When Is It OK to Believe?

Rev. Anthony David

February 11, 2007

Several years ago, I was reading the Sunday comics and came across this one from Charles Schultz’ Peanuts. It begins with Lucy and Snoopy, sitting down together, but Lucy is facing the other way so she doesn’t know that Snoopy is beside her. Lucy is morose, and she says to herself, “Sometimes I think no one is ever going to love me.” She says, “Sometimes I think no one is ever going to want to lean over and kiss me. No one loves me.” Hearing this, Snoopy turns around, puckers up, and since he’s a beagle and can’t talk, thinks to her: “Look over here, Sweetie.” But Lucy continues on—to her, there’s just not enough evidence at hand to convince her she’s loveable. And so: “No one even likes me.” She keeps on at this, even though Snoopy is leaning over towards her, lips ready for a kiss, thinking “Look at me, sweetie … I’m leaning over … hurry up and look!” But Lucy is caught up in her negative self-talk: “No one cares about me.” Meanwhile, Snoopy has increased his lean towards her, to the point that he’s almost off balance, and the thought balloon above his head says, “I can’t stand this way forever, sweetie… Look at me!” But Lucy continues to say to herself, “No one loves me.” By this time, Snoopy is frantic. He thinks to her (since he’s a beagle and can’t talk), “I’m falling! Kiss me! Hurry up! I’m here! I’m falling! I’m falling!” And then he falls. KLUNK. At which point, Lucy, still oblivious to everything around her, says, “I don’t think anyone is ever going to love me.” And the thought balloon above Snoopy’s head says, “Sweetie, you’re probably right.”

How many of you can relate with Lucy? There Lucy sits, waiting for sufficient evidence that she is loveable; and until that hard evidence shows up, she’s going to remain skeptical towards the possibility of love. She’s even going to say to herself, over and over again, “no one likes me.” That’s what she’s going to do. The only problem is that this might not be a time for skepticism. Skepticism here is not helpful, but faith is. Lucy has got to have faith that she is loveable first, and it’s faith that will help to create the fact. Faith would open her up to the possibility that someone might be leaning in towards her, ready to give her a smooch. Skepticism shuts the door to that, but faith opens it.

And that’s the issue before us today. Balancing skepticism and faith in the spiritual life. I want to define the spiritual life as one in which we are intentional and mindful about how we are relating to reality, in all its fullness; and sometimes, the task before us is to clear away illusion and get beyond false certainties. That’s where skepticism comes in. But other times, the task is to help create a fact—like the fact of a relationship with Snoopy—which won’t happen unless we have faith. Skepticism and faith both have a role to play in the spiritual life. But each has a proper place and time.

Let’s take a closer look, and we’ll do this in the context a great debate that took place in the nineteenth century, between two outstanding thinkers and philosophers of the age who both happened to share the same first name: William Clifford and William James. William Clifford spoke up for skepticism, and took the position that “it is wrong always, everywhere, and for anyone, to believe anything upon insufficient evidence.” William James, on the other hand, spoke up for faith, and took the position that sometimes, and about some things,  a person may have a perfect right to believe even if the evidence is insufficient and not frontloaded, or certain, or all there at the start.

Start with William Clifford and his principle of sufficient evidence. It’s a categorical, clear, cut-and-dried principle. And note why: he affirmed it wholeheartedly because he saw beliefs ultimately leading to action. They always and inevitably escape the privacy of mere thought. Beliefs impact others, the earth, and ourselves; and so to believe anything upon insufficient evidence is to risk harm to humanity.

Here’s how Clifford illustrates this—through a parable about the owner of a certain ship. Listen to this parable: “A shipowner was about to send to sea an emigrant-ship. He knew the ship was old, and not over-well built at the first; that she had seen many seas and climes, and often had needed repairs. These doubts preyed upon his mind, and made him unhappy; he thought that perhaps he ought to have her thoroughly overhauled and refitted, even though this should put him to great expense. [However, before] the ship sailed, he succeeded in overcoming these melancholy reflections. He said to himself that she had gone safely through so many voyages and weathered so many storms that it was idle to suppose she would not come safely home from this trip also. He would put his trust in Providence, which could hardly fail to protect all these unhappy families that were leaving their fatherland to see for better times elsewhere. He would dismiss from his mind all ungenerous suspicions about the honesty of builders and contractors. In such ways he acquired a sincere and comfortable conviction that his vessel was thoroughly safe and seaworthy; he watched her departure with a light heart, and benevolent wishes for the success of the exiles in their strange new home that was to be; and he got his insurance money when she went down in mid-ocean and told no tales.”

That’s the parable. Why did the shipowner believe that the ship was safe? Not because he had investigated the structure of the ship first hand, or had hired experts to do so; not because of sufficient hard evidence of its seaworthiness, which could have decided the issue conclusively; but because of self-deception on the basis of wanting something too much. Passion won over intellect. He wanted to save money and he wanted the voyage to take place sooner rather than later. And so, he invented one rationalization after another, and in the end, it numbed his conscience and led to his belief that the ship would be safe. 

Now, can you think of any ships, metaphorically speaking, that have been launched out into the world unjustifiably? Ships that would never have been launched if sufficient hard evidence had been collected first, and if skepticism had kept wants and passions and fears in proper proportion, disciplined and at bay? One is most certainly our current military presence in Iraq. That ship was sent out despite faulty intelligence, approved by leaders in both political parties (I refuse to play favorites in this), and now, years later, we are where we are. I say all this without wanting to denigrate our men and women fighting in the military—not at all. God bless them and keep them. The way forward is unclear, and troubling. We’re just going to do the best we can. But all I’m wanting to suggest here is that a nineteenth century philosopher’s parable about the uses of skepticism, and the need to base decisions on sufficient evidence, is nothing anachronistic or dry-as-dust abstract at all.

William Clifford’s principle is that “it is wrong always, everywhere, and for anyone, to believe anything upon insufficient evidence.” It is wrong for passion to win over intellect. It is wrong to believe anything that doesn’t emerge out of hard evidence. It is wrong, and there are harmful consequences that result. How many of you resonate with Clifford’s thinking here? But now it is time to turn to our second William, William James. James happened to respect Clifford greatly—called him “that delicious enfant terrible of the nineteenth century”—but nevertheless took a different perspective on the question of when is it OK to believe. Although I should point out, right from the start, that James did agree with Clifford on several things: first, that beliefs definitely matter and have a public impact; and second, that the skeptical habit of respecting doubts and testing ideas is invaluable. He agreed on this, and I think it would get a hearty endorsement from most if not all Unitarian Universalists. 

But James also felt that Clifford went way too far. “It is wrong always, everywhere, and for anyone, to believe anything upon insufficient evidence”—really? I mean, yes, the shipowner should have sidelined his wants and hopes and allowed his impartial intellect to decide the issue, since it was the kind of issue that impartial intellect could have solved. But not every issue is like this. What happens, says James, when there is a fact-possibility that won’t happen unless you first have faith in its possibility, and then act as if it were true? Here, to wait until all the evidence is in is actually to prevent evidence from coming. It’s not because you’re being intellectually lazy; it has more to do with the inherent character of the subject at hand. I’m talking relationships, like the one between Lucy and Snoopy. And I’m talking ultimates, like the relationship between ourselves and the whole she-bang, the universe, the Sacred.

Here is where James balks at Clifford’s skepticism. There are times when a courageous risk-taking in pursuit of truth must trump fear of error. Is life worth living? Can I trust my spiritual hungers, even if they cause me to take the road less traveled? Is there a sacredness to the universe that can change and transform us, if we turn towards it and allow it to kiss us? Can my small actions make a difference? All of these are urgent spiritual questions, and to know their truth first hand, one must have faith. One must live into the possibility that each of them points to, for the possibility to become real. But to hang back and hold out in skepticism, to insist that we shall go no farther unless sufficient evidence is before us, or until all the experts agree and speak with one voice—it paralyzes us, gets us nowhere.  

Listen to what James has to say: “It is as if a man should hesitate indefinitely to ask a certain woman to marry him because he was not perfectly sure that she would prove an angel after he brought her home. Would he not cut himself off from that particular angel-possibility as decisively as if he went and married someone else?” That’s what James asks, and the answer is yes, he would cut himself off from that particular angel possibility. The answer is yes.

My sermon today is all about angel possibilities. Opening ourselves to them, or cutting ourselves off. It’s all irrelevant, of course, if we confine ourselves to talking about things like ships, which are what they are, and no amount of subjective wishing or hoping or wanting will change their physical structure. But human beings are so much more than physical structures. So much of what makes us human is tied up with values, relationships, ultimates. Angel possibilities are present in them all, and whether or not the possibilities become actualities is up to us. Meeting them half way helps make them happen. Fear of error is not so much the goal as is a courageous pursuit of truth, and risk taking.

James definitely felt this way about religious realities. Perhaps there is a sense in which a God or Goddess or Great Spirit or Tao or Brahman or something else beyond all we think we know leans towards us, like Snoopy in the cartoon, but we shall never experience this first-hand unless we try meeting this Great Spirit half way. Thus James talks about the universe becoming no longer a mere IT to us, but rather a THOU. Yes, there is risk here. We may open ourselves in love to the Thou, and there is no Thou there. Love pulls at us, but in the end our hearts might be broken. Yet not to try—not to open the door to this angel possibility…. James says it like this: “The person who shuts himself up in snarling logicality and tries to make the gods extort his recognition willy-nilly, or not get it at all, might cut himself off forever from his only chance of making the gods’ acquaintance.”

There may very well be a Great Cosmic Snoopy leaning towards us, ready to give us a smooch. We can’t know, until we live into that and see for ourselves. And I want to tell you how grateful I am that this church and Unitarian Universalism as a whole does not decide the issue for us, and refuses to equate itself with belief in God, or with belief that the sacred is a human creation only, or with some other belief. Fact is, this church hangs back regarding these and so many other specific issues—it steps back and shrugs its shoulders and says “I don’t know.” And here’s why: so you and I don’t do that. So you and I aren’t able to rest on the institution’s laurels. It means we have to find out for ourselves, in a way that makes sense to us. It means we are freed to live the search for meaning with integrity and authenticity, and amidst a rich diversity. The church shrugs its shoulders around classic religious beliefs like God or the soul or personal immortality—it shrugs its shoulders and says “I don’t know … I don’t know”—because what it DOES know is that such beliefs are way too important to be accepted second hand, just because your church says so. Such beliefs change your entire way of seeing and acting within the world. They are too important to believe just because the church or the pastor say so. In fact, whenever I am expected to believe something just because some authority figure says so, do you know what I do? I reach for my skepticism. I’ll venture a guess that you do as well. And I think that’s right!

People, the way before us is risky. We want sufficient evidence that will silence all doubts, and sometimes, about some things, it’s right to hold out for this. But other times, it’s not. There are experiences that will come true only if we have faith in their coming, and we act as if they are already real. It means living at risk. It’s just as writer Ray Bradbury once said: "Living at risk is jumping off the cliff and building your wings on the way down." That’s what the spiritual life can be like. You jump off that cliff, and you build your wings on the way down. You do it because you are going to meet the wind half-way. Meet it half-way, love it with a whole heart, so it can set you flying, and set you free.