The lady in red

I've been interested for years in how religions get started.

There are a handful that come about from the work of a single person; Joseph Smith with the Church of Latter-Day Saints, L. Ron Hubbard's creation of Scientology, and Mary Baker Eddy's launching of the Christian Science movement come to mind.   But I'm much more curious about ones that arise more organically, from a groundswell of belief that ends up sort of taking on a life of its own.

Of course, none of this happens in vacuo.  Belief systems always arise because of a combination of social conditions and prior beliefs.  Previous religious traditions are often combined, rearranged, jiggered around, and have new components added, resulting in something sufficiently different to what came before to warrant classification as a new religion.  In fact, this is so common that the anthropologists have a name for it; syncretism.  

As an example, let me tell you about one of the world's newest religions: the Church of Nuestra Señora de la Santa Muerte.

The name translates to Our Lady of Holy Death, and the deity is a female figure that is a personification of death.  But it's not a belief system that reveres death; Santa Muerte is considered a protector figure, listening to and granting the prayers of devotees, and the association with death is that she guarantees to the faithful a peaceful transition to a pleasant afterlife.  Her depiction, though, isn't exactly reassuring:

[Image is in the Public Domain]

The Church of Santa Muerte got its start in Mexico, and does share with my previous examples the fact that its meteoric rise popularity is largely due to the efforts of one person, Enriquita Romero, who founded a shrine to the goddess in Mexico City in 2001.  But the roots of the religion go back to at least the mid-twentieth century, when a belief system arose that took parts of Roman Catholicism and melded them with Indigenous beliefs, particularly the worship of the Aztec goddess of death Mictēcacihuātl, who played a similar role in pre-colonization Mexico.

You're probably wondering if the worship of Santa Muerte is more or less the same as the rituals associated with the Day of the Dead, given the similarity in the imagery.  The answer is that there is some overlap, but it's far from complete.  The Day of the Dead, celebrated on November 1 or 2 (it varies in different areas), is a thoroughly Catholicized practice that involves praying for the departed, decorating their graves, and going to Mass in the hopes that the devotions will improve the deceased family and friends' lot in the afterlife.  While Santa Muerte has some Christian symbolism incorporated into it, it is a religion of its own that has in fact been roundly condemned by both the Catholics and the evangelical Protestants.  Cardinal Gianfranco Ravasi, head of the Vatican’s Pontifical Council for Culture, said, "It’s not religion just because it’s dressed up like religion; it’s a blasphemy against religion."  The Archbishop of Santa Fe, New Mexico, John Wester, told his flock outright that you can't be a Catholic and at the same time worship the Skeletal Lady.  Pope Francis himself visited Mexico in 2016, and on his first day there repudiated Santa Muerte as "blasphemous and satanic... a symbol of narco-culture."

The last objection has some merit.  As a movement that was underground for a long time (in fact, the Mexican government has gone so far as to bulldoze shrines and places of worship), it has become associated with people on the fringes of society -- the poor, the homeless, prostitutes, and people involved in the narcotics trade.  Interestingly enough, it's also become a haven for LGBTQ+ people; Santa Muerte herself is seen by many queer people in Mexico and Central America as their particular protector, who will intercede for them in matters of safety, prosperity, and love.  It's apparently become quite common for practitioners of Santa Muerte to officiate at same-sex weddings.

Its influence is spreading fast.  Andrew Chesnut, a historian who studies religion, has said that it is the single fastest-growing new religion in the world.  There are now places of worship in New York City, Chicago, Houston, San Antonio, Tucson, and elsewhere, and even a temple built on a piece of ultra-expensive real estate on Melrose Avenue in Hollywood.

Honestly, I can understand the appeal.  When life is uncertain -- which it is now, for about a hundred different reasons -- putting your trust in a deity who champions the weak and powerless, protects the poor and oppressed, and (should death occur) makes the transition to the afterlife easy, has got to be attractive.  Anthropologist Lois Ann Lorentzen writes, "The subversive Santa Muerte, favored by undocumented migrants, including LGBTQ migrants, provides solace and protection against both church and state, while also reflecting their liminal, precarious lives."  Writer Carlos Garma calls it a "cult of crisis."

Myself, I'm not religious, but my attitude toward religion -- particularly this sort, which (unlike other religions I will refrain from naming) doesn't bludgeon its way into political power and then demand that everyone believe likewise, or else -- can be characterized as, "Whatever gets you through the day."  I've landed on a set of beliefs that (most of the time) helps me to make sense of the universe and keeps me putting one foot in front of the other.  Who am I to criticize how someone else squares that circle?

I used to be a great deal more militant about atheism, but I've come to recognize that (like everything) religion is complex.  My real beef is with religions that aren't content just to do their thing, but desire to compel universal compliance.  (And often create a fake persecution complex on the part of the true believers, because people who feel embattled and frightened will be much quicker to strike out in anger -- and are easier for the leaders to control.)  I'll fight like hell against religions that try to force adherence, or who muscle their way into public schools, which amounts to the same thing -- but otherwise?  Eh, I've got no problem with you.  Maybe I've tempered with age, or maybe I've just come to realize that "pick your battles" is one of the most important principles for a happy life.

So I'm more interested than repelled by Nuestra Señora de la Santa Muerte.  If it gives you solace, and doesn't impel you to try to force me to believe, I'm happy you're happy.  It's a hard old world, and we need all the help we can get, wherever it comes from.

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Escaping the simulation

It's undeniable that things have been a little weird lately.

To cite one example, just look at the revelations -- if I can use that word -- from the report on the Mueller investigation this past weekend.  At the time of this writing, outside of Mueller and his team, no one has seen the actual report except for Attorney General William Barr.  But this hasn't stopped everyone from having an opinion about what it says.  Democrats are livid because they're assuming Barr's statement -- that the report exonerates Trump from collusion and obstruction of justice -- accurately reflects the report itself.  Republicans are crowing for the same reason.  And Trump, who has been squawking "No collusion!  No collusion!" like some kind of demented, brain-damaged parrot for months, immediately responded via (of course) Twitter that he was now completely off the hook.

I'm feeling dazed enough by the whole thing that I'm planning on avoiding the news for a couple of weeks.  At this point, my desire to stay well-informed is at odds with my desire to stay sane.

But it's the surreal aspect that I'm thinking about.  As a friend of mine put it, "It's like we've been living in a computer simulation being run by aliens.  And the aliens have gotten bored with their experiments, and now they're just fucking with us to see how we'll react."

Apparently he's not the only one thinking this way.  Because according to a guy who spoke at the SXSW Festival in Austin, Texas, we're not only in a simulation, but he's founding a church dedicated to getting us out of the matrix.

His name is George Hotz, and he's a 29-year-old hacker and founder of the self-driving car startup company Comma.ai.  The talk was entitled "Jailbreaking the Simulation," and here's a bit of it to give you the flavor of his claim:

We are in a simulation.  Has it occurred to you that means God is real?  By drawing parallels to worlds we have created, we ask, from inside our simulator, what actions do we have available?  Can we get out?  Meet God?  Kill him?

Well, that escalated quickly.

There’s no evidence this is not true.  It’s easy to imagine things that are so much smarter than you and they could build a cage you wouldn’t even recognize.

There's no evidence that the universe is not being controlled by a Giant Green Bunny from the Andromeda Galaxy, either.  Because that's not how evidence works.  And I'm a fiction writer, so trust me that I can easily imagine things that would blow your mind, or at least make you wonder if I was dropped on my head as an infant.  But my ability to imagine them is no indicator that any of them are real, which is why all of my books have the word "fiction" on the spine.

I’m thinking about starting a church. There are a lot of structural problems with companies — there’s no real way to win...  With companies, you only really lose.  I think churches might be much more aligned toward these goals, and the goal of the church would be realigning society’s efforts toward getting out [of the simulation].

I don't know about you, but I'm not getting the chain of reasoning, here.  "Companies aren't as lucrative as churches, so we need a church to figure out how to escape from the computer simulation we're trapped in" seems like a leap, logic-wise.

He finished up with a bit of a head-scratcher:

Do I actually believe it?  Some days yes.  Sometimes I don’t know how I feel about something until I say it out loud.

Which isn't exactly a ringing endorsement.

So I'm of two minds about all this.  The idea of being in a computer simulation has some appeal, because then it would mean that the last two years has been the result of some super-intelligent beings creating bizarre scenarios for experimental purposes, or at least for their own amusement.  I don't know about you, but I'd be much more comfortable in a universe where Donald Trump was fictional, although I must say that even my own imagination is insufficient to dream up a scenario where a grandstanding narcissistic reality-show host not only became president, but was treated by Christian evangelicals as the Second Coming of Christ despite being a walking encyclopedia of sins.

On the other hand, if we are in a simulation, it's a little alarming to consider the repercussions.  In The Matrix it didn't seem like it was all that great a choice for Neo to take the red pill, because the real reality kind of sucked.  You know, giant tentacled monsters trying to destroy your ship, multiple copies of Agent Smith gunning for you every where you go, and creepy albino twins zooming around destroying cars.  My opinion is that he might have been better off, all things considered, to wake up in his own bed and believe whatever he wanted to believe.

So offered the choice, I don't know what I'd do.  I guess it'd boil down to which was worse, carnivorous metallic squid trying to eat you for lunch, or having to put up with Donald Trump.  I guess I'll make that choice when and if it arises.

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I've been a bit of a geology buff since I was a kid.  My dad was a skilled lapidary artist, and made beautiful jewelry from agates, jaspers, and turquoise, so every summer he and I would go on a two-week trip to southern Arizona to find cool rocks.  It was truly the high point of my year, and ever since I have always given rock outcroppings and road cuts more than just the typical passing glance.

So I absolutely loved John McPhee's four-part look at the geology of the United States -- Basin and Range, Rising From the Plains, In Suspect Terrain, and Assembling California.  Told in his signature lucid style, McPhee doesn't just geek out over the science, but gets to know the people involved -- the scientists, the researchers, the miners, the oil-well drillers -- who are vitally interested in how North America was put together.  In the process, you're taken on a cross-country trip to learn about what's underneath the surface of our country.  And if, like me, you're curious about rocks, it will keep you reading until the last page.

Note: the link below is to the first in the series, Basin and Range.  If you want to purchase it, click on the link, and part of the proceeds will go to support Skeptophilia.  And if you like it, you'll no doubt easily find the others!

The woo-woos go to Wales

Some of you may remember that three years ago, just as the Mayan Apocalypse nonsense was beginning to get some traction, a cadre of nutjobs associated with J. Z. Knight's "Ramtha School of Enlightenment" descended on the little village of Bugarach in the southwest of France because they had somehow become convinced that it was the only place on Earth that wasn't going to be destroyed.  The mayor of Bugarach was understandably dismayed when thousands of dubiously sane apocalyptoids showed up and started camping out all around the village.  They were, they explained, expecting that when the End Times came, the nearby mountain (the Pic de Bugarach) was going to pop open in the fashion of a jack-in-the-box, and an alien spacecraft was going to come out and bring all of the assembled woo-woos to their new home in outer space.

Except, of course, that none of this happened, and the woo-woos eventually gave up and went home.  Same as the Harmonic Convergence people and the Rajneeshees did a generation earlier.  As mystifying as it seems, repeatedly failing in every single prediction they make never discourages the loyal following.  They disperse temporarily, but always resurface later, once again holding hands and chanting while barefoot and wearing daisy chains...

... and this time Wales is the lucky winner.

Our most recent iteration of this story comes to us courtesy of the "Aetherius Society," which hales back to 1958, when London cab driver George King was instructed by an "alien intelligence" to become a religious leader.  "Prepare yourself!" the voice told him.  "You are to become the voice of Interplanetary Parliament."  The alien intelligence said his name was "Aetherius" and that he lived on the planet Venus, despite the fact that Venus is basically a cross between an acid bath and a blast furnace, with a surface hot enough to melt lead.  Be that as it may, Aetherius did a lot of talking to and through King, delivering messages that included a cautionary note that if people didn't listen to the "Cosmic Masters," evil space guys were going to destroy the Earth.  However, with the help of Aetherius and others (including the same Krishna that the Hindus worship, except that the Aetherius people say that Krishna is from Saturn), everything would be just hunky-dory.

Oh, yeah, and Jesus, Buddha, Confucius, and Lao Tse were aliens, too.  Just to be clear on that.

But then, there's also this fixation on mountains, which is how Wales comes into the picture.  George King/Aetherius said that there were nineteen mountains around the world that were "holy places" that were "charged with spiritual energy," and these include Pen-y-Fan in the Brecon Beacons and Carnedd Llewelyn in Snowdonia.  And it is to the latter that the Aetherius Society members are going to be heading in August.

"Carnedd Llewelyn is one of nineteen mountains around the world that the Aetherius Society revere as holy," society member Richard Lawrence said.  "On August 23 we are arranging a pilgrimage...  The purpose of going up is to send out spiritual energy for world peace and to pray for the betterment of humanity.  The climbs are quite demanding, I find, and then at the top we raise our hands and join in prayer.  When I feel a burst of energy it could be strong heat in the palms or a tingling sensation throughout the body."

I don't know about you, but I would not consider a "tingling sensation" an adequate reward for busting my ass climbing a mountain.  But that's just me.  And at least, unlike the Pic de Bugarach, Carnedd Llewelyn isn't all that near any towns whose inhabitants the "pilgrims" will bother.  The nearest good-sized village is Bethesda, fourteen kilometers distant, which is quite a hike.  Plus, Bethesda is said by Wikipedia to be "infamous for its pubs," so maybe our pilgrims might oughta think about other accommodations in any case.

I suppose that the whole thing is harmless enough, but you have to wonder how it keeps happening.  I mean, if I were considering becoming an Aetherian, or whatever the hell they call themselves, I'd do some research first.  I'd start by looking up "alien UFO fringe groups" online, and after the first ten articles about the Heaven's Gate Cult and the Raëlians and (it must be said) the Scientologists, I'd pretty much go, "Well, fuck that."

So I won't be joining them in Wales, much as I think it's a lovely place that I'd like to visit again.  I'm not much for daisy chains and chanting.  Instead, I think I'll see what I can do in the way of achieving "tingling sensations" in the comfort and privacy of my own home.