I’ve decided that, in situations where a believer would invoke an omnipresent deity, I’m going to start swearing to astronauts.* After all, astronauts are the only beings that I know for sure have been smiling down on us from above the clouds.

*For purposes of this exercise, “astronauts” will include Russian cosmonauts, Chinese taikonauts, and any whatever-nauts from future manned space programs. My admiration for those who’ve flown in space is not bound by anything so silly as nationality.

  You should know that I have a lot of problems with deism/religion. There is the usual complaint about the exclusiveness inherent in any belief system that purports to reveal the one true path to the divine. But when deists look to their patron spirit(s) as the driving force behind natural events, I start foaming at the mouth and gnawing on chair legs.

  The world is, almost completely at random, a stunningly beautiful and unfathomably horrible place. Invoking a supernatural explanation for unpredictable events is a double-edged sword. Also, both edges are coated in battery acid, and they’re aiming for your exposed throat at the same time.

  At best, ascribing events like these to the influence of magical sky beings fosters the belief that natural events occur because of the everyday behavior of the persons affected. (At its logical extreme, of course, is the delusion that these events can be influenced or even controlled by good behavior, dietary restriction, virgin sacrifice, etc.) At worst, a default deistic explanation makes us less safe, by acting as a disincentive to actual productive inquiry.

  Our only hope for minimizing the damage from pandemic illness and natural disasters lies with objective scientific investigation. Better prediction of geological and meteorological events. Structures built from modern materials and designed to survive extreme stresses. Efficient, workable evacuation plans. Vaccines to prevent communicable diseases. These things don’t just happen, no matter how humbly we petition or how hard we pray. They happen as the result of brain work and perseverance, and the underlying assumption that events that kill a lot of people should and can be prevented. If we call it the will of god(s) and trust in the power of prayer to save us, we’re leaving it to chance. Without the will to make our own way in the Universe, and the scientific diligence to learn how it all works, we’re signing on as the future test subjects in an experiment testing the power of fervent prayer to alter the trajectory of a civilization-killing asteroid. In that scenario, my money’s on the giant rock.

The most recent picture in NASA’s Astronomy Picture Of The Day clearly shows the face of the Mantis God. His compound eyes gaze benevolently down upon us, his holy mandibles touch lightly as he showers his insecty love upon us.

Of course, “Big Astronomy” has some half-assed nattering about a possible explanation.

Now known popularly as Hanny’s Voorwerp, subsequent observations have shown that the mysterious green blob has the same distance as neighboring galaxy IC 2497. Research is ongoing, but one leading hypothesis holds that Hanny’s Voorwerp is a small galaxy that acts like a large reflection nebula, showing the reflected light of a bright quasar event that happened in the center of IC 2497 about 100,000 years ago.

Fear not, brothers and sisters. The Mantis God loves us all. When he returns to us, he will eat all the flies from every backyard, even of those soulless astronomers who gaze upon his holy carapace and see only a “mysterious green blob.”

I have seen the bright green face of the Mantis God. All hail pareidolia.

In the Saturday May 31, 2008 edition of The Guardian, Ian McEwan has an interesting study of historic and modern apocalyptic movements [The Day Of Judgment]. Despite consistent failure by stodgy theologians and crazy cult leaders alike to accurately predict the end of civilization, new prophets and new warnings of our collective demise appear with an almost tedious regularity. McEwan’s piece examines the rise of modern fundamentalist doomsaying, and places it in context as only the latest stanza in a centuries-old epic poem of cultural solipsism and utterly useless prophecy.

We sometimes think of doomsday cults as a modern phenomenon, but they’re really just notes in the margins of an age-old script. A time of political or social turmoil, a charismatic leader, a vision of impending awfulness, and a bunch of disaffected followers so caught up in the ruckus that they do things the rest of us think of as unfathomably crazy. The biggest difference these days is that they’ve replaced slaughtering Jews with holing up in compounds, oiling their vast collections of firearms, and having sex with underage girls.

All of that was really an excuse to point out McEwan’s conclusion, which sensibly notes that salvation, for the faithful and the faithless alike, is going to come (if at all) from the same source. Specifically, from us.

The believers should know in their hearts by now that, even if they are right and there actually is a benign and watchful personal God, he is, as all the daily tragedies, all the dead children attest, a reluctant intervener. The rest of us, in the absence of any evidence to the contrary, know that it is highly improbable that there is anyone up there at all. Either way, in this case it hardly matters who is wrong - there will be no one to save us but ourselves.

Lift your head, unfold your hands and get of your knees. All of that stuff is about as useful as male nipples. Despite an untold multitude of fervent prayers, the levies collapsed in New Orleans, the Rwandan Hutus murdered almost a million Tutsis, and Fox cancelled Firefly. Changing things requires passion, commitment and (above all) hard work. Flinging urgent missives into the sky will not make one jot of difference.

Unless you’re trying to bring about your personal vision of the apocalypse. In that case, keep on praying.

“I’m praying for you,” or “you and your family are in my prayers.” They’ve become the all-too familiar refrain of people who want to do or say something meaningful to someone in crisis, but don’t have the desire or the knowledge to actually do anything.

Admittedly, when one faces a deadly disease (or sees someone close to them go through it), there isn’t much you can actively do to get well. You can follow doctor’s orders, you can try to enjoy life, you can do any number of things to take your mind off of the impact that the disease is having, and will have on the rest of your life. For those who don’t know how to do anything else, there’s prayer.

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Let’s talk about Matthew Lincoln, the 58-year-old Tennessee man who’s suing his former church. After praying to have “a real experience” while worshiping, Mr. Lincoln was so overwhelmed by his faith that he fell down and hit his head. Twelve months and two surgeries later, he’s still experiencing leg and back pain. When the church’s insurance company refused his claim, Mr. Lincoln sued. He’s asking for payment of his medical bills, wages lost when he was unable to work, and pain and suffering, all of which he values at $2.5 million.

Comment on this story has run along two major themes: “He got what he prayed for,” and “He should blame god, not the church.” I figured that Mr. Lincoln surrendered to the will of his chosen deity, so he should rock his injuries Job-style, and accept his suffering as the whim of that deity.

It’s a little like every story ever written about wish-granting genies. You ask for a whole lot of pudding, and a tanker truck carrying a ton of tapioca crashes into your house. You get what you wished for, with a side dish of zero sympathy. I assumed that a court would set Mr. Lincoln on fire before it awarded him any money.

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