Anyone who has encountered me here in a religion-related diary knows me as a strident opponent of all organized religion, as one who defines "Faith" as the dangerous practice of believing something because it feels good.
But, welllll ...
My beloved grandparents, from East Texas, were members of the Primitive Baptists, a sect which has all but died out now. There were many things about their religion which I admired greatly:
Foot Washing. I believe this to be an exercise in humility and equality. It would be difficult to consider yourself to be above someone whose feet you wash, or to hate and resent someone who washes yours.
Race. In a time and place where racism was common, the Primitive Baptists regularly held mixed-race revival "camp meetings". I remember my grandparents used to speak with awe of a great Black preacher named John Henry Thrower.
Judgment. Primitive Baptists would make no judgment of any person, no matter what terrible thing he may have done. They would always say, "I cannot speak against him. I have not walked in his shoes."
And think about that scientifically: what is a person? Morally, mentally, physically, what makes us what we are? People talk of nature versus nature, but they never mention any third factor. Because there is none. Our DNA, our upbringing, we are nothing more. But here's the thing -- we had no choice about either one. Both are pure dumb luck. When I make this argument, people reply, "but I made choices in my life". Yes, you made the choices that one with your DNA and your upbringing would make.
I believe this proves that no one is responsible for anything. Doesn't it? Of course there are, for example, violent sociopaths. If we find one, we must protect ourselves from him. We may have to imprison him. But we are not better than he. If we had been born him, we would be him.
When I lived in Oakland in the late '90s, I was reading the paper one day, and saw a mention of a Primitive Baptist Church. Curious, I drove by it. It was beautiful. Immaculately clean, freshly painted, with a manicured lawn surrounded by gloriously blooming flowers. There was a sign in front saying that the pastor ("Elder" they call them) was one John Henry Thrower. "Impossible" I thought. "He must have died long ago".
I called and spoke to the pastor, to find that he was the son of the original John Henry Thrower. He assured me that I would be welcomed there with open arms, but I never went. It would have felt patronizing of me to go, not believing as they do.
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