A good idea, once someone thinks of it, seems to show up everywhere. Somebody somewhere invents the wheeled vehicle, and pretty soon, everyone is using it. Once upon a time someone managed to domesticate that naturally occurring plasma we call “fire,” and here we are still talking about him (or her, for all we know). The ancients Greeks honored this man so highly, they made him a god—more than just a god, one of the Titans, the generation that came before the gods proper—and, in some versions, at least, this god, Prometheus, was the same god that made humanity in the first place, suggesting a sort of mythic equivalency between being a fire-user and being human.
Another popular god—one also associated with certain naturally occurring instances of plasma physics—is Thor, the Norse god of thunder (whose very name—in all its various forms—is cognate with “thunder”). His influence in the English-speaking world, especially the United States, has been greatly increased since Marvel Comics borrowed him into their mythological universe and made him, among other things, a founding member of the Avengers. Now, with the advent of the Marvel Cinematic Universe, and Chris Hemsworth’s not-to-be-bettered onscreen portrayal of the son of Odin, Thor would appear to be, not quite “more popular than Jesus” (as one rather flabbergasted Beatle once described his band’s astounding success in the States—and was forever misquoted as claiming that they were “Bigger than God”), but at least a strong contender for second place (It’s like the tenth century all over again!).
We see this in several places, not least of all in the writings of Richard Dawkins, certainly one of the loudest and shrillest of anti-theistic voices in the English-speaking world, who speaks out often against the worship of Thor and other deities. In one of his shorter writings Dawkins invokes Thor in an attempt to satirize the very idea of theism. The article begins with a paragraph—later anthologized independently under the title “Athorism: Let’s Hope it’s a Lasting Vogue”[1]—that substitutes the proper name “Thor” for “God” and its Greek equivalent theos in statements such as “Naïve literalists apart, sophisticated Thoreologians long ago ceased believing in the material substance of Thor’s mighty hammer.” The paragraph serves to illustrate Dawkins’ basic perspective that theology is a subject without content, and that exposure to science and history has led “sophisticated” (read: capitulatory) theologians to sublimate the claims of theology until those claims constitute a null set, disguised by artful rhetoric. To defend theology today, he suggests, is as foolish as promoting the worship of Thor Odinson.[2] What he really proves, of course, is the truth of the principle that “It would be impossible to discuss [any] subject without a common frame of reference.”[3] Dawkins’ suggested equivalency between the Norse god of thunder and the Lord God of Israel merely shows that he lacks the reference frame necessary to have any sort of productive discussion with those theologians he sneers at. Perhaps the clearest proof that Dawkins’ imagination is too materialist to even give the word God its proper semantic content is the fact that his go-to antitheist argument—which he seems to think irrefutable—is the claim that any god capable of creating our universe would necessarily be so complex, and thus so improbable, as to be himself in need of an even larger explanation (he does not see that this argument goes unrefuted, not because it cannot be refuted, but because it is too confused at the basic categorical level to be worthy of response). If, however, he wished to begin expanding his perspective so as to truly be able to have a productive conversation about God with the theologians, Dawkins could find no better place to start than with David Bentley Hart’s book The Experience of God; Being, Consciousness, Bliss, a book which shows just how completely off-base the thinking of the New Atheists like Dawkins generally is.
Now, if there is a snide, condescending atheistic idea out there, it is bound to find its way into the conversation of atheism’s resident sitcom mouthpiece, Sheldon Cooper, Ph.D. So, it should not surprise us that Dr. Cooper was also known to invoke the invocation of Thor as a way of mocking even the most mundane of American idioms (idioms being notoriously difficult for Dr. Cooper, anyway). Consider the following exchange between Sheldon and his neighbor Penny, as largely reported by Penny. Sheldon sneezes, then we hear this:
Penny: “You know, there was a time I would say, ‘God bless you’ [if you sneezed,] and then you would say, ‘If you must invoke an imaginary deity, how about Thor?’ And I would say, ‘How do you know I don’t mean Thor?’ And then you would say, ‘Touché,’ and that there ends the tale of why I no longer say ‘God bless you.’”
Sheldon: “Well, we have had some fun, haven’t we?”
Penny: “Oh, yeah.”[4]
Like I said, Thor seems pretty popular, especially among those whose purpose in referencing divinity is to mock. There is, however, one more such joke from The Big Bang Theory that must also be mentioned here, if for no other reason than that, to quote Dr, Cooper (on a totally different topic), “It’s funny, because it’s true.”[5] And while it does not explicitly mention Thor, it does imply a commonality between him, and a certain carpenter from Nazareth—because, apparently, they both have great abs.
The episode is “The Rhinitis Revelation” (5.6), in which Sheldon’s mother, Mary Cooper, visits from Texas, and they go on a tour of the Pasadena area, focused, at her request, on local churches. While at a Catholic church, Rajesh “Raj” Koothrapali (a Hindu who considers cows “both sacred and delicious”) and Howard Wolowitz (a self-assessed “bad Jew” who loves bacon cheeseburgers) are looking at a rather large crucifix on the wall. Raj says to Howard, gesturing to Jesus, “none of our gods have abs like that.” Howard’s pitch-perfect response is, “Yep, that’s the last Jew who did sit-ups. And look where it got him.”
There is so much in this rich exchange: the self-deprecating suggestion that Howard’s own non-existent exercise regimen is typically Jewish; the subtle placement of Jesus at least among the gods, if not necessarily above them as God; the acknowledgement—all too uncommon in American culture—that Jesus was a Jew, albeit an exceptional one; the recognition that his exceptional behavior got him killed (as it did); the laconic implication that Christ-like behavior tends to lead to martyrdom (as it does; these last two are especially uncommon admissions in the land of the Prosperity Gospel). Like I said, it’s funny, because it’s true.[6]
Which brings me back to Marvel, and the Marvel Cinematic Universe. There we find the principle illustrated, that a good idea, once discovered, shows up everywhere. In this case, the idea is that often known as the Trilemma. The principle is simple: if a person makes to you a truly amazing claim (such as their being the god of thunder), either: A. They are deceiving you B. They are themselves deceived, or C. They are right, and you should believe them. The principle originates from discussions of Jesus of Nazareth (he of the fantastic abs), and his claim to be the human manifestation of the Lord God of Israel. From fairly early on, Christians argued that anyone who claimed to be God, but was not, would have to be something other than the good man we clearly see Jesus being in the Gospels: wise teacher; meek and lowly in heart; lover of the sick, the poor, the downtrodden, and the female (those last three so often being the same in that world); healer of lepers and exorcist of demons. This argument came to be known by the name aut Deus aut homo malus (“either God, or a bad man”). The more refined, three-part version of this argument is usually credited to 20th-century Christian apologist C.S. Lewis, who, writing in the eighth chapter of his book Mere Christianity, said that in confronting Jesus’ claim to divinity, we are faced with a “shocking alternative” (the title of that chapter). Writing in response to those who wish to patronize and domesticate Jesus by making him out to be just one more guru or teacher of wisdom, Lewis explains that such a Jesus is more false than a crucifix with a wooden six-pack. If, instead of imagining our own personal guru and labeling him “Jesus,” we confronted the Nazarene carpenter of the Gospels, we would find ourselves faced with only three options:
I am trying here to prevent anyone saying the really foolish thing that people often
say about Him: “I’m ready to accept Jesus as a great moral teacher, but
I don’t accept his claim to be God.” That is the one thing we must not say. A
man who was merely a man and said the sort of things Jesus said would not be a
great moral teacher. He would either be a lunatic—on a level with the man who
says he is a poached egg—or else he would be the Devil of Hell. You must make
your choice. Either this man was, and is, the Son of God: or else a madman or
something worse. You can shut Him up for a fool, you can spit at Him and kill
Him as a demon; or you can fall at His feet and call Him Lord and God. But let
us not come with any patronising nonsense about His being a great human
teacher. He has not left that open to us. He did not intend to (Mere Christianity
II.iii.77-78).
The logic here is impeccable. Any man who claimed to be God as Jesus did,[7] but knew his claim to be untrue, would be a deceiver of demonic proportions (his was no idle claim; he had called on people to follow his example, saying, “take up [your] cross and follow me.”[8] A call to embrace the most painful form of execution ever devised[9] is serious business). If such a man sincerely believed his claim, but was wrong, then he himself was deceived, to the point of being utterly mad. Again, this is no small matter. And yet, some people—people who should know better—seem to almost deliberately misunderstand this simple argument.
And by “some people,” I mean—again—Richard Dawkins, this time in his book The God Delusion. In this, the most unconvincing of his many books, Dawkins dedicates a whole chapter ostensibly to examining the traditional proofs of God’s existence. I say “ostensibly” because he so badly misunderstands those arguments that it would be inaccurate to refer to his chapter as a “treatment” of them. I have already mentioned how he offers in his book the supposedly irrefutable anti-theistic argument that any God capable of creating this universe would be vastly complex, and so vastly improbable—an argument which shows how thoroughly Dawkins has conflated the immaterial God of traditional theism with those fleshly-all-too-fleshly gods like the well-muscled son of Odin; his treatment, such as it is, of the Trilemma shows, if possible, an even greater lack of comprehension on his part.
Dawkins touches on the Trilemma briefly in the first paragraph of a section labeled “The Argument From Scripture”:
There are still some people who are persuaded by scriptural evidence to believe in
God. A common argument attributed among others to C.S. Lewis (who should
have known better), states that, since Jesus claimed to be the Son of God, he must
have been either right or else insane or a liar: ‘Mad, Bad, or God.’ Or, with
artless alliteration, ‘Lunatic, Liar, or Lord.’ The historical evidence that Jesus
claimed any divine status is minimal. But even if that evidence were good, the
trilemma on offer would be ludicrously inadequate. A fourth possibility, almost
too obvious to need mentioning, is that Jesus was honestly mistaken. Plenty of
people are. In any case, as I said, there is no good historical evidence that he ever
thought he was divine.
Let us begin by admitting that the Trilemma is out of place in a discussion of whether or not God exists. It is not meant—and was not meant by Lewis—to prove God’s existence, or the historical reliability of the Gospel accounts, but simply that anyone who acted like Jesus acts in the Gospels presents us with only three possibilities: believe and follow him, hate him as a deceiver, or pity him as deceived—but “good moral teacher” is not a live option.
It is obvious that Dawkins has not actually read Lewis’ original argument, but only heard tell of this idea second- or third-hand, if not worse. Apparently, reading a single paragraph in one of the most influential—and so widely available—Christian books of the last century, written by a fellow Oxford scholar, was too much to ask of this Professor of the Public Understanding of Science before he attempted an embarrassingly misinformed public refutation of the idea in question in print. Had he himself sought to truly understand the Trilemma by actually reading Lewis’ paragraph—as quoted above—he no doubt would have seen that Lewis had already considered the possibility that Jesus was “honestly mistaken”; it was indeed the first of the two alternatives to believing Jesus (to call him either deceived or a deceiver) that Lewis offered as rational possibilities. Dawkins’ failure—on account of his failure to read the argument as originally presented—is his failure to see that by the logic of this argument, anyone who was “honestly mistaken” in claiming (in a first-century Jewish context, let us not forget) to be the eternal creator and sustainer of the universe would not be merely mistaken (how different in force here, those two adverbs: honestly and merely), “He would…be a lunatic—on a level with the man who says he is a poached egg” (to quote Lewis’ exact words again). He might be honestly mistaken, yes, but so badly mistaken as to be mad. Therefore, if Jesus was sincerely wrong, he was mad. That is Lewis’ point—and Dawkins misses it.
Perhaps another digression into the land of sitcoms would illustrate my point. One of my favorite sitcoms ever is Wings (1990-1997), about the Hackett Brothers, Joe and Brian, who run a small, one-plane airline, Sandpiper Air, out of Nantucket, MA. Part of their backstory is that when they were young Joe and Brian’s mother left the family, and their father subsequently went insane and had to be institutionalized; his death is the initiating event of the series, bringing the brothers back together after Brian had eloped with Joe’s fiancée years earlier, only to be left by her in turn (if you find this all a bit confusing, you are not alone, nor were the showmakers unaware of this. Consider the following comment from Joe’s eventual wife Helen on the complexity of the Hackett family history: after she briefly summarizes all the troubles the Hackett family has suffered, she adds, “You know, if you just gouged your eyes out, you’d have the perfect Greek tragedy.” Picking up her Sophoclean reference, Brian’s immediate response is to turned around, two individual cream packets in his eyes—they are, after all, at the lunch counter Helen runs—and grope about blindly as he exclaims, “Ma? Ma, it’s me, Oedipus!”)
The madness of Papa Hackett is a recurring theme in the series. In one episode, Joe is being pursued by Sandy Cooper, an old high school classmate of theirs, who has never gotten over her frankly obsessive crush on him. Since this is the third episode in which she and her obsession have featured over the years, we know she is indeed insanely fixated on our man Joe—but when he attempts to explain this to his family, they will not believe him. Instead, Helen takes him to a psychiatrist, suspecting that he is delusional. When the psychiatrist asks suggestively, “Your father was institutionalized, wasn’t he?”, Joe gets defensive, saying, “So? My father was quirky” (coincidentally, this is the preferred term of Sheldon Cooper’s acquaintances to describe him). Then we hear this:
Helen: “Quirky? There was one month when he thought he was a waffle.”
Joe [defensively]: “We poured syrup on him, he calmed right down.”
By the next scene, Helen and the doctor together have badgered Joe into submitting to such heavy medication that only with difficulty can he decide on what he wants for breakfast (appropriately, he finally decides on eggs—no word on whether they were to be poached). As Joe wanders away into the office to take a nap, Brian, no doubt recalling his father, looks after him sorrowfully, and chokes out through oncoming tears, “Someone pour syrup on him: poor bastard’s a waffle!”[10]
The lesson here is this: there are those who are “honestly [and merely] mistaken,” and then there are the truly mad. The latter class includes those who mistakenly—albeit honestly and sincerely—believe themselves to be waffles, or poached eggs, or (to borrow from the Jewish prayer for blessing bread) “the Lord, our God, King of the Universe.” By the logic of Lewis’ Trilemma, anyone who sincerely, but wrongly, believes himself to be the last of these is truly insane—and what do you pour on such a man to calm him down when he gets demanding? The blood of bulls and goats?
And here is the funny part. Dawkins, despite his colossal failure to understand Lewis, himself deployed the same logic in one of his own most notorious remarks. Dawkins is best known, not just for his promotion of atheism, but specifically for his promotion of the gospel of Darwinian evolution, in its most reductively materialist form. He once famously commented that “It is absolutely safe to say that if you meet somebody who claims not to believe in evolution, that person is ignorant, stupid or insane (or wicked, but I’d rather not consider that).”[11] Here, he deploys essentially the same logic Lewis uses in the Trilemma. Dawkins says that, since evolution is true, the only reason for someone to claim to disbelieve it is that they are wicked (and so lying to either you or themselves, although he does not like to consider this option); or they are themselves deceived by their ignorance of the facts; or their inability to understand the facts, due to insanity, or to mere stupidity. This is precisely the structure of the Trilemma, expanded for a slightly different situation. Once again, if someone is making an untrue claim, they either lie or are deceived. The difference is that Dawkins gives three possible causes of a person’s being deceived, and he is right to make these distinctions. The reason Lewis gives only three alternatives instead of Dawkins’ five, is that “Am I God?” is a question a man can answer by direct personal experience, rather than objective science. There is no question of ignorance or stupidity serving as excuse: if you think you are God, and you are wrong, you must be mad.
And so, finally, we come to that topic so near to the heart of Richard Dawkins: athorism; and once again, we see that the same logic applies today as applied two thousand years ago: if a man tells you he is a god—namely, Thor—you must judge him either deceitful, deceived, or correct. Of course, you are free to—indeed you should—distinguish between a god and the God, as Captain Steve Rogers does when Natasha Romanov tells him that Thor and Loki are “basically gods,” and he responds, “There’s only one God, Ma’am, and I’m pretty sure he doesn’t dress like that.”[12] But even when someone claims to be merely a god, you can judge his claim using the logic of the Trilemma. In the MCU film Thor, Dr. Eric Selvig does exactly that.
In this film, Thor Odinson has been stripped of his powers, rendered mortal (but still “pretty cut,” as Kat Dennings’ character Darcy notes), and banished to Midgard (better known as Earth) because of his impulsive behavior. There he meets Doctors Erik Selvig and Jane Foster, along with her assistant Darcy. After only a few minutes of listening to Thor talk, even as Jane agrees to help Thor find his hammer Mjolnir, Dr. Selvig has decided that he is dangerous, and he explains why:
S: “Can I have a word, Jane? [After they step aside:] Please don’t do this.”
J: “You saw what I saw last night [when Thor crashed to Earth]. This is no coincidence. We have to find out what’s in that crater”
S: “But I’m not talking about the crater, I’m talking about him.”
J: “But he’s promising us answers.”
S: “He’s delusional. Listen to what he’s saying. He’s talking about Mjolnir & Thor & Bifrost. It’s the stories I grew up with as a child.”
J: “I’m just going to drive him. That’s it.”
S: “He’s dangerous, Jane.”[13]
Here, Dr. Selvig is being perfectly rational (and chivalrous, too). Since he assumes—as anyone would—that this man cannot be Thor, god of thunder, and yet he seems quite sincere, it is only logical to assume that he is, to say it gently, “delusional” (a waffle; a poached egg). Later, the two men go drinking in a bar, and Selvig acknowledges, despite Thor’s obvious sincerity, that there is the second logical option that Thor is intentionally trying to deceive them: “I don’t know if you’re delusional or if you’re pulling some kind of con, I don’t care. I just care about her [Jane].”[14]
Thus, Dr. Selvig has mentioned the two logical explanations for Thor’s behavior—assuming he is not who he says he is: he is either crazy, or a con man. After a long evening together (“We drank, we fought, he made his ancestors proud,” as Thor puts it), Selvig is convinced that Thor genuinely believes his claim; and his character seems to fit the claim, rather than suggesting madness or insincerity—yet he cannot quite accept the logic of his own experience. Hence, his ambivalent assessment of Thor: “I still don’t think you’re the god of thunder. But you ought to be.”
In the end, they all find that he should have been bolder, and followed his reasoning to the end (scientists, we are told, often are more reluctant to accept the logic of their theories than they should be). When Thor proves his worth by laying down his life for his friends (an act which—we have it on good authority; the best, really—shows a love than which there is no greater), and Mjolnir returns to his hands—and with it, Thor’s Asgardian powers—it is Dr. Jane Foster who captures the truth they all now realize when she says (and it is saved from being profane by punningly having a terrestrial rather than celestial referent): “Oh. My. God.”
Yes, exactly.[15]
The logic of the Trilemma does not just apply to divinities like Jesus or Thor. It can be applied equally well to other incredible things, like the Army of the Dead. In Season Seven of Game of Thrones, Jon Snow finds he must convince the Dragon Queen Daenerys Targaryen that a massive army of magically reanimated corpses is marching south under command of the legendary Night King and his White Walkers—all characters, like Thor, out of local myth and legend. She is, understandably, skeptical, so Snow turns to her advisor, Tyrion Lannister, who had met him years earlier, in the show’s first few episodes. He asks Lord Tyrion, “You don’t know me well, my lord, but do you think I’m a liar, or a madman?” Tyrion—perhaps the smartest and most rational character in the series—responds, “No. I don’t think you’re either of those things” (“The Queen’s Justice,” Game of Thrones 7.3). Here we have it again: if Jon Snow is a man of sober mind and honest speech, then when he tells you something, you should believe him, even if what he says seems, initially, unbelievable.
And then, as the series nears its end, this same sort of logic manifests again. By this point, we know that Jon Snow is a Targaryen, the blood of the dragon, and this explains his ability to mount and ride one of Daenerys’ dragons. In the battle against the Army of the Dead, they both ride their respective dragons to engage the Night King in aerial combat. Later, during the subsequent celebration, Tormund uses Jon Snow’s performance to infer his regal character—the same character that had previously led the Lords of the North to proclaim him “King in the North,” and had inspired the Wildlings of the True North to follow him—suggesting that there are only two kinds of men mad enough to ride a dragon:
I saw him riding that thing [the dragon Rhaegal]. I did. That’s why we all agreed
to follow him. That’s the kind of man he is. He’s little, but he’s strong. Strong
enough to befriend an enemy [i.e. Tormund and his people], and get murdered for
it. Most people get bloody murdered, they stay that way. Not this one. He comes
back, and keeps fighting. Here, north of the Wall, and then back here again. He
keeps fighting. He keeps fighting. He climbed on a fucking dragon and fought.
What kind of person climbs on a fucking dragon? A madman—or a king! (“The
Last of the Starks,” Game of Thrones 8.4)
This time, the question is about what a person does, rather than what he says. There is no question of Jon Snow deceiving them, since Tormund “saw him riding that thing” with his own eyes—the question is, “What kind of person climbs on a…dragon?” The answer is: only a great man (a king) or a mad man—regular, sane individuals have too much sense to do such things.
And here—as always—we come back to Jesus. For he, too proved his quality with a feat that could only be achieved, not by just a king, but only by The King:
And when they had sent away the multitude, they took him [Jesus] even as he was
in the ship…And there arose a great storm of wind, and the waves beat into the
ship, so that it was now full. And he was on the hinder part of the ship, asleep on
a pillow: and they awake him, and say unto him, “Master, carest thou not that we
perish?” And he arose, and rebuked the wind, and said unto the sea, “Peace, be
still.” And the wind ceased, and there was a great calm. And he said unto them,
“Why are ye so fearful? How is it that ye have no faith?” And they feared
exceedingly, and said one unto another, “What manner of man is this, that even
the wind and the sea obey him?” (Mark 4.36-41)
Here, his disciples are beginning to see the truth of who and what Jesus really is. When later, he—like Jon Snow, only more so[16]—gets murdered and yet comes back, it is the Apostle Thomas—forever labeled “doubting Thomas” because he insisted on personally confirming Jesus’ resurrection, lest his heart be broken yet again—who acclaims him “My Lord and my God!”
Yes, exactly.
[1]The opening paragraph referenced here is reprinted under the title given in Dawkins’ book Science in the Soul: Selected Writings of a Passionate Rationalist (389). The footnote there states that the original article appeared in The Washington Post 1 Jan. 2007 in the feature “On Faith.”
[2] The tragic irony here is that certain white nationalists appear to be trying to revive the worship of Thor, after a fashion. Any thorough web search on the subject should turn up some frightening facts on the subject.
[3] Capt. Spock of Vulcan (son of Sarek, son of Skon), Star Trek IV: the Voyage Home.
[4] “The Recollection Dissipation” (The Big Bang Theory, 10.20).
[5] “The Classified Materials Turbulence” (BBT 2.22).
[6] There is also a rather ironic instance of divine providence hidden in this and the subsequent episode (“The Good Guy Fluctuation,” 5.7). When Mary Cooper insists that they “put some church in this church” by praying, Leonard asks for help with his girlfriend, Raj’s sister Priya, who is “all the way in India” at the time. In the very next episode, his prayer is answered, but not in the way he expected: he & Priya break up (Eventually he & Penny wed & have at least one child, so, let’s hear it for the wisdom of providence).
[7] There is not enough room here to deal with those arguments that Jesus never really made such a claim, or that he meant such a claim in some vaguely Eastern, Hindu sense. The point here concerns anyone who truly would claim to be the Creator of the Universe come uniquely in the flesh. For these other possibilities, see, for example, Peter Kreeft & Ronald K. Tacelli’s Handbook of Christian Apologetics, chapter 7.
[8] The Gospel of Matthew 16.24.
[9] Where else did you think we got the word “excruciating” from?
[10] “One Flew Over the Cooper’s Nest” (7.18). By episode’s end, Joe is off medication, and sure of his own sanity. Unfortunately, his last ditch effort to vindicate himself by getting someone to overhear Sandy’s madness fails. Poor Joe.
[11] According to Dawkins, he first wrote this in a New York Times book review in 1989. It has since gone viral.
[12] Avengers (2012). Kudos to writer Joss Whedon for giving Captain Rogers this character-appropriate theistic response, despite Whedon’s own personal atheism—thus illustrating the point that characters are not just mouthpieces for the writer’s personal philosophy.
[13] All this starts at the 44:30 mark.
[14] 67:48.
[15] Watching Thor’s transformation in that scene, and hearing Dr. Foster’s slowly articulated comment, I cannot help but remember a similar transformation scene—this time of the prince of Eternia, rather than Asgard—for when Prince Adam transformed into He-man, he would utter the words: “I—have—the power! “ Another way Eternia has influenced Asgard, I suppose.
[16] The Jews, said Lionel Blue, are just like everyone else, only more so.
