Dear Richard Dawkins
It wouldn’t be quite honest
If I now began to lecture
Like I’d never thought my faith
Was psychological conjecture.
It might just sound too confident
And even slightly proud
Not to mention that I question
And have harboured many a doubt.
Yet call it mere naivety
And bash me with your claims;
I believe that having thought
I’ve simply thought again.
I understand the principles
Of all there is to teach,
But there’s a kind of knowledge
Which your method doesn’t reach
Although we’re in a galaxy
Surrounded by the stars
And all of human history
Flies by like racing cars;
There’s something in our friendships
And something in our scars
That makes us feel eternal,
That makes us haunt the past
So though you try to tell me
That it’s all a case of genes
Just elbowing their neighbours
And driving our machines
I submit that - spite our selfishness
And independent dreams -
We’re longing for relationship;
Our lungs are full of screams
Shouting out against reduction
Of our human enterprise
To simple reproduction
And mutation’s chance surprise
I’ll admit that we are tiny
I’ll admit the world is large
But I won’t accept your doctrine
For it contradicts my heart.
It may be that a herd-instinct
Prepared our good-night-kiss
And all our dating games
Are simply mating with a twist
But to boil down our relationships
To chemical reactions
Is to turn us into robots
With pre-determined actions
All the tragedies of history
All the countless slaughtered crowds
Cannot hear a helpful answer
For the pain is just too loud.
But to simply shrug ones shoulders
At an accident of time
Seems to mock our deep conviction
That there’s such a thing as crime
So I won’t bow at the altar
Of the atheist confession
Just because it turns out nifty
For a simple explanation.
It would be cold betrayal of
Humanity’s experience,
Not to mention break my heart and put
A scar across my conscience
For all the work you’ve done
To rescue us from superstition
I’ve got to take my hat off,
Mention my appreciation.
Yet I cannot help but think
That you’ve a frightening omission;
That the fullness of our being
Can’t be seen through an equation
I truly can prove nothing
By my simple observations
Yet many great men in the world
Have followed invitations
To ask about the meaning of
Our world, our lives’ own chapters
To let the sense of the divine
Fill our poor souls with rapture
So listen to the music
Hear the sound of distant drums
Beating out a holy rhythm
Calling us to come on home
I confess: it all means something,
There’s a goal for which we strive
There’s a Father who is waiting
For his children to arrive
