i be naija

On Creationism

I believe there is a Creator. Or, to put it more accurately, I’d like to believe there is a Creator.

But believing is not the same thing as knowing—at least, not in the epistemological sense. My ‘belief’ is different from what I consider ‘knowledge,’ in that it is based on an imperative not too dissimilar from ‘faith,’ rather than empirical evidence, discernible by the senses or through deduction.

I believe there is a Creator; I just do not know that there is one.

Why I do believe that there is a Creator?

It appears highly unlikely to me that the universe, in all its complexity, began spontaneously and without cause, out of nothing. The sheer diversity and organization of things would appear to require the concerted action of a creator. In order words, I believe it is more likely than not that a universe as complex ours resulted from some sort of higher intelligence.

Also—and I am convinced many people share this sentiment—my belief in a Creator is driven by a desire, nay need, for there to be something bigger than me… for there to be something that transcends my mortality. Believing in a Creator satisfies that need.

 (True, true, these two ‘arguments’ do not offer deductively valid support for the belief in a Creator, either. Nonetheless, I think that the first one at least, is strong enough to support that belief.)

Why I do not know there is a Creator?

I cannot claim to know that a Creator exists because I have not seen any empirical, fool-proof evidence for His (or Her) existence.

What is your own belief based on?

Do you KNOW that a Creator exists? What is this ‘knowledge’ based on? If you have a deductively valid (i.e. 100% fool-proof) argument for the existence of a Creator, do post a comment. Note though that anecdotal “evidence” do not count.

Finally, without convincing empirical evidence, I categorically refuse to believe in:

voodoo · juju · jazz · deities · shamans · shamanism · astral travel · ouija boards · reincarnation · sublimation · demons · demonism · demonic possession · Satan · Satanism · conspiracy theories · spiritualism · charms · talismans · cults · occultism · fraternities · confraternities · angels · archangels · demonic suppression · feng shui · organized religion · psychics · magicians · magic · witches · wizards · witchcraft · wizardry · curses · spells · incantations · heaven · hell · purgatory · the sixth sense · extra sensory perception · past lives · aliens · unidentified flying objects · etc.

As early as the first few bible studies, I’d suspected that if I allowed myself to become a disciple, I wouldn’t remain one for long. But though I was convinced that organized religion was not for me, I felt obliged to humor the disciples, to accede to their oft-spurious interpretations of the Bible. Those disciples were driven by a certain curious impetus… and that impetus, I am willing to admit, impelled me to indulge them.

Soon, Dan (as I must call him for the sake of prudence), one of the leaders of the campus ministry, began to impress on me the imperatives of immediate baptism.

Subconsciously, I knew that baptism would be the seal that would bind me to the church. I knew that once I allowed myself to be submerged in those waters, I would, in effect, be entering a contract.

Being baptized in a church, I reckoned, was a marriage between the church and the convert, much like the union between a bride and a groom in which both are to “cleave to each other and become one.” Disengaging myself from the church after baptism, would, I was convinced, not fail to bring its baggage of trauma.

I stalled. I whined that I didn’t feel right about being baptized yet, that I was waiting to set my heart right with God, that I was waiting for the right time…

That phrase turned out to be my undoing. Dan countered that there would never be a “right time,” that there could never be a right time, that I had to make this the right time. He seemed desperate for me to be baptized, but I allowed myself to be persuaded by his rhetoric. It seemed quite plausible.

§

The following Friday was Good Friday, and I had gone to the weekly devotional that was held at their Michigan Avenue location. Dan arranged to take me to lunch the next day. Evidently, he had to complete the string of pre-baptismal bible studies as soon as possible, and add me to the flock of disciples as quickly. Did not Christ exhort his disciples to make disciples of all nations? Was not that the Messiah’s very mandate to his followers? Dan intended to fulfill that mandate, and he was doing a good job of it.

The next day, Dan picked me up from my Lake Meadows apartment at about 4:00 p.m. We then drove to Hyde Park to look for a place to eat and study the Bible. We found an Italian restaurant that suited our purpose, parked the car, and went in. Dan ordered a medium-sized pizza and the waiter brought some bread moments later. He sprinkled some cheese on the olive oil he’d poured on the saucer, dipped a piece of bread in it, took a bite, and said it was good. I tried it, and agreed.

The minister then produced his NIV Bible and began the systematic process of converting me to the faith. I listened, nodded and answered his questions in the affirmative. I asked a few questions of my own—questions that were either unsatisfactorily answered or entirely evaded. Dan told me that tomorrow was Easter, that Jesus arose from the dead on that day, and that the full implications of that resurrection were beyond the grasp of any single man.

Wouldn’t it be the absolute best thing for me to be baptized tomorrow, to be submerged in water, and to be raised, like Jesus, to a new life? Wouldn’t it be all too cool to say that I was baptized on Easter? I silently contemplated Dan’s modest propositions, and like the quixotic (sic) that I had become, agreed that it would, indeed, be cool to be baptized on Easter. Though I harbored reservations about baptism (in fact, I asked him if there was a way around the actual submersion, he said no), I neither committed myself to it nor expressed my reservations. We prayed, and he dropped me off at home.

The next day was Easter, and I brought myself, somehow, to go to the church. I had in my attendance of other baptisms heard the converts say they were “fired-up,” “sold-out” to God, and that nothing could be more “awesome.” Deep down, I had no such experiences. I was, frankly, in a trance, and the most important motivation for continuation on the path I’d set out on was the sheer novelty of being baptized on Easter.

After the worship service, I told Dan of my resolution to get baptized. He was ecstatic. He spread the word (you must marvel at the efficacy of word-of-mouth), and arranged, with a few snaps of the finger I think, to have the baptismal bath ready. Everyone was overjoyed. Hugs and congratulatory messages almost suffocated me.

By the time I arrived at the Michigan Avenue baptismal venue, almost every disciple in the campus ministry was already there and I was greeted with another round of hugs and congratulations. Apparently, I had made the best decision of my life, and everyone was happy for me.

I was asked to go and change into the T-shirt and jogging pants I’d brought for the purpose of the submersion in water, and was subsequently led to a back room where I was to be faced with the final, this-is-it, no-turning-back round of questions. In a solemn ceremony, Dan and two other patriarchs of the Campus ministry asked if I would be willing to be committed to the body of Christ, to attend every meeting of “the body,” and to forever live the life of a disciple. I answered all three questions in the affirmative. We prayed.

Our emergence from the back room was to rapturous applause and ecstatic cheers. Then began the obligatory flattery about the object of the convention: some said I was one of the most brilliant persons they’d ever met, others, that they’d never seen anyone so willing to study the bible, and that they were sure I’d make a fine disciple. Others, yet, couldn’t wait to see what God would do with me. Everyone had such kind words that, to tell the truth, I might have cried if I had one less drop of testosterone running through my veins. In all, everyone thought I would make one heck of a disciple.

I was still deep in my trance when somebody led me towards the baptismal bath. I stepped into the bath, waded to the deep end of it, and sat on the raised steps, the water circling my lower torso.

“Do you believe that Jesus died for your sins and rose from the dead to grant you eternal salvation?” I vaguely heard Dan ask.

“I do.” I said mechanically. If someone had looked into my eyes, they might have suggested that we postpone the event. Though I was sitting in that bath, I was really far away. Deep down, in whatever remained of my consciousness, I was asking myself, what am I doing? Why in the world am I doing this? I certainly wasn’t fired up.

But it was too late to withdraw now. Surely I did not intend to climb out of the water and declare to these incredibly awesome people that I’d changed my mind about being baptized in their church. To have done so would be to have committed an atrocity, a barbarity, and in fact, an abomination deserving of eternal damnation!

“What is your good confession?” Dan asked, jolting me out of my reverie.

“Jesus is Lord.” I said as we had rehearsed in the back room. Obviously, that utterance was not, by the most elastic definition of the word, a confession—never mind whether it was good or not. For my intellectual detachment from the process, I might as well have been reciting the rosary. At any rate, a thunderous applause rent the air as I made my “good confession.”

“I baptize you in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost,” Dan said as he clasped his hands over mine, which were firmly covering my mouth and nose, and lowered me, backward, into the water.

I re-emerged to reverberating shouts and applause, and to the beginnings of the refrain, “We love you with the love of the lord…”—one that I came to understand was, for lack of a more apt description, the induction anthem.

As I climbed out of the water, someone wrapped my towel around me, and directed me to the men’s rest room where I dried myself, and changed back into my clothes.

When I returned from the bathroom, it was to another round of by-now-asphyxiating hugs and congratulations. There were two cards that had been signed by about every disciple in the campus ministry, congratulating me on making the best decision of my life.

§

It was at this point that I slowly began to emerge from the trance that had enveloped me all week, into the reality of my just-forged commitment. I knew I would eventually joist my way out of it, but I was presently involved in an intimate relationship with The Church.

With that, I became a bona fide member of The Church, a membership I was too willing to relinquish, but too ambivalent to; a membership that in retrospect was a veritable waste of my time and energies; a membership that allowed me to witness an admixture of hypocrisy, conformity, and servility, the likes of which I never wish to witness again.

[undated c. 2002 - 2003]

Occasionally, I receive unsolicited e-mail messages that I find valuable. But seldom do I receive a message that at once infuriates and propels me to pull up a blank Microsoft Word document to hash out a riposte.

But first, a salient question:

Why was it the European that enslaved the African and not the other way around?

Here is my proposition.

(But before that, a quick foreword: I have deliberately chosen to simplify and generalize here; this isn’t intended to be a doctoral thesis. I realize, for example, that there are way more people on earth than the European and the African. Nonetheless, I feel confident that it is in order for me to take the risks of simplification and generalization here.)

So on to my proposition.

Let’s go back to any arbitrary time in the history of mankind… Shall we say, the middle ages? On any arbitrary day in the middle ages, we will find it to be true that the European was more inquisitive than the African. The European observed natural phenomena, and, intrigued by them, wondered why things were the way they were? He formulated hypotheses, tested them, and validated or repudiated them. Either way, he learned something each time he went through that cycle, and accumulated (and documented), over time an increasing body of knowledge.

The African on the other hand ascribed almost everything to the supernatural. He ascribed the rain and the sun to gods. If he had a bountiful harvest, the gods must have been pleased with his sacrifice of goat’s blood and yams from earlier in the year. If he had a poor harvest, the gods were undoubtedly aggrieved, and needed to be appeased. The forests had their gods, and so did the rivers, all animals, sickness and health, poverty and wealth, and gravity. (I doubt that someone actually thought to ascribe that last one to a god, though).

But what happens once you ascribe all observable phenomena to the supernatural? You slowly asphyxiate your natural imperative to inquire and investigate. You gradually become incapable of asking, as Newton did, why the apple (or banana, to be stereotypical) fell down, and not up. You, over time, lose all ability to engage your intellect… to wrap your mind around your living environment. When you see your brother’s ailment as a curse from the gods rather than as the manifestation of some physiological imbalance, your approach to searching for a solution leads to an altogether futile endeavor.

But back to the European.

So, the European came to Africa with his astronomical wizardry (and by astronomical, I mean, “of, or relating to astronomy”), navigational genius, and his rifle. He summarily herded the African back to his homeland to slave away in farms and fields. (I know, I know, the matter was way more complex; that doesn’t matter here).

What matters though, is that the European gave the African a new religion, pointing out the sheer backwardness of paganism. This new religion wore a cloak woven of the highest grade virtue. In comparison to the black, barbaric religion of the African, the new religion was the dazzling epitome of all things white and right. Indeed, the European came to Africa with the Bible, and said to the African, “Close your eyes, let us pray.” On “Amen,” the African had the European’s Bible, and the European had the African’s land—and, dare I say, the African, himself.

Even though almost all African “nations” had “gained” “independence” by the 1960s (in other words, the European has “returned” Africa to the African—at least, apparently), the African has not, till date, returned the Bible to its owner.

Boy, has the African clung to that Bible.

But more than just clinging to the Bible, in fact, the African has so infused the European’s religion with his own brand of eccentricities, that even if he were to return the Bible, its owners would neither recognize nor accept it.
 
(By the way, I have another hypothesis about why it was the European that enslaved the African and not the other way around, but I am not going to go there. Suffice it to say though that by engaging the European with a harsher living environment than the African, nature assured the European of certain advantages… But, like I said, I am not going to go there… That is almost entirely a separate issue.)

***

So back to the reason of this write-up: that e-mail I got from my buddy, Kunle. In it, an organization called “restore-Nigeria” (do a Google search for them, if you like, I refuse to boost their search rankings by linking to them) seems to think that all of Nigeria’s woes come from one single incident: Nigeria’s hosting of the Festival of Arts and Culture (FESTAC) in 1977. According to them,

FESTAC ’77 took place in Nigeria some thirty years ago but the negative spiritual impact unleashed on our nation still haunts us today.

Here’s their smoking gun… an irrefutable, deductively-valid inference, if there ever was one:

FESTAC ‘77 took place from 15 January – 12 February 1977. The 10th year after that (1987) was meant to be an election year in the second republic but the election never took place. Instead, we had a coup d’etat. We suffered the same fate in 1997. Coincidentally, we have a major election coming up in 2007. These facts highlight the need for us to seek God’s mercy on our nation.

And here’s their call-to-action… their prescription for Nigeria’s redemption:

To cleanse our nation of the sin of idolatry that we committed in FESTAC ’77 and restore us to the true path of ‘Unity and Faith, Peace and Progress’, we need a national call for repentance. All Nigerians need to fast and pray to God for forgiveness and restoration.

And their rationale… the clincher:

God was willing to spare Sodom and Gomorrah , a city whose sin was exceedingly grave, for the lives of only ten righteous people (Genesis 18: 32). He indeed spared Nineveh , a wicked city, when its people repented of their evil ways (Jonah 3: 10). God is able, and will surely restore our nation if we cry unto him in genuine repentance.

These numbskulls (I really hate ad hominem attacks, but feel I am entitled to at least this one) continue to perpetuate the disabling worldview of their forefathers by ascribing the social, political, and economic anomalies of a country, Nigeria, to the supernatural.

I will not waste your time recounting Nigeria’s problem (every Nigerian that is 3 years or older can tell you what they are). I just wish these neo-middle-age Africans would wake up and see Nigeria’s problems for what they are. I’ll tell you what Nigeria’s problems are not though… They are NOT God’s continuing backlash at us for FESTAC ’77, thirty years later.

C. E. Oyibo, out.