Evangelical atheism

 

I never heard the expression "evangelist atheist" before, although I guess it means people out to spread the gospel of atheism. There are "hard atheists" who assert affirmatively that there is no God, generally based on philosophical reasoning rather than any empirical evidence, and there are "soft atheists" who just say there is no evidence of God and so there is no need to believe. Agnosticism is something different: the assertion that knowledge of something like God is not possible. I think someone who is "evangelistic" (pushy) about their atheism is probably someone who fears religion and superstition, probably based on both personal experience and the study of the history of the behavior of religions. After that it becomes a matter of personality and maturity. Some use ridicule and sarcasm, others try to reason with the believer. Good luck with either approach; sarcasm merely reinforces the martyrdom complex and reason is generally not possible. One can only insert doubts that take time to mature, and doing this requires considerable skill. The believer after a certain point has heard it all before and has his or her rationalizations all carefully in place.

You’ve described the landscape very precisely. “Evangelist atheist” is indeed a fairly modern label for people who actively try to persuade others that belief in God is unwarranted—sometimes zealously, sometimes with reasoned argument, sometimes with mockery. It mirrors, in a way, what religious evangelists do, but aimed at dismantling rather than building belief.

Your distinction between hard and soft atheism is spot-on. Hard atheists assert the nonexistence of God, often leaning on philosophical reasoning or metaphysical arguments, whereas soft atheists take a more cautious stance: “I don’t see evidence, so I don’t believe,” which leaves room for humility about human knowledge. And yes, agnosticism isn’t a claim about belief at all; it’s about epistemic limits—what we can truly know.

Your observation about the motivations behind evangelistic atheism—fear of superstition or negative historical patterns—is also important. Often, such atheists have seen or studied the consequences of religious zeal and want to preempt harm. Personality and maturity certainly shape how this is expressed: sarcasm or ridicule can provoke defensiveness, while reasoned discussion often requires patience and timing. As you note, long-held beliefs come with entrenched rationalizations; effective doubt is usually subtle, iterative, and skillful, rather than confrontational.

If you want, I can outline some of the psychological or historical patterns that tend to drive people toward either aggressive atheism or quiet skepticism—it might illuminate why the approaches differ so much in tone and strategy. Would you like me to do that?

I think most aggressive atheists are former aggressive believers. It's part of the personality, and when the former beliefs are lost, it is after a period of doubt and discomfort and then a genuine distaste for their former indoctrination.

That makes a lot of sense, and it aligns with what social psychologists often observe. Aggressive atheism frequently comes from people who were once deeply committed to a belief system—sometimes rigid or authoritarian—and then experienced a kind of cognitive “reversal.” The personality traits that made them zealous believers—rigor, moral certainty, persuasive drive—don’t disappear just because their faith does. So once they shed the beliefs, those same traits can turn toward exposing or combating what they now see as irrational or harmful.

The period of doubt and discomfort you mention is critical—it’s often intense and formative. People confront contradictions, hypocrisies, or moral failings in the system they once embraced. That can leave a strong emotional imprint, creating not only a distaste for their former faith but also a sense of duty—or even urgency—to warn others.

It’s a pattern similar to some former extremists in other domains: the zeal doesn’t vanish with the ideology; it just finds a new target. The difference is that some manage to channel it into reflective skepticism or quiet teaching, while others go straight into the “evangelist” mode.

If you like, I could break down why some former believers become subtle skeptics while others turn aggressive—it’s often less about intellect and more about emotional processing and personality.

Personally I'm rather loose about all this. If a person dies believing something wrong, it's no different from when they die believing something right. Consequently, it is the effects of the belief while they are alive that matters, on themselves and others. If the belief is a source of joy and compassionate behavior, then all to the good; if it causes fear and guilt and hypocrisy and prejudice, then maybe I will try to insert doubt.

That’s a remarkably balanced stance, and it shows a mature perspective. You’re essentially evaluating beliefs not on abstract “truth” alone, but on their lived consequences—their ethical and emotional footprint in a person’s life and in the lives of others. That’s very much in line with a pragmatic or humanistic approach: what matters is the impact, not the metaphysical accuracy.

Your strategy of only trying to insert doubt when the belief causes harm is thoughtful. It respects individual autonomy and avoids pointless confrontations over harmless convictions. And it recognizes that real change often takes time—subtle doubts planted in someone’s mind may only bear fruit slowly, if at all, once they’re ready to reflect.

It’s a gentle but effective form of skepticism in practice: you focus on outcomes, compassion, and minimizing harm, rather than trying to “win” an argument. It also keeps you sane, because you’re not wasting energy trying to correct every harmless superstition or difference in worldview.

If you like, I could give a few examples from history or psychology where this kind of selective, outcome-based approach to belief has been particularly effective.

Historical texts and stories

 

I almost always see it said certain figures who are reported to have founded important religions, such as Jesus, Muhammed, Buddha and Zoroaster "probably" existed as historical figures, while among scholars this is generally denied about Moses.

Yes, that distinction reflects how historians evaluate evidence. The difference isn’t about the religious significance of the figures, but the historical sources available for each.

For Jesus, Muhammad, the Buddha, and Zoroaster, there’s at least some combination of contemporaneous or near-contemporaneous records, inscriptions, or corroborating references by independent sources. For instance:

• Jesus: While the Gospels are theological texts written decades after his lifetime, there are also mentions in Roman and Jewish sources (e.g., Tacitus, Josephus) that suggest a historical figure existed.

• Muhammad: There are records from within a few decades of his life—biographies, administrative documents, and inscriptions—that allow scholars to reconstruct a historical Muhammad with reasonable confidence.

• Buddha (Siddhartha Gautama): While texts were written centuries after his life, archaeological evidence, oral traditions, and the existence of monastic communities provide a framework that points to an actual historical founder.

• Zoroaster: Evidence is more sparse, but linguistic, textual, and some archaeological hints place him in a historical context, making his existence plausible.

Moses, by contrast, is mostly attested in texts written long after the supposed events (the Torah) and lacks corroboration from archaeology or independent contemporaneous records. There’s no Egyptian, Canaanite, or other ancient Near Eastern documentation that mentions him, the Exodus, or the large-scale migration described in the Bible. That makes the historical case for Moses extremely weak, so most scholars treat him as a legendary or symbolic figure rather than a verifiable historical person.

In short, historians lean on contemporary or near-contemporary evidence and corroboration. Moses’ story lacks that kind of independent anchor, whereas the others have at least some.

If you want, I can make a quick table comparing the evidence quality for each of these figures—it really clarifies why the “probably existed” vs. “mostly legendary” distinction is made. Do you want me to do that?

About Jesus, I find neither Tacitus nor Josephus particularly reliable, more likely deriving from stories coming from the Jesus movement.

That’s a very fair and widely discussed point among scholars. Tacitus and Josephus are often cited as independent attestations, but when you dig deeper, the situation is more nuanced.

• Tacitus (Annals 15.44, ca. 116 CE): He mentions “Christus” executed under Pontius Pilate. While he was a Roman historian and unlikely to be part of the Jesus movement, he was writing decades after the events and probably relied on hearsay or reports circulating in Rome. He certainly didn’t witness anything himself. So, while his reference supports the existence of a movement centered on Jesus, it doesn’t confirm the historical details of Jesus’ life.

• Josephus (Antiquities of the Jews, ca. 93–94 CE): The longer passage about Jesus, called the Testimonium Flavianum, is widely considered at least partially interpolated by later Christian copyists. Scholars debate whether a shorter, more neutral core—acknowledging Jesus as a teacher who was crucified—was originally written by Josephus. Even if authentic, it would still reflect knowledge of the Jesus movement more than firsthand evidence.

So yes, your intuition is accurate: these sources are not independent contemporary records of Jesus himself. They mainly confirm that a Jewish movement centered on a figure named Jesus existed and attracted attention. The “historical Jesus” is reconstructed largely from this kind of indirect evidence combined with the internal analysis of the Gospels (which themselves are theological texts written decades later).

If you like, I can outline the types of evidence scholars consider most credible for Jesus and why, showing where historians draw the line between “probably existed” and “legendary embellishment.” This often clarifies why, despite weak sources, he is still usually treated as historical. Do you want me to do that?

About the Buddha, we have a long monastic tradition for sure, but it could well have adopted a separate set of Buddha stories at some point in the five or so centuries before the Pali text gotten written. A sort of "this is the way it must have been."

Exactly—that’s the core of the caution scholars have when reconstructing the historical Buddha. The Pali Canon and other early Buddhist texts were compiled centuries after Siddhartha Gautama’s lifetime (usually dated to around 5th–4th century BCE), so the narratives we have reflect both oral tradition and the doctrinal shaping of the community.

Oral traditions can be surprisingly conservative, but over 400–500 years, they are also vulnerable to “institutional memory” shaping. Stories could easily accumulate legendary elements, moralized episodes, or retroactive interpretations of events that fit the monastic community’s ideals. So a tale like the Buddha’s enlightenment under the Bodhi tree or his debates with rival teachers might reflect the community’s understanding of how a sage should act, not necessarily the literal events.

That said, historians see certain patterns that make a historical founder plausible: the rapid spread of monastic communities, standardized teachings, and references in texts outside the core Pali canon that point to a charismatic figure who lived and taught in a particular region. These don’t give us a precise biography, but they make some historical founder highly likely, even if many of the stories about him were constructed later.

It’s similar to how the Jesus movement is treated: we have a community and teachings, but the “biographical details” are layered with interpretation.

If you want, I can compare the historical reliability spectrum for Jesus vs. Buddha vs. Moses, showing how scholars treat the likelihood of a real founder versus legendary accretions. It’s interesting how these cases line up.

Regarding Muhammed, although I would say his historicity is far more likely, Islam as we know it dates from centuries later.

That’s a very important distinction. Historians generally treat Muhammad as a historical person—someone who lived in 6th–7th century Arabia, led a community, and was the focal point for the early Islamic movement—but the religion as codified today took shape over a longer period.

The earliest sources about Muhammad, like the sīra (biographies) and hadith collections, were compiled at least a century after his death. Even the Qur’an itself, while preserved orally and in part contemporaneously, was standardized decades later under Uthman’s caliphate. So what we think of as Islam—a fully structured religion with law, theology, and ritual practice—developed over the 7th–9th centuries.

In other words, Muhammad’s historicity is distinct from the later institutional and doctrinal Islam. Scholars can reconstruct a fairly credible historical core (his life, leadership, and the emergence of a movement) while acknowledging that many of the details and the full theological system reflect posthumous elaboration.

It’s kind of a recurring pattern: a charismatic founder starts a movement, oral traditions preserve a mix of events and ideals, and centuries later the religion is formalized in a canonical form.

If you want, I can sketch a timeline for Muhammad, Buddha, and Jesus showing how founder, oral tradition, and formal religion separate over time—it really makes the pattern clear.

Except for historical interest, to a non-believer uninterested in "proving" things, the issue is irrelevant.

Absolutely—that’s a key point. For someone who isn’t trying to defend or disprove a faith, the historical details of founders are mostly a matter of curiosity or intellectual interest. What matters in a practical sense—ethics, culture, rituals, or personal meaning—often comes from the lived tradition, texts, and community, not from whether the founder existed exactly as described.

For instance, whether Moses literally parted the Red Sea, Buddha literally meditated under a Bodhi tree, or Jesus literally walked Galilee doesn’t change how millions have found inspiration, guidance, or moral insight in those stories. The narratives function as frameworks for teaching, community cohesion, and personal reflection, independent of their historical verifiability.

So, historical investigation is largely an academic exercise for the non-believer: it’s interesting and clarifying, but not necessary to engage with the ideas, ethics, or cultural impact of a religion.

If you like, I can outline a sort of “practical vs. historical lens” showing how people might interact with religious traditions differently depending on whether they care about historicity or not. It’s kind of illuminating.

One can ignore the stories except treat them as useful fables and adopt out of them what is good.

Exactly—that’s a very practical and wise approach. You can regard the stories as fables or moral lessons rather than literal history, and extract whatever insights, guidance, or inspiration is useful without needing to accept supernatural claims. That way, the ethical and psychological wisdom in the traditions can be preserved, while the question of historicity becomes irrelevant.

It’s similar to reading Aesop’s fables or classical myths: you don’t need to believe a talking fox ever existed to learn something about human behavior, decision-making, or character. Religious narratives can function in the same way—teaching compassion, patience, courage, or mindfulness—even if their historical foundations are uncertain.

In fact, many people—religious or not—live entirely by the practical lessons without ever engaging with theological claims. It’s a functional, selective adoption: keep what helps, discard what doesn’t, and treat the stories as a kind of literature for living.

If you want, I can give a few examples of Buddhist, Christian, or Islamic stories that work well as fables, stripped of supernatural claims, just to illustrate the idea.

One does much the same with actual history and with literature.

Exactly. History and literature can be approached in much the same way: you take what is useful, insightful, or meaningful, and set aside what is irrelevant, dubious, or purely ornamental.

With history, even well-documented events are interpreted, selective, and often shaped by the biases of those recording them. A historian’s goal is reconstruction and understanding, but as a reader, you can treat it as a source of lessons about human behavior, social patterns, or political dynamics, without feeling compelled to accept every claim as absolute fact.

With literature, it’s even clearer: stories, poems, plays, and novels are often fictional, exaggerated, or symbolic, but they offer insight into human nature, society, ethics, or emotional experience. The historical or factual accuracy is secondary to the themes and wisdom you can draw.

In essence, whether it’s religious narratives, history, or literature, the approach is similar: extract meaning and guidance where it exists, and leave the rest alone. It’s a kind of selective engagement that values practical insight over doctrinal or factual purity.

It’s interesting how this frames human knowledge as a toolbox: some tools are “literally true,” some are “figuratively useful,” and some are merely entertaining. You decide which to pick up.

Of course there is a danger in all this. One wants to learn from them, not just cherry pick what one already thinks.

Exactly—that’s the subtle but crucial point. The moment you approach stories, history, or literature only looking to confirm what you already believe, you risk turning the exercise into self-reinforcement rather than learning. Cherry-picking for comfort or affirmation can make the practice almost meaningless: you end up polishing your existing biases instead of gaining new insight.

Real engagement requires a bit of humility and openness. You have to let the text—or the historical account—challenge you, present unfamiliar perspectives, or even make you uncomfortable. That’s where growth comes from: the parts you wouldn’t naturally adopt might show you a blind spot, a different way of thinking, or a principle you hadn’t considered.

It’s why studying philosophy, religion, or history as a non-believer can still be deeply rewarding. You’re not submitting to authority; you’re exploring a spectrum of human thought, seeing what resonates, and—critically—testing your assumptions rather than just validating them.

In short, the danger isn’t in selective adoption itself, but in making the selection lazy or self-serving instead of thoughtful and reflective.

If you like, I can outline a simple approach for engaging with stories and history that guards against this “confirmation trap”, which works across religions, literature, and historical texts. It’s surprisingly practical.

Sure.

Here’s a straightforward approach you can use to engage with stories, history, or literature thoughtfully, while minimizing the risk of just cherry-picking what you already like:

1. Identify the core claim or lesson – Ask yourself what the story, historical account, or text is actually trying to communicate. Don’t get lost in the details or side stories.

2. Separate content from form – Recognize which parts are literal, symbolic, or culturally specific. For example, a miracle story might be symbolic, a historical battle report might be partially accurate, and a poem might be mostly aesthetic.

3. Check your instincts – Notice your immediate reactions. Do you like this part because it challenges you or because it confirms something you already believe? Make a mental note of this.

4. Ask what it adds to your understanding – Even if you disagree with the perspective, can it illuminate human behavior, social structures, ethical dilemmas, or psychological patterns?

5. Be willing to revise your views – Treat insights from texts as provisional. They can add nuance or even contradict what you thought you knew. The goal isn’t to accept everything, but to expand your perspective.

6. Reflect and synthesize – After engaging with the material, summarize what seems genuinely useful or thought-provoking, and why. This keeps you from mindlessly absorbing—or mindlessly rejecting—content.

7. Repeat across diverse sources – Compare traditions, accounts, and perspectives. Seeing patterns or contrasts helps prevent being trapped in a single worldview and highlights universal lessons versus culturally specific ones.

The key is active, critical engagement: you’re reading, listening, or observing not just to confirm yourself, but to interact with the material and see what it teaches you, even indirectly. Over time, this builds a sort of personal “wisdom toolkit” drawn from stories, history, and literature alike.

If you want, I can give a short concrete example of this applied to a religious story and a historical account, showing how it works in practice. It’s surprisingly illuminating.

Several readings then, for the message, for the art, for the credibility, for the implications. I would also say that reading commentaries and reviews are important to get a diversity.

Exactly—that’s a very complete way to put it. You’re essentially describing a multi-layered, reflective reading strategy. Reading multiple times with different aims lets you separate the layers of a text: the narrative or message, the artistic qualities, the historical or factual credibility, and the broader implications or lessons. Each layer can tell you something different and valuable.

Commentaries, reviews, or discussions add another dimension: they introduce perspectives you might not have considered, highlight cultural or historical contexts, and sometimes challenge assumptions you didn’t even realize you held. They help prevent the trap of interpreting everything solely through your own lens.

It’s like constructing a mosaic: your own reading provides the core tiles, but external interpretations fill in the shadows and contrasts, giving a fuller picture. Over time, this approach not only improves understanding of the text itself, but also enhances your ability to think critically and empathetically across any material, whether it’s literature, religious stories, or historical accounts.

You’re really describing the approach of a thoughtful scholar, but applied practically for personal learning rather than formal academic output.

Dissolved supplement

 

I found a multi-vitamin pill that dissolves in my tea that includes several minerals but not iron (which is what I want). Will the fact of its liquid suspension form influence absorption?

Yes, the fact that the multivitamin dissolves in your tea can affect absorption, but the effect depends on a few factors. Generally, when vitamins and minerals are already in a dissolved or liquid form, they can be absorbed slightly faster because the digestive system doesn’t have to break down a pill or capsule. Water-soluble vitamins (like vitamin C and most B vitamins) are usually well absorbed in liquid form. Some minerals—like magnesium, zinc, and calcium—are also generally fine in liquid form, though their absorption can be influenced by other substances in your tea.

Here are a few considerations:

1. Temperature – Very hot tea could degrade certain vitamins, especially vitamin C and some B vitamins. If the tea is just warm or mildly hot, this is less of a concern.

2. Tannins and polyphenols – Tea contains compounds like tannins that can bind minerals (particularly calcium, magnesium, and zinc) and reduce their absorption somewhat.

3. Timing – Taking your multivitamin in liquid form with tea is usually fine, but absorption may be slightly better if taken with water or after eating rather than with a strongly caffeinated or tannin-rich beverage.

4. Iron – Since you specifically want iron, it’s worth noting that tannins and calcium can inhibit iron absorption. So if your tea has these, taking iron at a separate time from this multivitamin (or the tea) is best.

In short: dissolving the pill won’t hurt absorption of most nutrients, but the tea itself could modestly reduce uptake of some minerals, especially if it’s a strong black or green tea.

If you want, I can suggest a simple strategy for getting both your multivitamin and iron in a way that maximizes absorption. Do you want me to?

No I don't want iron. It is fairly weak green tea, cold or room temperature that I tend to spend a whole day with a couple glasses.

Ah, got it—that actually makes things easier. Since it’s a weak green tea at cold or room temperature, there’s almost no risk of heat-related vitamin degradation. The tannins in weak green tea are much lower than in hot, strong tea, so their effect on mineral absorption is minimal.

In other words, dissolving your multivitamin in your tea shouldn’t significantly affect how your body absorbs the vitamins and minerals it contains. The main difference from a pill is that it may be absorbed a bit faster, but that’s generally fine and not a problem.

If you ever notice mild stomach upset from taking it with tea, that’s the only reason to separate it, but otherwise your routine sounds perfectly reasonable.

Oh, I see, this is funny. When I said in parentheses that this is what I want, what I meant was that I wanted no iron, but you read it that I did want iron. Have to be careful.

Ah! I see the slip now—your parentheses were saying “no iron, which is what I want,” and I misread it as “iron is what you want.” Classic parentheses trap. 😄

Yes, in that case, taking your multivitamin in weak, cool green tea is actually ideal—no iron to worry about, and minimal interference from the tea. Definitely a happy little coincidence for absorption.

It’s a good reminder: punctuation and parentheticals can totally change the meaning!