Why Am I Here?
It's a big question that we all ask ourselves pretty regularly, a question that can lead down a rabbit hole of subsequent questions -- about purpose, free will, the human mind, the nature of consciousness. But I'm asking the lower-cased version. As in, why am I doing this fellowship? And, what do I hope to accomplish? Think of this as question number one in a SoGFAQ.

The day I announced that I was leaving Wired for good -- the same day I actually left Wired -- a colleague congratulated me and said, "The only reason anyone ever applies for a fellowship is because they're looking for a change." It's true. I needed a break. I had to clear my cluttered head. My first inkling to apply for the fellowship came late last year when I received an email from the selection committee at Very Rich Foundation notifying me about the program. When I read the email, I thought 'two months in Europe!' I've long dreamed of moving to Europe, but have never been able to swing more than a couple weeks at a time. But science & religion?

I have a complicated religious history. At least it's complicated in my own mind. Here's the road I've traveled over the last dozen or so years: Roman Catholic --> Cafeteria Catholic --> Lapsed Catholic --> Religiously Indifferent --> Agnostic --> Catholic Antagonist --> Religion Antagonist --> Atheist --> Curious about Religion (and, I hope, religiously curious). If that sounds like I might be coming around the bend and that some day I'll end up back at all the wisdom that I started with, well, I suppose that could happen. But I doubt it. I've traveled a long way, and I'm no longer even all that intrigued about the existence of God. But I am intrigued by the near-universal human need to believe in such a Being, and am fascinated at how religions have evolved over the centuries to reward, reinforce, and foster faith. And that's part of the reason I'm here.

A British evolutionary psychologist named Robin Dunbar compares religious practice to being in a pot circle. Every aspect of the experience reinforces the experience itself -- the actual drug, the laughing, storytelling, camraderie, the smells, the music -- and makes you want to come back for more. I think religion is like a Wonderbra -- it elevates and separates. Let me explain (not about the bra; you know how that works). I agree with Dunbar that nearly every action you make in church is crafted to bind you closer to the people around you. Shaking hands with the neighbors in your pew, singing verse, chanting, dancing (in some cases), praying, kneeling on cue...it's all very rhythmic. When in church, we look around, think about what everyone's wearing or what they're thinking or what they're like or how we should invite them over for dinner even while almost automatically performing our regimen. We don't actually need to like the people around us (though often we will) to feel close to them. Our neighbors are just like us. All of this makes us feel part of a group, part of a community, comfortable. Humans need to belong. Church gives us this. In return, we give church our time, energy, money, and most of all, our faith. And the more money, time, energy, and faith we give, the greater a sense of community there is. That's the elevation.

Then comes the separation -- the part where we come to think of ourselves as special for being part of our adopted community, the part where we're being told repeatedly that we're the 'chosen ones' or, in many cases, that anyone not part of the community should be pitied or converted or, worse, punished. Islam has taken a lot of slack recently for the way the Koran tolerates or even prescribes hatred and violence toward nonbelievers, and it is particularly nasty...especially given how literally Muslims regard the Koran. But Islam isn't unique. Most religions have the potential to foster violent divisiveness. What is a community if not a haven from intruders, a place where we feel welcome, among people who make us feel safe? Would you fight to protect your safety, your family's? Of course. Taken to an extreme, any sense of community can do damage. Religions often do. (So does nationalism, but that's another topic.) I'm not saying religion is all bad. There are beneficient effects. Chief among them, I've always thought, is that religion helps us live to a higher moral standard than we otherwise would. Being part of a community makes you act better toward the people around you. And then there are all those rules that every religion has about morality, and the notion that if you do the right thing, you'll be rewarded in the afterlife. It's an undeniable formula for goodness.

The pictures on this page are of a 17th century thatch cottage (the thatch roof lasts 40 years but is extremely expensive to replace) about 5 miles outside of Cambridge. It belongs to Kevin Dutton, a Cambridge University neuroscience/psychology professor who's on leave to write a book about psychopaths, and his wife Elaine, a PhD in emotional psychology. Together with their friend, Louise, a Phd in moral philosophy and a Cambridge professor, we gathered to drink several bottles of Australian shiraz, eat a home-cooked meal, and talk about the nature of morality. It's a subject I've become increasingly interested in over the last few years because while I've fallen out of religion and faith I don't think I've become less moral. In fact, I'd argue that I'm a better person now than I was ten years ago, and, I think, less selfish. Being irreligious means I choose my actions not for the consequences they may bring in an afterlife, but rather, solely because I know my actions affect the people around me. If we all live by a similar code, my reasoning goes, the world is a better place to live. So, I've been wondering, if I can simultaneously live a moral and irreligious life, what does religion really have to do with morality?

You might suggest that my moral code was established in my youth by my religous upbringing and by my parents' religious beliefs and by the laws put in place by our government, which were influenced by religious mores and convictions. And that may be true. But is it necessarily true? Could morality be a dominant property that has been naturally selected in humans for the larger good of the species? A related question: Can we create/construct morality -- artificial morality, you might say -- without religion? Can we make ethical machines? (This is what I'll be writing about while in Paris.) Kevin was sufficiently intrigued by these questions to invite me over for dinner on one of my final nights in Cambridge. And we had a great conversation into the wee hours...not to mention all the food and wine.

I'll tell you more about it in part two of this post -- but I owe some news from Prague, where Heather and I are now. That'll come next. Na shledanou for now.