atheist, and yet he, and I, remain somewhat lonely in our crusade to de-mystify religious theology and reform religious life. Why isn’t Cupitt a worldwide sensation? Why hasn’t he changed our world, the way he’s changed mine?

If I knew the answer to this, perhaps I could get my book published. In the meanwhile, it is worth noting that Cupitt’s plea to begin the creation of a worldwide religion has been largely unheeded. What is needed is not a new Catholicism, but a global sense of unity, tolerance, and inclusivity which defines a new world religious sensibility. We can keep our tribal sects, we should embrace our beautiful differences. But the only path forward is one in which religious traditions drop the dogma and embrace pluralism, one where theology is supplanted with self-examination, where absolute truth is replaced with the Blissful Void. “What of all this deserves to survive will survive.” But only if the process of post-modernization doesn’t destroy that which we already value.