Richard Dawkins

I mean it as a compliment when I say that you could almost define a philosopher as someone who won’t take common sense for an answer.

The creation of the world is the most marvellous achievement imaginable.
The merit of an achievement is the product of (a) its intrinsic quality, and (b) the ability of its creator.
The greater the disability (or handicap) of the creator, the more impressive the achievement.
The most formidable handicap for a creator would be non-existence.
Therefore if we suppose that the universe is the product of an existent creator we can conceive a greater being – namely, one who created everything while not existing.

It’s unfortunately true – and the internet brings it home as never before – that people simply make stuff up.

The great eighteenth-century Scottish philosopher David Hume had something to say about miracles, and I’d like to talk about it because it’s important. I’ll put
it in my own words. If somebody claims to have seen a miracle – makes, for example, the miraculous claim that Jesus rose from his grave, or the miraculous claim that the boy Jesus turned mud into sparrows – there are two possibilities.

Possibility 1: It really happened.

Possibility 2: The witness is mistaken – or is lying, was hallucinating, has been misreported, saw a conjuring trick, etc.

You might say: ‘This witness is so reliable, I’d trust him with my life, and there were lots of other witnesses – it would be a miracle if he was lying or otherwise mistaken.’ But Hume would retort: All well and good, but even if you think Possibility 2 would be a miracle, you’d surely admit that Possibility 1 is even more miraculous. When you have a choice of two possibilities, always choose the less miraculous

The Song is a wonderful poetic expression of sexual love between a woman and a man. But what does the Christian commentary say at the top of the page? ‘The mutual love of Christ and his church.’ Priceless. And utterly typical of the way theologians think: ignore what is actually being said, and pretend it was all intended to be a symbol or a metaphor.

Perhaps you’ve seen Monty Python’s film Life of Brian ? The hero, Brian, is unfortunately mistaken for the Messiah. Running frantically away from the adoring crowds, he drops a gourd and also loses one of his sandals. Almost immediately there is a ‘schism’ with the worshippers splitting into two rival groups. One group follows the sacred sandal, the other group the sacred gourd. Do see the film if you get the chance – it is very funny indeed, and a perfect satire on the way religions get started.

that
consequentialist thought experiments sometimes lead in uncomfortable directions. Suppose a coal miner is trapped underground by a fall of rock. We could rescue him, but it would cost a lot of money. What else might we do with that money? We could save a lot more lives and reduce a lot more suffering by spending it on food for starving children around the world. Shouldn’t a true consequentialist abandon the poor miner to his fate, never mind his weeping wife and children? Maybe, but I wouldn’t. I couldn’t bear to leave him underground. Could you? But it’s hard to justify the decision to rescue him on purely consequentialist grounds. Not impossible but hard

I like the phrase ‘History written all over us’. When we get cold, we get goosebumps. That’s because our ancestors were hairy. When they got cold, each hair rose to thicken the layer of air trapped by the hairs that would keep us warm. Like putting on another sweater. We are no longer hairy all over our bodies. But the little hair-erecting muscles are still there. And they still – uselessly – respond to cold by raising non-existent hairs. Our hairy history is written all over our bare skin. Written in goosebumps.

we are likely to mistake a shadow for a burglar; we are unlikely to mistake a burglar for a shadow. We have a bias towards seeing agents, even when there aren’t any. And religion is all about seeing agency all around us.

Useless or superstitious beliefs, like the need to pray five times a day, or the need to sacrifice a goat to cure malaria, get passed on as a byproduct of sensible beliefs – or rather, as a byproduct of child brains being shaped by natural selection to believe parents, teachers, priests and other elders. And that is favoured by natural selection, because much of what elders tell children is sensible.