The mire of superstition has coagulated into a foundation, bringing all manner of bad ideas to fruition. It is nothing new to say that the chief source of fear and hatred, bigotry and insurrection, arrogance and self-righteous violence, might be or, more likely, is religion. It is also nothing new to say that religion is nothing but man’s need to assert his self-reflection into the chaotic maelstrom of reality, finding chunks of realisation that fit together and call it god – how can one be critical of something so essentially human? It seems to me that one can make a claim for either and be satisfied, but what I am happy about – yes, me, happy – is that it increases something called ‘critical thinking’.

Yes, we have people debating about the nature of a being whose nature is by definition unknowable; who discuss whether Jesus lived or died or was resurrected or flew to the land of the unicorns on a blue starfish called Zimbo; or perhaps to debate the merits of “both sides” of “science”, portioning out “equal time” to both astrology and astronomy – uh, I mean creationism and evolution. And yes, perhaps debating bishops is as impressive as debating crystal-gazers, astrologers or aromatherapists – but I would point out that critical thinking is still the undertone to the entire instigation in itself.

It seems that perhaps we can hammer this final nail in the coffin of bad ideas that debating and defining bad ideas is itself the cure of them.

Engaging the art of rhetoric does not lead to evidence or the culmination of evidential claims, but certainly viewing them with the eye of articulation, eloquence and subtle imagery will help convey, even to those who do not believe, what our position is.

For example, CS Lewis attempts to answer how his god is one but three. In Mere Christianity, he says that the same way a single cube is drawn as three squares hints at how we should conceive of his deity, as being one (cube) but three (squares). It is quite lovely imagery but one I believe to be pointless, inane and thus derivative of most of Lewis’ enterprise. It does not however repudiate that claim that I understand his point. The art of articulating (notice the first three letters of said word) rests primarily in displaying your idea as fully fleshed – or at least partially clothed – as possible. Thus, whilst the idea or opinion may grab at its skirts like a Monroe-esque bimbo upon an airvent, it retains its attire long enough for you to see some hint of flesh.

When writing or expressing, it is important to focus on ones idea to the greatest extent possible. Not to the point of refusing to bow down when it is shown to be wanting, but to the point where, even if its proved wrong, one can show what it is that has been shown wrong. (I do not give this advice as an expert and I offer mea culpa if it has been conveyed as such. I do so only in the spirit of engaging with those who at the moment are coming to terms with complex ideas, opinions and defending them against those who are louder, articulate and boistreous.)

Thus I do not believe in a deity but I certainly understand Aquinas’ articulation of her. We can for example understand the First Cause argument – but it doesn’t mean we have to believe it. Understanding and believing, I am attempting to stress, are two different things. And we should not let our lack of belief undermine our attempts to understand. We must, of course, be sparing with how our knowledge is parcelled. Thus I do not think I would gain much in terms of knowledge – or applicable knowledge – by learning and reading 1000 theology books. Similarly, I would gain nothing by reading about Tarot cards – except maybe I can gaze at some gorgeous artwork. But, of course, how can I know unless I’ve tried? This is the Courtier’s Reply in new clothes, which is often offered as a response to atheist writers and commentators who do not believe but who are not interested in theology. The usual reply, as I believe, is does one have to read all of faerology to disbelieve in fairies?

I think not. Since it is not that we are completely unaware of the implications of things like fairies, hobgoblins and gods. Indeed, it is not books that will change whether we believe in them. Many people will say that someone like Bertrand Russell, Salman Rushdie or lately Richard Dawkins changed their views on god. But it is not just these great men. Ones own mind finds experience through all manner of incremental knowledge: conversations, television ads, dialogue between real and fictional characters, columns, and so on. Through years and years of interaction, we come to form our views on the world and opinions cement into a monument we call our reason. This means that we have dealt with fairies and gods enough to dismiss them, since there is nothing in the deep myriad of complexities which are involved in the subject matter of fairy-tomes or god-scripts which could alter that by themselves. I doubt that reading every theological piece of writing would change an atheist’s mind (I suspect he would be driven mad by pretty, but meaningless, sentences). The world is not blind to our experiences and it is not enfolded by our past exploits. We live and breathe and experience every day. This is part of our knowledge and our reasoning and thus we are able to engage with fairies and gods and ghosts.

Thus, when someone takes time to explain to us their position which would be the polarised opposite of our own, we are still able to understand them. What? You believe in ghosts – sure, I can imagine what that means. No I do not believe in them myself – but by nature of being human I can identify with you. It will rest however in ideas being shrouded in lucidity and tossed out of mouths with clarity and precision. Opinions must not be guards at the fences of our minds, but gate-keepers who allow brief passages to welcome visitors able to identify themselves. As soon as we all learn to be more articulate, more coherent, lucid and eloquent – one can never be too articulate, coherent, lucid or eloquent, it is a journey rather than destination – we might solve most of our insolvable problems. Most of them rest in the lack of understanding from two opposing parties. If they are each able to create the bridge from both sides, instead of tossing their ropes randomly to the other side blindly, we should be able to at least meet in the middle and gaze at the other side we so vehemently oppose.

The only way we can become more articulate is to cotemplate articulately. Why do you think what you think you think? What do you believe and why? It is no fault that most of philosophy is well-written, since by its (one of many) definition(s) it is a constant attempt to articulate, define, clarify and reify opinions and ideas. This is the mighty weapon against bad ideas. I think that bad ideas are bad not because they are (only) silly or illogical, but because if one was to articulate them, one would find them severely lacking as opposed to their opposites. Thus, for example, creationism is not at all beautiful but it is simple, whereas evolution is not only beautiful but simple. This does not make it true, but it begins to highlight the faults and faultlines of bad ideas. It is but a small point and perhaps one I am wrong on, but at present I do think there is a corollary between articulate and clear ideas being ‘good’ or worthwhile, and those which are bad being blurry, transient and incoherent.