Robert Sapolsky Explains the Biological Basis of Religiosity, and What It Shares in Common with OCD, Schizophrenia & Epilepsy

Since the 19th cen­tu­ry, thinkers like Lud­wig Feuer­bach, Friedrich Niet­zsche, and Sig­mund Freud have the­o­rized reli­gion as a strict­ly psy­cho­log­i­cal and anthro­po­log­i­cal phe­nom­e­non born of the ten­den­cy of the human mind to project its con­tents out into the heav­ens. The Dar­win­ian rev­o­lu­tion pro­vid­ed anoth­er framework—one ground­ed in exper­i­men­tal science—to explain reli­gion. Social sci­en­tists like Pas­cal Boy­er have inte­grat­ed these par­a­digms in com­pre­hen­sive accounts of the ori­gins of reli­gious belief, and in the­o­ries like E.O. Wilson’s Socio­bi­ol­o­gy, evo­lu­tion­ary biol­o­gy pro­vides an expla­na­tion for all social phe­nom­e­na, of which reli­gion is but one among many human adap­ta­tions. Advances in neu­ro­bi­ol­o­gy have fur­thered sci­en­tists’ under­stand­ing of reli­gion as a prod­uct not only of human con­scious­ness, but also of the phys­i­cal struc­ture of the brain. In exper­i­ments like the “God hel­met,” for exam­ple, sci­en­tists can induce reli­gious expe­ri­ences by prod­ding cer­tain areas of sub­jects’ brains.

It is in this con­text of psy­chol­o­gy, anthro­pol­o­gy, and evo­lu­tion­ary and neu­ro­bi­ol­o­gy that we need to sit­u­ate the lec­ture above from Stan­ford pro­fes­sor Robert Sapol­sky. Where many crit­ics of reli­gion explic­it­ly reject reli­gious author­i­ty and belief, Sapol­sky, though him­self “stri­dent­ly athe­is­tic,” has no such agen­da. As an arti­cle in the Col­orado Springs Inde­pen­dent puts it, “he’s no Christo­pher Hitchens.” Sapol­sky freely admits, as do many scientists—religious and non—that reli­gion has many ben­e­fits: “It makes you feel bet­ter. It tends to decrease anx­i­ety, and it gets you a com­mu­ni­ty.” How­ev­er, he claims, these pos­i­tives are the result of evo­lu­tion­ary adap­ta­tions, not proofs of any super­nat­ur­al realm. In fact, reli­gios­i­ty, Pro­fes­sor Sapol­sky argues above, is bio­log­i­cal­ly based and relat­ed to seem­ing­ly much less adap­tive traits like obses­sive com­pul­sive dis­or­der, schiz­o­phre­nia, and epilep­sy.

Part of a lec­ture course on “Human Behav­ioral Biol­o­gy” at Stan­ford, the reli­gion lec­ture is one Sapol­sky admits he is “most ner­vous for, sim­ply because this one peo­ple wind up hav­ing strong opin­ions about.” As he moves ahead, he presents his case (with occa­sion­al inter­rup­tions from his stu­dents) for reli­gios­i­ty as a result of nat­ur­al selec­tion, con­nect­ing belief to the selec­tion of genes for dis­eases like Tay-Sachs, the exis­tence of which can help to explain dispir­it­ing his­tor­i­cal cas­es like the Euro­pean Pogroms against the Jews in the Mid­dle Ages. Through­out his lec­ture, Sapol­sky makes con­nec­tions between reli­gios­i­ty and biol­o­gy, the­o­riz­ing, for exam­ple, that St. Paul had tem­po­ral-lobe epilep­sy.

At the end of his lec­ture, around the 1:19:30 mark, Sapol­sky issues a dis­claimer about what he’s “not say­ing”: “I’m not say­ing ‘you got­ta be crazy to be reli­gious.’ That would be non­sense. Nor am I say­ing, even, that most peo­ple who are, are psy­chi­atri­cal­ly sus­pect.” What he is say­ing, he con­tin­ues, is that “the same exact traits which in a sec­u­lar con­text are life-destroy­ing” and “sep­a­rate you from the com­mu­ni­ty” are, “at the core of what is pro­tect­ed, what is sanc­tioned, what is reward­ed, what is val­ued in reli­gious set­tings.” What fas­ci­nates Sapol­sky is the “under­ly­ing biol­o­gy” of these traits. Sapol­sky even con­fess­es that he “most regrets” his own break with the Ortho­dox reli­gion of his upbring­ing, but that his athe­ism is some­thing he “appears to be unable to change.” The ques­tions Sapol­sky asks broad­ly cov­er the phys­i­cal deter­min­ism of gain­ing faith, and of los­ing it, which he says, is “just as bio­log­i­cal.” What we are to make of all this is a ques­tion he leaves open.

You can watch Sapolsky’s full series of lec­tures on Behav­ioral Biol­o­gy here, and for a ful­ly anno­tat­ed sum­ma­ry of his reli­gios­i­ty lec­ture above, see this site.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Stanford’s Robert Sapol­sky Demys­ti­fies Depres­sion

Biol­o­gy That Makes Us Tick: Free Stan­ford Course by Robert Sapol­sky

Do Your­self a Favor and Watch Stress: Por­trait of a Killer (with Stan­ford Biol­o­gist Robert Sapol­sky)

Dopamine Jack­pot! Robert Sapol­sky on the Sci­ence of Plea­sure

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian based in Durham, NC. Fol­low him at @jdmagness

George Harrison’s Mystical, Fisheye Self-Portraits Taken in India (1966)

Harrison Fisheye1

The Bea­t­les’ sojourn in India can seem like a bit of a stunt, as much a rock n’ roll cliché as Led Zeppelin’s trashed hotel rooms or Fleet­wood Mac’s coke binges. Eas­i­ly par­o­died in, for exam­ple, Walk Hard: The Dewey Cox Sto­ry, the band’s turn East­ward looks in hind­sight like fad­dish spir­i­tu­al tourism. That impres­sion may not be so far off. As one writer puts it:

By the late 1960s, The Bea­t­les had engi­neered anoth­er pop cul­ture rev­o­lu­tion (at least in Europe and North Amer­i­ca) by wear­ing Indi­an-style cloth­ing, spout­ing reli­gious and philo­soph­i­cal apho­risms that seemed to bor­row from ‘East­ern’ thought, and lat­er even vis­it­ing India for a high­ly-pub­li­cized train­ing ses­sion to learn Tran­scen­den­tal Med­i­ta­tion with the fraud­u­lent ‘mys­tic’ Mahar­ishi Mahesh Yogi.

But while for John, Paul, and Ringo, “inter­est in Indian/Hindu cul­ture was rather fleet­ing and tem­po­ral […] for George, India com­plete­ly over­hauled and changed his life per­ma­nent­ly.” As Har­ri­son him­self would lat­er recount of his first jour­ney in 1966, “it was the first feel­ing I’d ever had of being lib­er­at­ed from being a Bea­t­le or a num­ber.” The rest of the band wouldn’t make the trip until two years lat­er.

Harrison Fisheye 2

Har­ri­son had prin­ci­pal­ly embarked to study sitar under Ravi Shankar and learn yoga, but this was also a peri­od of self-dis­cov­ery and escape from, as he says, the “mania.” Trav­el­ing, as he always did, with a cam­era, he doc­u­ment­ed his jour­ney. His pic­tures are far from ordi­nary tourist images.

While he describes in writ­ing the “mix­ture of unbe­liev­able things” he saw, he just as often turned the cam­era on him­self, his pho­to­graph­ic intro­spec­tion made even more pro­nounced by his use of a fish­eye lens.

Harrison Fisheye 3

Inter­est­ing­ly, in his rec­ol­lec­tion of the trip, Har­ri­son ref­er­ences the sur­re­al cult, sci-fi show The Pris­on­er as a prime illus­tra­tion of life as “a num­ber.” One of the show’s most mem­o­rable devices involves a huge, mys­te­ri­ous white bub­ble that cap­tures or kills any­one try­ing to escape the sin­is­ter orga­ni­za­tion that holds the main char­ac­ter cap­tive. In Harrison’s pho­tos, the bub­ble becomes a para­dox­i­cal rep­re­sen­ta­tion of his way out of fame’s fish­bowl, of the prison of Beat­le­ma­nia and an iden­ti­ty that felt con­trived and alien­at­ing.

Harrison Fisheye 4

Behind his steady, seri­ous gaze open up vis­tas that presage the breadth and depth of his immer­sion in Indi­an spir­i­tu­al prac­tices. What­ev­er one thinks of his con­ver­sion, there’s no doubt it was sin­cere, and life­long. Not long after this first trip, at the age of 24, he wrote to his moth­er, “I want to be self-real­ized. I want to find God. I’m not inter­est­ed in mate­r­i­al things, this world, fame.” Har­ri­son expressed the very same mys­ti­cal aspi­ra­tions in his final, 1997 inter­view, still play­ing and singing with his men­tor Ravi Shankar.

Harrison Fisheye 5

via Shoot­ing Film/Dan­ger­ous Minds

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Ravi Shankar Gives George Har­ri­son a Sitar Les­son … and Oth­er Vin­tage Footage

Watch George Harrison’s Final Inter­view and Per­for­mance (1997)

Phil Spector’s Gen­tle Pro­duc­tion Notes to George Har­ri­son Dur­ing the Record­ing of All Things Must Pass

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian based in Durham, NC. Fol­low him at @jdmagness.

Celebrate The Day of the Dead with The Classic Skeleton Art of José Guadalupe Posada

Posada Calavera Catrina

In Mex­i­co on Novem­ber 2, mor­tal­i­ty is approached with music and laugh­ter.

“On the Day of the Dead, when the spir­its come back to us,” explains the Dr. Vig­il char­ac­ter in the 1984 film of Mal­colm Lowry’s Under the Vol­cano, “the road from heav­en must be made easy, and not slip­pery with tears.”

The souls of the dead are wel­comed back with offer­ings of food and drink. Skulls and frol­ick­ing skele­tons, often dressed in full cos­tume, are depict­ed on alters, food and else­where — a play­ful reminder that all of us, despite our van­i­ties, will one day turn to dust.

The ori­gins of the Day of the Dead and its basic motifs can be traced back 3000 years, to the Aztecs, but the satir­i­cal skele­tons of its present-day iconog­ra­phy bear the strong influ­ence of one man who died 101 years ago: the print­mak­er and draughts­man José Guadalupe Posa­da.

Posa­da was an obscure news­pa­per illus­tra­tor when he set­tled in Mex­i­co City in 1888 and began work­ing for a com­pa­ny that pub­lished graph­ic fly­ers designed to bring the news of the day to a large­ly illit­er­ate pub­lic. Posada’s engrav­ings soon caught on.

“Long drawn to the sen­sa­tion­al,” writes Jesse Cordes Sel­bin at the Hen­ry Ran­som Cen­ter, “Posada’s inter­est cen­tered on such fan­tas­tic and unsa­vory aspects of life as mur­ders, rob­beries, bull­fights, polit­i­cal scan­dals, and illic­it love affairs. While his polit­i­cal work alter­nate­ly sat­i­rized Pres­i­dent Por­firio Díaz and laud­ed the pop­ulist rev­o­lu­tion­ary lead­ers Emil­iano Zap­a­ta and Fran­cis­co Madero, for the most part his prints suc­cess­ful­ly struck the fine line between hard-hit­ting and light-heart­ed, res­onat­ing wide­ly through­out Mex­i­co.”

Calavera-Huertista--C.1910

Despite their hum­ble pur­pose, Posada’s engrav­ings were a major influ­ence on the devel­op­ment of 20th cen­tu­ry Mex­i­can art. Octavio Paz described his tech­nique as “a min­i­mum of lines and a max­i­mum of expres­sion.” In his intro­duc­tion to Mex­i­co: Splen­dors of Thir­ty Cen­turies, Paz writes, “By birthright Posa­da belongs to a man­ner that has left its stamp on the twen­ti­eth cen­tu­ry: Expres­sion­ism. Unlike the major­i­ty of Expres­sion­ist artists, how­ev­er, Posa­da nev­er took him­self too seri­ous­ly.”

Oth­ers, how­ev­er, did. The mural­ists who flour­ished in post-rev­o­lu­tion­ary Mex­i­co revered Posa­da. Diego Rivera and José Clemente Oroz­co, in par­tic­u­lar, praised him as an inspi­ra­tional fig­ure. In his auto­bi­og­ra­phy, Oroz­co writes:

Posa­da used to work in full view, behind the shop win­dows, and on my way to school and back, four times a day, I would stop and spend a few enchant­ed min­utes in watch­ing him, and some­times I even ven­tured to enter the shop and snatch up a bit of the met­al shav­ings that fell from the min­i­mum-coat­ed met­al plate as the mas­ter’s graver passed over it. This was the push that first set my imag­i­na­tion in motion and impelled me to cov­er paper with my ear­li­est lit­tle fig­ures; this was my awak­en­ing to the exis­tence of the art of paint­ing.

The most influ­en­tial of Posada’s works were his Calav­eras, mean­ing “skulls,” or, by exten­sion, “skele­tons.” Per­haps the most famous work from the series is Calav­era Cat­ri­na (above), a zinc etch­ing com­plet­ed in about 1910. It depicts a woman of the social class known as the Catrins (from a Span­ish word mean­ing “over-ele­gant”), a group who denied their Maya her­itage and thought of them­selves only as Euro­pean.

In 1947 Diego Rivera paid homage to Posa­da by plac­ing him at the cen­ter of his panoram­ic Dream of a Sun­day After­noon in the Alame­da Cen­tral with a full-length ver­sion of the Calav­era Cat­ri­na on his arm, while Rivera him­self, depict­ed as a young boy, stands on the oth­er side hold­ing her bony hand. For more of Posada’s Calav­eras, scroll down.

The Folk Dance Beyond the Grave:

Posada Folk Dance Beyond Grave

Anoth­er zinc etch­ing from around 1910, El Jarabe en ultra­tum­ba (“The Folk Dance Beyond the Grave”) depicts a mer­ry group of skele­tons eat­ing, drink­ing, mak­ing music and danc­ing the tra­di­tion­al jarabe. The repro­duc­tion is from the posthu­mous 1930 mono­graph Las Obras de José Guadalupe Posa­da, Grabador Mex­i­cano.

Calav­era from Oax­a­ca:

Posada Calavera Oaxaquena

Calav­era Oax­aque­ña (“Calav­era from Oax­a­ca”) was first pub­lished on a broad­side in 1910. It shows a proud-look­ing skele­ton dressed as a char­ro, run­ning past a crowd of skele­tons with a blood-stained knife in his hand.

Calav­era of Don Quixote:

Posada Calavera Don Quixote

In this etch­ing made some­time between 1910 and Posada’s death in 1913, Don Quixote rides into bat­tle wear­ing an upside-down bar­ber’s basin he imag­ines to be the leg­endary hel­met of Mam­bri­no, a sol­id-gold rel­ic said to make its wear­er invul­ner­a­ble. He van­quish­es every foe. “This is the calav­era of Don Quixote,” says the cap­tion on the orig­i­nal broad­side pub­li­ca­tion, “the first-class one, the match­less one, the gigan­tic one.”

Click on the images above to view them in a larg­er for­mat. You can view more prints by Posa­da at MoMA and The Pub­lic Domain Review.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Charles & Ray Eames’ Short Film on the Mex­i­can Day of the Dead (1957)

Fri­da Kahlo and Diego Rivera Vis­it Leon Trot­sky in Mex­i­co, 1938

Speak­ing in Whis­tles: The Whis­tled Lan­guage of Oax­a­ca, Mex­i­co

Stephen Fry Explains Humanism in 4 Animated Videos: Happiness, Truth and the Meaning of Life & Death

Answers to life’s big ques­tions don’t come cheap, but they very often come free, or at least we feel they should. Which answers you find com­pelling among your avail­able options is up to you. In the wide­ly plu­ral­ist parts of the world—or at least in their urban centers—the answers come as often in the form of sec­u­lar human­ism as they do in any oth­er vari­ety, and they gen­er­al­ly come with a cer­tain amount of sat­is­fac­tion that it is human­ism, in part, that makes such vari­ety pos­si­ble. So what is human­ism and why is it some­times so proud of itself? You could do much worse than ask Stephen Fry, the genial Eng­lish actor, come­di­an, writer, and pas­sion­ate activist and advo­cate.

Fry nar­rates the video series here, “That’s Human­ism,” for the British Human­ism Asso­ci­a­tion. He begins in “How do we know what is true?” at the top of the post by telling us what human­ism is not. It is not a belief that knowl­edge comes from a super­nat­ur­al source, from rev­e­la­tions, prophet­ic visions, or divine­ly inspired books. While many a human­ist has found poet­ic inspi­ra­tion in such things, as Fry explains, it’s only the sci­en­tif­ic method that pro­vides us with reli­able infor­ma­tion about the nat­ur­al world.

In the video just above, Fry takes an evi­dence-based approach to the ques­tion of ques­tions: what hap­pens when we die. The human­ist answer, as he plain­ly states, seems per­fect­ly obvi­ous to anyone—everyone dies, and every­one can live on in the lives of the peo­ple who’ve loved them. We leave the work we’ve done behind, and our bod­ies return to the ele­ments from which they came. Any­thing else, he sug­gests, is wish­ful think­ing.

The third video con­fronts the ques­tion that runs neck and neck with fear of death as a rea­son peo­ple seem to believe in the super­nat­ur­al. “What makes some­thing right or wrong?” Fry asks, then goes on to con­trast in layman’s terms two moral the­o­ries: divine com­mand and a gen­er­al­ly altru­ist, proso­cial eth­i­cal stance. Not all human­ists sub­scribe to his ethics and not all, as Fry does above, would describe empa­thy as the prime motive of moral choice. He also cites “Rea­son,” “Expe­ri­ence,” and “Respect for Oth­ers” as meth­ods by which human­ists deter­mine right from wrong, and he touch­es super­fi­cial­ly on the role of cul­ture as a con­tain­er of moral­i­ty, though he avoids the many thorny issues implied in that asser­tion.

The fourth video of the series, below, takes on the much more clas­si­cal­ly philo­soph­i­cal ques­tion, “How can I be hap­py?” For Fry, who has can­did­ly dis­cussed his strug­gles with bipo­lar dis­or­der and sui­ci­dal depres­sion, the ques­tion is not a pure­ly abstract one. His answers eschew grand cos­mic nar­ra­tives for the val­ue of the nat­ur­al, the famil­ial, and the observ­able. Through­out the series, Fry remains upbeat and con­fi­dent, but if you think him inno­cent of life’s cru­el­ties, I invite you to read the brief biog­ra­phy in this Guardian arti­cle.

If this seems like evan­ge­lism, per­haps it is. The British Human­ist Asso­ci­a­tion is, after all, the orga­ni­za­tion behind Richard Dawkins’ athe­ist bus cam­paign in Eng­land, which plas­tered signs on “bendy bus­es” around Lon­don say­ing “There’s prob­a­bly no God. Now stop wor­ry­ing and enjoy your life.” But Fry is a much more approach­able, avun­cu­lar face of human­ism than the can­tan­ker­ous, some­times cal­lous, Dawkins (or the con­fronta­tion­al Sam Har­ris). What these videos don’t address are the spe­cif­ic advo­ca­cy goals and pro­grams of the British Human­ist Asso­ci­a­tion, which include such peren­ni­al­ly con­tro­ver­sial sub­jects as assist­ed dying and abor­tion rights. Learn more about the association’s cam­paigns, goals, and out­reach attempts at their web­site.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Stephen Fry: What I Wish I Knew When I Was 18

A Guide to Hap­pi­ness: Alain de Bot­ton Shows How Six Great Philoso­phers Can Change Your Life

Shakespeare’s Satir­i­cal Son­net 130, As Read By Stephen Fry

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian based in Durham, NC. Fol­low him at @jdmagness.

Literary Critic Northrop Frye Teaches “The Bible and English Literature”: All 25 Lectures Free Online

norhtrop fry free course

Image by Har­ry Palmer, via Wiki­me­dia Com­mons

One rea­son I’m glad for hav­ing had a child­hood reli­gious edu­ca­tion: it has made me con­ver­sant in even some of the most obscure sto­ries and ideas in the Chris­t­ian Bible, which is every­where in Eng­lish lit­er­a­ture. Not only was the King James trans­la­tion for­ma­tive for ear­ly mod­ern Eng­lish, but sto­ries like that of King David and his son Absa­lom have fur­nished mate­r­i­al for great works from John Dry­den’s dense polit­i­cal alle­go­ry “Absa­lom and Achi­tophel” to William Faulkner’s dense mod­ernist fable Absa­lom, Absa­lom!  Then, of course, there’s so much of the work of Blake, Shake­speare, and Mil­ton to account for. With­out a fair­ly sol­id ground­ing in Bib­li­cal lit­er­a­ture, it can be dou­bly dif­fi­cult to make head­way in a study of the sec­u­lar vari­ety.

The stu­dents of high­ly regard­ed Cana­di­an lit­er­ary crit­ic Northrop Frye found this to be true. As a junior instruc­tor, Frye had dif­fi­cul­ty get­ting his class to under­stand what was going on in John Milton’s Par­adise Lost because so many of the Bib­li­cal allu­sions were lost on them. (It’s a hard enough poem to grasp when you get the ref­er­ences.) “How do you expect to teach Par­adise Lost,” said the chair of Frye’s depart­ment, “to peo­ple who don’t know the dif­fer­ence between a Philis­tine and a Phar­isee?” Respond­ing to this gap in cul­tur­al lit­er­a­cy, Frye designed and taught “The Bible and Eng­lish Lit­er­a­ture.” The entire, video­taped course from a 1981 ses­sion at the Uni­ver­si­ty of Toron­to is avail­able online in 25 lec­tures.

It’s very much a treat to sit in on these lec­tures. Frye’s work on myth and folk­tale in Eng­lish lit­er­a­ture is still near­ly defin­i­tive; his 1957 Anato­my of Crit­i­cism, though picked apart many times over through the decades, retains an author­i­ta­tive place in stud­ies of lit­er­ary arche­types and rhetoric. Frye’s lec­tures on the Bible focus on what he sees as its “nar­ra­tive uni­ty,” due in part to “a num­ber of recur­ring images: moun­tain, sheep, riv­er, hill, pas­ture, bride, bread, wine and so on.” He also spends a good deal of time, at least in his first lec­ture above, dis­cussing church his­to­ry, the­o­log­i­cal and crit­i­cal con­flicts, and the his­to­ry of var­i­ous trans­la­tions. The UToron­to site includes full tran­scripts of each lec­ture, and the entire course promis­es to be enlight­en­ing for stu­dents of lit­er­a­ture, of the Bible and church his­to­ry, or both.

The Bible and Eng­lish Lit­er­a­ture will be added to our list of Free Online Lit­er­a­ture Cours­es and Free Online Reli­gion Cours­es, part of our larg­er col­lec­tion, 1,700 Free Online Cours­es from Top Uni­ver­si­ties.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Har­vard Presents Two Free Online Cours­es on the Old Tes­ta­ment

Oxford Uni­ver­si­ty Presents the 550-Year-Old Guten­berg Bible in Spec­tac­u­lar, High-Res Detail

Dis­cov­er Thomas Jefferson’s Cut-and-Paste Ver­sion of the Bible, and Read the Curi­ous Edi­tion Online

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian based in Durham, NC. Fol­low him at @jdmagness.

Help Kickstart Baba Brinkman’s Animated Rap Guide to Religion

If you’ve been fre­quent­ing Open Cul­ture long enough, you’ll know all about the Cana­di­an “geek rap­per” Baba Brinkman and his epic raps. The sub­jects of Brinkman’s raps have includ­ed evo­lu­tion, arti­fi­cial selec­tionThe Can­ter­bury Tales, and British ver­sus Cana­di­an Eng­lish. Now, he’s try­ing to crowd­source a new rap album through Kick­starter. Actu­al­ly it’s an ani­mat­ed rap album about the sci­en­tif­ic study of reli­gion. You can lis­ten to two songs (of an even­tu­al eight) over at Kick­starter. They’re called “Reli­gion Evolves” and “Big Gods.”

Cur­rent­ly, 210 back­ers have pledged $13,419 towards the $20,000 he’s try­ing to raise. Above, Baba explains how the mon­ey will be spent. To move for­ward, the cam­paign needs to be ful­ly fund­ed by . We hope you’ll help push Baba over the top. You can make a con­tri­bu­tion here.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

What’s Your Eng­lish? British v. Cana­di­an Rap Bat­tle

Baba Brinkman: The Rap Guide to Evo­lu­tion

The Can­ter­bury Tales Remixed: Baba Brinkman’s New Album Uses Hip Hop to Bring Chaucer Into the 21st Cen­tu­ry, Yo

Free Online Reli­gion Cours­es

The Religions of Bob Dylan: From Delivering Evangelical Sermons to Singing Hava Nagila With Harry Dean Stanton

My first reac­tion upon learn­ing about Bob Dylan’s brief con­ver­sion to Evan­gel­i­cal Chris­tian­i­ty may have been some­thing like “What in the hell?” It wasn’t a reli­gious Dylan that sur­prised me; it was Dylan embrac­ing a faith that can often seem dogged­ly lit­er­al and, well, just a lit­tle inflex­i­ble. What with his love of ambi­gu­i­ty, of occult sym­bol­ism and sym­bol­ist poet­ry, and his res­olute con­tempt for con­ven­tion, Dylan has always struck me as more of an ancient Gnos­tic than a mod­ern Bible thumper. While Dylan’s immer­sion in the Chris­t­ian world may have been brief, it was deep, and it was confusing—enough so that Andy Greene in Rolling Stone com­ments that his pros­e­ly­tiz­ing from the stage “took audi­ence provo­ca­tion to the next lev­el.”

In his gospel shows of 1979/80, Dylan pre­sent­ed “a night of music devot­ed exclu­sive­ly to selec­tions from his new gospel records, often paus­ing for long, ram­bling ser­mons about Christ’s immi­nent return and the wicked­ness of man.” Hear one of those ser­mons at the top, a sev­en-minute the­o­log­i­cal dis­qui­si­tion, before Dylan and band launch into a pow­er­ful per­for­mance of “Sol­id Rock.” Just above, in anoth­er ser­mon from 1979, Dylan holds forth on the “spir­it of the Antichrist” before an unsym­pa­thet­ic crowd in Tempe, Ari­zona. That same year, he gave an inter­view to Bruce Heiman of KMGX Radio in Tuc­son on the sub­ject of his con­ver­sion (below).

In a cer­tain way, a Dylan obsessed with divine judg­ment and the book of Rev­e­la­tion jibes with his pur­suit of the arcane and the mys­ti­cal, with his con­sis­tent­ly apoc­a­lyp­tic vision, prophet­ic mum­blings, and ten­den­cy to mor­al­ize. But the preach­ing is just…. well, kin­da weird. I mean, not even Dylan’s friend, the deeply devout John­ny Cash, used his musi­cal plat­form to harangue audi­ences about the Bible. Was it a stunt or a gen­uine, if per­haps overzeal­ous, expres­sion of deeply held beliefs? That ques­tion could be asked of almost every move Dylan has ever made. This brief peri­od of very pub­lic reli­gios­i­ty may seem anom­alous, but Dylan’s inter­est in reli­gion is not. Google his name and any faith term, and you’ll see sug­ges­tions for “Dylan and Islam,” “Dylan and Bud­dhism,” “Dylan and Catholi­cism,” and, of course, “Dylan and Judaism,” the reli­gion of his birth. Some con­tend that Dylan still keeps faith with Jesus, and that it doesn’t mutu­al­ly exclude his Jew­ish­ness.


And yet, how Dylan’s Chris­t­ian preach­ing could line up with his lat­er com­mit­ment to Chabad—an Ortho­dox Hasidic move­ment that isn’t exact­ly warm to the idea of the Chris­t­ian mes­si­ah, to put it mildly—is beyond my ken. But log­i­cal con­sis­ten­cy does not rank high­ly on any list of virtues I’m famil­iar with. Dylan seemed to be recon­nect­ing with Judaism when he explic­it­ly expressed sol­i­dar­i­ty with Israel in 1983 in his Zion­ist anthem “Neigh­bor­hood Bul­ly” from Infi­dels, in oth­er respects, a whol­ly sec­u­lar record.

Three years lat­er, Dylan appeared on the Chabad telethon (above), accom­pa­ny­ing his son-in-law Peter Him­mel­man on har­mon­i­ca in a ren­di­tion of “Hava Nag­i­la,” along with, of all peo­ple, Har­ry Dean Stan­ton (whose chill­ing turn as polyg­a­mous Mor­mon sect leader in HBO’s Big Love you may well recall). By this time, at least accord­ing to Jew­ish Jour­nal, “Chabad rab­bis had helped Dylan return to Judaism after the musi­cian embraced Chris­tian­i­ty for a time.” The mid-90s saw Dylan wor­ship­ping with Brook­lyn Lubav­itch­ers, and in 2007, he was sight­ed in Atlanta at Yom Kip­pur ser­vices at the Chabad-Lubav­itch of Geor­gia, say­ing the “bless­ings in Hebrew with­out stum­bling, like a pro.”

So is Bob Dylan a fire­breath­ing Chris­t­ian or an Ortho­dox Jew? Or, some­how… both? Only Dylan knows, and frankly, only Dylan needs to. His beliefs are his busi­ness, but his pub­lic expres­sions of faith have giv­en his fans much to puz­zle over, read­ing the lyri­cal tea leaves for evi­dence of a sol­id rock cen­ter amidst the shift­ing sands of Dylanol­o­gy. Let ‘em sift. Some peo­ple obsess over Dylan’s reli­gious com­mit­ments, oth­ers over his “secret” wife and daugh­ter, his cor­po­rate sell­outs, or his some­times inscrutable per­son­al pol­i­tics. It’s all part of the busi­ness of fame. What I find fas­ci­nat­ing about the many lay­ers of Bob Dylan is not how much they tell me about the man, who has the right to change his mind, or not, as often as he likes, but how much they reveal about his strange lyri­cal themes. After all, Dylan’s seem­ing­ly con­tra­dic­to­ry alle­giances and ambiva­lent iden­ti­ties as an artist may in in fact make him all the more the arche­typ­al Amer­i­can song­writer he’s always said to be.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

An Intro­duc­tion to Dylanol­o­gy, or How to Under­stand Bob Dylan by Dig­ging Through His Garbage

The Times They Are a‑Changin’: 1964 Broad­cast Gives a Rare Glimpse of the Ear­ly Bob Dylan

Ani­mat­ed Video: John­ny Cash Explains Why Music Became a Reli­gious Call­ing

John­ny Cash Reads the Entire New Tes­ta­ment

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian based in Durham, NC. Fol­low him at @jdmagness

Ayn Rand Trashes C.S. Lewis in Her Marginalia: He’s an “Abysmal Bastard”

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Images via Wiki­me­dia Com­mons

The polit­i­cal inter­sec­tion of Ayn Ran­di­an lib­er­tar­i­ans and Evan­gel­i­cal con­ser­v­a­tives is a baf­fling phe­nom­e­non for most of us out­side the Amer­i­can right. It’s hard to rec­on­cile the athe­ist arch-cap­i­tal­ist and despis­er of social wel­fare with, for exam­ple, the Ser­mon on the Mount. But hey, mixed mar­riages often work out, right? Well, as for Rand her­self, one would hard­ly find her sym­pa­thet­ic to reli­gion or its expos­i­tors at any point in her career. Take her sound lash­ing of writer, schol­ar, and lay the­olo­gian C.S. Lewis, intel­lec­tu­al hero of Protes­tant Chris­tian­i­ty. (Wheaton Col­lege hous­es his per­son­al library, and there exists not only a C.S. Lewis Insti­tute, but also a C.S. Lewis Foun­da­tion.) Lewis’ The Abo­li­tion of Man (1943), while osten­si­bly a text on edu­ca­tion, also pur­ports, like Aquinas’ Sum­ma The­o­log­i­ca, to expound the prin­ci­ples of nat­ur­al law and objec­tive moral val­ue. Rand would have none of it.

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Reli­gion jour­nal First Things brings us excerpts from the edit­ed col­lec­tion, Ayn Rand’s Mar­gin­a­lia: Her crit­i­cal com­ments on the writ­ings of over 20 authors. In it, Rand gloss­es Lewis’s Abo­li­tion of Man with sav­age feroc­i­ty, call­ing the author an “abysmal bas­tard,” “cheap, dri­v­el­ling non-enti­ty” [sic], and “abysmal scum!” The screen­shot above (Lewis left, Rand’s anno­ta­tions right) from the First Things’ blog post offers a typ­i­cal rep­re­sen­ta­tion of Rand’s tone through­out, and includes some par­tic­u­lar­ly elab­o­rate insults.

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The C.S. Lewis Foun­da­tion com­ments that Lewis “prob­a­bly would not have approved of the lev­el of ven­om, but he prob­a­bly would not have liked Rand’s phi­los­o­phy much either.” Anoth­er Chris­t­ian aca­d­e­m­ic has suc­cess­ful­ly squared an appre­ci­a­tion for both Rand and Lewis, but writes crit­i­cal­ly of Rand, who “seems to have inter­pret­ed Lewis’s book as a Lud­dite screed against sci­ence and tech­nol­o­gy,” part of her “ten­den­cy to car­i­ca­ture her oppo­nents.” Cer­tain­ly no one ever accused her of sub­tle­ty. “It’s pret­ty clear,” our pro­fes­sor con­tin­ues, “that when show­ing stu­dents how to engage in schol­ar­ly dis­course, Ayn Rand should not be the mod­el.” No, indeed, but how she would thrive on the Inter­net.

Read more at First Things, and down­load a PDF of the Rand-anno­tat­ed Lewis excerpts here.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Free Audio: Down­load the Com­plete Chron­i­cles of Nar­nia by C.S. Lewis

The Only Known Record­ings of C.S. Lewis (1944–1948)

Watch Hand-Drawn Ani­ma­tions of 7 Sto­ries & Essays by C.S. Lewis

Flan­nery O’Connor: Friends Don’t Let Friends Read Ayn Rand (1960)

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian based in Durham, NC. Fol­low him at @jdmagness

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