What the hell happened to prime... he wins the 16th Teapot on countdown, and now... that?

http://www.nytimes.com/2010/06/20/magazine/20pacemaker-t.html?pagewanted=all

One October afternoon three years ago while I was visiting my parents, my mother made a request I dreaded and longed to fulfill. She had just poured me a cup of Earl Grey from her Japanese iron teapot, shaped like a little pumpkin; outside, two cardinals splashed in the birdbath in the weak Connecticut sunlight. Her white hair was gathered at the nape of her neck, and her voice was low. “Please help me get Jeff’s pacemaker turned off,” she said, using my father’s first name. I nodded, and my heart knocked.
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Upstairs, my 85-year-old father, Jeffrey, a retired Wesleyan University professor who suffered from dementia, lay napping in what was once their shared bedroom. Sewn into a hump of skin and muscle below his right clavicle was the pacemaker that helped his heart outlive his brain. The size of a pocket watch, it had kept his heart beating rhythmically for nearly five years. Its battery was expected to last five more.

After tea, I knew, my mother would help him from his narrow bed with its mattress encased in waterproof plastic. She would take him to the toilet, change his diaper and lead him tottering to the couch, where he would sit mutely for hours, pretending to read Joyce Carol Oates, the book falling in his lap as he stared out the window.

I don’t like describing what dementia did to my father — and indirectly to my mother — without telling you first that my parents loved each other, and I loved them. That my mother, Valerie, could stain a deck and sew an evening dress from a photo in Vogue and thought of my father as her best friend. That my father had never given up easily on anything.

Born in South Africa, he lost his left arm in World War II, but built floor-to-ceiling bookcases for our living room; earned a Ph.D. from Oxford; coached rugby; and with my two brothers as crew, sailed his beloved Rhodes 19 on Long Island Sound. When I was a child, he woke me, chortling, with his gloss on a verse from “The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam”: “Awake, my little one! Before life’s liquor in its cup be dry!” At bedtime he tucked me in, quoting “Hamlet” : “May flights of angels sing thee to thy rest!”

Now I would look at him and think of Anton Chekhov, who died of tuberculosis in 1904. “Whenever there is someone in a family who has long been ill, and hopelessly ill,” he wrote, “there come painful moments when all timidly, secretly, at the bottom of their hearts long for his death.” A century later, my mother and I had come to long for the machine in my father’s chest to fail.

Until 2001, my two brothers and I — all living in California — assumed that our parents would enjoy long, robust old ages capped by some brief, undefined final illness. Thanks to their own healthful habits and a panoply of medical advances — vaccines, antibiotics, airport defibrillators, 911 networks and the like — they weren’t likely to die prematurely of the pneumonias, influenzas and heart attacks that decimated previous generations. They walked every day. My mother practiced yoga. My father was writing a history of his birthplace, a small South African town.

In short, they were seemingly among the lucky ones for whom the American medical system, despite its fragmentation, inequity and waste, works quite well. Medicare and supplemental insurance paid for their specialists and their trusted Middletown internist, the lean, bespectacled Robert Fales, who, like them, was skeptical of medical overdoing. “I bonded with your parents, and you don’t bond with everybody,” he once told me. “It’s easier to understand someone if they just tell it like it is from their heart and their soul.”

They were also stoics and religious agnostics. They signed living wills and durable power-of-attorney documents for health care. My mother, who watched friends die slowly of cancer, had an underlined copy of the Hemlock Society’s “Final Exit” in her bookcase. Even so, I watched them lose control of their lives to a set of perverse financial incentives — for cardiologists, hospitals and especially the manufacturers of advanced medical devices — skewed to promote maximum treatment. At a point hard to precisely define, they stopped being beneficiaries of the war on sudden death and became its victims.

Things took their first unexpected turn on Nov. 13, 2001, when my father — then 79, pacemakerless and seemingly healthy — collapsed on my parents’ kitchen floor in Middletown, making burbling sounds. He had suffered a stroke.

He came home six weeks later permanently incapable of completing a sentence. But as I’ve said, he didn’t give up easily, and he doggedly learned again how to fasten his belt; to peck out sentences on his computer; to walk alone, one foot dragging, to the university pool for water aerobics. He never again put on a shirt without help or looked at the book he had been writing. One day he haltingly told my mother, “I don’t know who I am anymore.”

His stroke devastated two lives. The day before, my mother was an upper-middle-class housewife who practiced calligraphy in her spare time. Afterward, she was one of tens of millions of people in America, most of them women, who help care for an older family member.

Their numbers grow each day. Thanks to advanced medical technologies, elderly people now survive repeated health crises that once killed them, and so the “oldest old” have become the nation’s most rapidly growing age group. Nearly a third of Americans over 85 have dementia (a condition whose prevalence rises in direct relationship to longevity). Half need help with at least one practical, life-sustaining activity, like getting dressed or making breakfast. Even though a capable woman was hired to give my dad showers, my 77-year-old mother found herself on duty more than 80 hours a week. Her blood pressure rose and her weight fell. On a routine visit to Dr. Fales, she burst into tears. She was put on sleeping pills and antidepressants.

My father said he came to believe that she would have been better off if he had died. “She’d have weeped the weep of a widow,” he told me in his garbled, poststroke speech, on a walk we took together in the fall of 2002. “And then she would have been all right.” It was hard to tell which of them was suffering more.

As we shuffled through the fallen leaves that day, I thought of my father’s father, Ernest Butler. He was 79 when he died in 1965, before pacemakers, implanted cardiac defibrillators, stents and replacement heart valves routinely staved off death among the very old. After completing some long-unfinished chairs, he cleaned his woodshop, had a heart attack and died two days later in a plain hospital bed. As I held my dad’s soft, mottled hand, I vainly wished him a similar merciful death.

A few days before Christmas that year, after a vigorous session of water exercises, my father developed a painful inguinal (intestinal) hernia. My mother took him to Fales, who sent them to a local surgeon, who sent them to a cardiologist for a preoperative clearance. After an electrocardiogram recorded my father’s slow heartbeat — a longstanding and symptomless condition not uncommon in the very old — the cardiologist, John Rogan, refused to clear my dad for surgery unless he received a pacemaker.

Without the device, Dr. Rogan told me later, my father could have died from cardiac arrest during surgery or perhaps within a few months. It was the second time Rogan had seen my father. The first time, about a year before, he recommended the device for the same slow heartbeat. That time, my then-competent and prestroke father expressed extreme reluctance, on the advice of Fales, who considered it overtreatment.

My father’s medical conservatism, I have since learned, is not unusual. According to an analysis by the Dartmouth Atlas medical-research group, patients are far more likely than their doctors to reject aggressive treatments when fully informed of pros, cons and alternatives — information, one study suggests, that nearly half of patients say they don’t get. And although many doctors assume that people want to extend their lives, many do not. In a 1997 study in The Journal of the American Geriatrics Society, 30 percent of seriously ill people surveyed in a hospital said they would “rather die” than live permanently in a nursing home. In a 2008 study in The Journal of the American College of Cardiology, 28 percent of patients with advanced heart failure said they would trade one day of excellent health for another two years in their current state.

When Rogan suggested the pacemaker for the second time, my father was too stroke-damaged to discuss, and perhaps even to weigh, his trade­offs. The decision fell to my mother — anxious to relieve my father’s pain, exhausted with caregiving, deferential to doctors and no expert on high-tech medicine. She said yes. One of the most important medical decisions of my father’s life was over in minutes. Dr. Fales was notified by fax.

Fales loved my parents, knew their suffering close at hand, continued to oppose a pacemaker and wasn’t alarmed by death. If he had had the chance to sit down with my parents, he could have explained that the pacemaker’s battery would last 10 years and asked whether my father wanted to live to be 89 in his nearly mute and dependent state. He could have discussed the option of using a temporary external pacemaker that, I later learned, could have seen my dad safely through surgery. But my mother never consulted Fales. And the system would have effectively penalized him if she had. Medicare would have paid him a standard office-visit rate of $54 for what would undoubtedly have been a long meeting — and nothing for phone calls to work out a plan with Rogan and the surgeon.

Medicare has made minor improvements since then, and in the House version of the health care reform bill debated last year, much better payments for such conversations were included. But after the provision was distorted as reimbursement for “death panels,” it was dropped. In my father’s case, there was only a brief informed-consent process, covering the boilerplate risks of minor surgery, handled by the general surgeon.

I believe that my father’s doctors did their best within a compartmentalized and time-pressured medical system. But in the absence of any other guiding hand, there is no doubt that economics helped shape the wider context in which doctors made decisions. Had we been at the Mayo Clinic — where doctors are salaried, medical records are electronically organized and care is coordinated by a single doctor — things might have turned out differently. But Middletown is part of the fee-for-service medical economy. Doctors peddle their wares on a piecework basis; communication among them is haphazard; thinking is often short term; nobody makes money when medical interventions are declined; and nobody is in charge except the marketplace.

And so on Jan. 2, 2003, at Middlesex Hospital, the surgeon implanted my father’s pacemaker using local anesthetic. Medicare paid him $461 and the hospital a flat fee of about $12,000, of which an estimated $7,500 went to St. Jude Medical, the maker of the device. The hernia was fixed a few days later.

It was a case study in what primary-care doctors have long bemoaned: that Medicare rewards doctors far better for doing procedures than for assessing whether they should be done at all. The incentives for overtreatment continue, said Dr. Ted Epperly, the board chairman of the American Academy of Family Physicians, because those who profit from them — specialists, hospitals, drug companies and the medical-device manufacturers — spend money lobbying Congress and the public to keep it that way.

Last year, doctors, hospitals, drug companies, medical-equipment manufacturers and other medical professionals spent $545 million on lobbying, according to the Center for Responsive Politics. This may help explain why researchers estimate that 20 to 30 percent of Medicare’s $510 billion budget goes for unnecessary tests and treatment. Why cost-containment received short shrift in health care reform. Why physicians like Fales net an average of $173,000 a year, while noninvasive cardiologists like Rogan net about $419,000.

The system rewarded nobody for saying “no” or even “wait” — not even my frugal, intelligent, Consumer-Reports-reading mother. Medicare and supplemental insurance covered almost every penny of my father’s pacemaker. My mother was given more government-mandated consumer information when she bought a new Camry a year later.

And so my father’s electronically managed heart — now requiring frequent monitoring, paid by Medicare — became part of the $24 billion worldwide cardiac-device industry and an indirect subsidizer of the fiscal health of American hospitals. The profit margins that manufacturers earn on cardiac devices is close to 30 percent. Cardiac procedures and diagnostics generate about 20 percent of hospital revenues and 30 percent of profits.

Shortly after New Year’s 2003, my mother belatedly called and told me about the operations, which went off without a hitch. She didn’t call earlier, she said, because she didn’t want to worry me. My heart sank, but I said nothing. It is one thing to silently hope that your beloved father’s heart might fail. It is another to actively abet his death.

The pacemaker bought my parents two years of limbo, two of purgatory and two of hell. At first they soldiered on, with my father no better and no worse. My mother reread Jon Kabat-Zinn’s “Full Catastrophe Living,” bought a self-help book on patience and rose each morning to meditate.

In 2005, the age-related degeneration that had slowed my father’s heart attacked his eyes, lungs, bladder and bowels. Clots as narrow as a single human hair lodged in tiny blood vessels in his brain, killing clusters of neurons by depriving them of oxygen. Long partly deaf, he began losing his sight to wet macular degeneration, requiring ocular injections that cost nearly $2,000 each. A few months later, he forgot his way home from the university pool. He grew incontinent. He was collapsing physically, like an ancient, shored-up house.

In the summer of 2006, he fell in the driveway and suffered a brain hemorrhage. Not long afterward, he spent a full weekend compulsively brushing and rebrushing his teeth. “The Jeff I married . . . is no longer the same person,” my mother wrote in the journal a social worker had suggested she keep. “My life is in ruins. This is horrible, and I have lasted for five years.” His pacemaker kept on ticking.

When bioethicists debate life-extending technologies, the effects on people like my mother rarely enter the calculus. But a 2007 Ohio State University study of the DNA of family caregivers of people with Alzheimer’s disease showed that the ends of their chromosomes, called telomeres, had degraded enough to reflect a four-to-eight-year shortening of lifespan. By that reckoning, every year that the pacemaker gave my irreparably damaged father took from my then-vigorous mother an equal year.

When my mother was upset, she meditated or cleaned house. When I was upset, I Googled. In 2006, I discovered that pacemakers could be deactivated without surgery. Nurses, doctors and even device salesmen had done so, usually at deathbeds. A white ceramic device, like a TV remote and shaped like the wands that children use to blow bubbles, could be placed around the hump on my father’s chest. Press a few buttons and the electrical pulses that ran down the leads to his heart would slow until they were no longer effective. My father’s heart, I learned, would probably not stop. It would just return to its old, slow rhythm. If he was lucky, he might suffer cardiac arrest and die within weeks, perhaps in his sleep. If he was unlucky, he might linger painfully for months while his lagging heart failed to suffuse his vital organs with sufficient oxygenated blood.

If we did nothing, his pacemaker would not stop for years. Like the tireless charmed brooms in Disney’s “Fantasia,” it would prompt my father’s heart to beat after he became too demented to speak, sit up or eat. It would keep his heart pulsing after he drew his last breath. If he was buried, it would send signals to his dead heart in the coffin. If he was cremated, it would have to be cut from his chest first, to prevent it from exploding and damaging the walls or hurting an attendant.

On the Internet, I discovered that the pacemaker — somewhat like the ventilator, defibrillator and feeding tube — was first an exotic, stopgap device, used to carry a handful of patients through a brief medical crisis. Then it morphed into a battery-powered, implantable and routine treatment. When Medicare approved the pacemaker for reimbursement in 1966, the market exploded. Today pacemakers are implanted annually in more than 400,000 Americans, about 80 percent of whom are over 65. According to calculations by the Dartmouth Atlas research group using Medicare data, nearly a fifth of new recipients who receive pacemakers annually — 76,000 — are over 80. The typical patient with a cardiac device today is an elderly person suffering from at least one other severe chronic illness.

Over the years, as technology has improved, the battery life of these devices lengthened. The list of heart conditions for which they are recommended has grown. In 1984, the treatment guidelines from the American College of Cardiology declared that pacemakers were strongly recommended as “indicated” or mildly approved as “reasonable” for 56 heart conditions and “not indicated” for 31 more. By 2008, the list for which they were strongly or mildly recommended expanded to 88, with most of the increase in the lukewarm “reasonable” category.

The research backing the expansion of diagnoses was weak. Over all, only 5 percent of the positive recommendations were supported by research from multiple double-blind randomized studies, the gold standard of evidence-based medicine. And 58 percent were based on no studies at all, only a “consensus of expert opinion.” Of the 17 cardiologists who wrote the 2008 guidelines, 11 received financing from cardiac-device makers or worked at institutions receiving it. Seven, due to the extent of their financial connections, were recused from voting on the guidelines they helped write.

This pattern — a paucity of scientific support and a plethora of industry connections — holds across almost all cardiac treatments, according to the cardiologist Pierluigi Tricoci of Duke University’s Clinical Research Institute. Last year in The Journal of the American Medical Association, Tricoci and his co-authors wrote that only 11 percent of 2,700 widely used cardiac-treatment guidelines were based on that gold standard. Most were based only on expert opinion.

Experts are as vulnerable to conflicts of interest as researchers are, the authors warned, because “expert clinicians are also those who are likely to receive honoraria, speakers bureau [fees], consulting fees or research support from industry.” They called the current cardiac-research agenda “strongly influenced by industry’s natural desire to introduce new products.”

Perhaps it’s no surprise that I also discovered others puzzling over cardiologists who recommended pacemakers for relatives with advanced dementia. “78-year-old mother-in-law has dementia; severe short-term memory issues,” read an Internet post by “soninlaw” on Elderhope.com, a caregivers’ site, in 2007. “On a routine trip to her cardiologist, doctor decides she needs a pacemaker. . . . Anyone have a similar encounter?”

By the summer of 2007, my dad had forgotten the purpose of a dinner napkin and had to be coached to remove his slippers before he tried to put on his shoes. After a lifetime of promoting my father’s health, my mother reversed course. On a routine visit, she asked Rogan to deactivate the pacemaker. “It was hard,” she later told me. “I was doing for Jeff what I would have wanted Jeff to do for me.” Rogan soon made it clear he was morally opposed. “It would have been like putting a pillow over your father’s head,” he later told me.

Not long afterward, my mother declined additional medical tests and refused to put my father on a new anti-dementia drug and a blood thinner with troublesome side effects. “I take responsibility for whatever,” she wrote in her journal that summer. “Enough of all this overkill! It’s killing me! Talk about quality of life — what about mine?”

Then came the autumn day when she asked for my help, and I said yes. I told myself that we were simply trying to undo a terrible medical mistake. I reminded myself that my dad had rejected a pacemaker when his faculties were intact. I imagined, as a bioethicist had suggested, having a 15-minute conversation with my independent, predementia father in which I saw him shaking his head in horror over any further extension of what was not a “life,” but a prolonged and attenuated dying. None of it helped. I knew that once he died, I would dream of him and miss his mute, loving smiles. I wanted to melt into the arms of the father I once had and ask him to handle this. Instead, I felt as if I were signing on as his executioner and that I had no choice.

Over the next five months, my mother and I learned many things. We were told, by the Hemlock Society’s successor, Compassion and Choices, that as my father’s medical proxy, my mother had the legal right to ask for the withdrawal of any treatment and that the pacemaker was, in theory at least, a form of medical treatment. We learned that although my father’s living will requested no life support if he were comatose or dying, it said nothing about dementia and did not define a pacemaker as life support. We learned that if we called 911, emergency medical technicians would not honor my father’s do-not-resuscitate order unless he wore a state-issued orange hospital bracelet. We also learned that no cardiology association had given its members clear guidance on when, or whether, deactivating pacemakers was ethical.

(Last month that changed. The Heart Rhythm Society and the American Heart Association issued guidelines declaring that patients or their legal surrogates have the moral and legal right to request the withdrawal of any medical treatment, including an implanted cardiac device. It said that deactivating a pacemaker was neither euthanasia nor assisted suicide, and that a doctor could not be compelled to do so in violation of his moral values. In such cases, it continued, doctors “cannot abandon the patient but should involve a colleague who is willing to carry out the procedure.” This came, of course, too late for us.)

In the spring of 2008, things got even worse. My father took to roaring like a lion at his caregivers. At home in California, I searched the Internet for a sympathetic cardiologist and a caregiver to put my Dad to bed at night. My frayed mother began to shout at him, and their nighttime scenes were heartbreaking and frightening. An Alzheimer’s Association support-group leader suggested that my brothers and I fly out together and institutionalize my father. This leader did not know my mother’s formidable will and had never heard her speak about her wedding vows or her love.

Meanwhile my father drifted into what nurses call “the dwindles”: not sick enough to qualify for hospice care, but sick enough to never get better. He fell repeatedly at night and my mother could not pick him up. Finally, he was weak enough to qualify for palliative care, and a team of nurses and social workers visited the house. His chest grew wheezy. My mother did not request antibiotics. In mid-April 2008, he was taken by ambulance to Middlesex Hospital’s hospice wing, suffering from pneumonia.

Pneumonia was once called “the old man’s friend” for its promise of an easy death. That’s not what I saw when I flew in. On morphine, unreachable, his eyes shut, my beloved father was breathing as hard and regularly as a machine.

My mother sat holding his hand, weeping and begging for forgiveness for her impatience. She sat by him in agony. She beseeched his doctors and nurses to increase his morphine dose and to turn off the pacemaker. It was a weekend, and the doctor on call at Rogan’s cardiology practice refused authorization, saying that my father “might die immediately.” And so came five days of hard labor. My mother and I stayed by him in shifts, while his breathing became increasingly ragged and his feet slowly started to turn blue. I began drafting an appeal to the hospital ethics committee. My brothers flew in.

On a Tuesday afternoon, with my mother at his side, my father stopped breathing. A hospice nurse hung a blue light on the outside of his hospital door. Inside his chest, his pacemaker was still quietly pulsing.

After his memorial service in the Wesleyan University chapel, I carried a box from the crematory into the woods of an old convent where he and I often walked. It was late April, overcast and cold. By the side of a stream, I opened the box, scooped out a handful of ashes and threw them into the swirling water. There were some curious spiraled metal wires, perhaps the leads of his pacemaker, mixed with the white dust and pieces of bone.

A year later, I took my mother to meet a heart surgeon in a windowless treatment room at Brigham and Women’s Hospital in Boston. She was 84, with two leaking heart valves. Her cardiologist had recommended open-heart surgery, and I was hoping to find a less invasive approach. When the surgeon asked us why we were there, my mother said, “To ask questions.” She was no longer a trusting and deferential patient. Like me, she no longer saw doctors — perhaps with the exception of Fales — as healers or her fiduciaries. They were now skilled technicians with their own agendas. But I couldn’t help feeling that something precious — our old faith in a doctor’s calling, perhaps, or in a healing that is more than a financial transaction or a reflexive fixing of broken parts — had been lost.

The surgeon was forthright: without open-heart surgery, there was a 50-50 chance my mother would die within two years. If she survived the operation, she would probably live to be 90. And the risks? He shrugged. Months of recovery. A 5 percent chance of stroke. Some possibility, he acknowledged at my prompting, of postoperative cognitive decline. (More than half of heart-bypass patients suffer at least a 20 percent reduction in mental function.) My mother lifted her trouser leg to reveal an anklet of orange plastic: her do-not-resuscitate bracelet. The doctor recoiled. No, he would not operate with that bracelet in place. It would not be fair to his team. She would be revived if she collapsed. “If I have a stroke,” my mother said, nearly in tears, “I want you to let me go.” What about a minor stroke, he said — a little weakness on one side?

I kept my mouth shut. I was there to get her the information she needed and to support whatever decision she made. If she emerged from surgery intellectually damaged, I would bring her to a nursing home in California and try to care for her the way she had cared for my father at such cost to her own health. The thought terrified me.

The doctor sent her up a floor for an echocardiogram. A half-hour later, my mother came back to the waiting room and put on her black coat. “No,” she said brightly, with the clarity of purpose she had shown when she asked me to have the pacemaker deactivated. “I will not do it.”

She spent the spring and summer arranging house repairs, thinning out my father’s bookcases and throwing out the files he collected so lovingly for the book he never finished writing. She told someone that she didn’t want to leave a mess for her kids. Her chest pain worsened, and her breathlessness grew severe. “I’m aching to garden,” she wrote in her journal. “But so it goes. ACCEPT ACCEPT ACCEPT.”

Last August, she had a heart attack and returned home under hospice care. One evening a month later, another heart attack. One of my brothers followed her ambulance to the hospice wing where we had sat for days by my father’s bed. The next morning, she took off her silver earrings and told the nurses she wanted to stop eating and drinking, that she wanted to die and never go home. Death came to her an hour later, while my brother was on the phone to me in California — almost as mercifully as it had come to my paternal grandfather. She was continent and lucid to her end.

A week later, at the same crematory near Long Island Sound, my brothers and I watched through a plate-glass window as a cardboard box containing her body, dressed in a scarlet silk ao dai she had sewn herself, slid into the flames. The next day, the undertaker delivered a plastic box to the house where, for 45 of their 61 years together, my parents had loved and looked after each other, humanly and imperfectly. There were no bits of metal mixed with the fine white powder and the small pieces of her bones.

Katy Butler lives in Mill Valley, Calif., and teaches memoir writing at the Esalen Institute in Big Sur.

@shinyblurry


My claim isn't "designed", it is simply the fact of what I believe. I don't modify it to escape someones inquiry. You like to make some bold claims about what it is, or isn't, but you never happen to back them up with evidence. As I told you earlier, it is falsifiable. You could prove it to be logically inconsistent. You could find the body of Jesus. You could disprove the major facts of the bible. You cannot claim it is unfalsifiable. The problem with your spoof deities is that they have no explanatory power. A flying teapot explains exactly nothing.

I can provide evidence for any claim I make, if you ask for it. Find the body of Jesus? Don't be ridiculous. How could we? And if someone found the body of Jesus, you'd use bogus science to claim we hadn't proven it to be his, just like you still use bogus science to claim the universe is less than 10,000 years old or that macroevolution is a myth. I routinely claim the Bible is falsifiable on its face, but every time someone falsifies it, you change the meaning of the words, claim it's a metaphor, or do some other dodge, like how you handled the discrepancy between an omniscient God and a God who is surprised to discover that Adam and Eve had eaten the forbidden fruit.

OK. Here's the most clear-cut contradiction I’ve come across in the Bible. The topic seems so petty it's almost embarrassing to use it, but compare Matthew 1:8-9 with 1Chronicles 3:10-13. They give incompatible lineages from Joram to Joatham.

About your perceived arrogance. I'm not judging anybody on the Sift. You alone are the one who came here with a single-purpose account to try and convert people to your faith. I'm telling you how you come off and how it's affecting your goal. Your spamming of what I consider nonsense into the middle of what I consider rational discussions and your indifference to the fact you're irritating people, in my mind, gives me licence to be blunt. You could accept it as honest criticism and go from there.

I think you, and many other people here, see me through a fun-house mirror made up of your preconceived notions about God and Christians in general. The reasons I am here are not so cut and dry, but I certainly feel that God wants me to talk to people here.

About evidence. You and your religion are the ones showing up uninvited and making incredible claims. If you're making the claim, it's to you to provide a way to prove it. The only way a claim has any meaning is if there's some way to falsify it. But your claim is designed in such a way that it is literally impossible to falsify it. That's the weakness that inspired the spoof deities like FSM and the Invisible Pink Unicorn, and Bertrand Russell's Teapot: in practice, one is exactly as falsifiable as the other. In theory, your faith has seemingly falsifiable statements, but in practice, every time one of them is falsified, theologians and apologists work endlessly to somehow "make" it still hold true, sometimes by changing the meaning of words retroactively, or claiming retroactively it was just a metaphor or whatever. Sometimes it's a legitimate save, but usually it's intellectually dishonest. When someone points that out, you come up with some other intellectually dishonest way of getting out of that too.

This website is open to the public, is it not? If so, then in what sense am I uninvited?

My claim isn't "designed", it is simply the fact of what I believe. I don't modify it to escape someones inquiry. You like to make some bold claims about what it is, or isn't, but you never happen to back them up with evidence. As I told you earlier, it is falsifiable. You could prove it to be logically inconsistent. You could find the body of Jesus. You could disprove the major facts of the bible. You cannot claim it is unfalsifiable. The problem with your spoof deities is that they have no explanatory power. A flying teapot explains exactly nothing..

Here's an example of what I mean: You make the claim that God is all-loving. To me, if words have meaning, "all-loving" that means God will only do loving things. But he commits mass murder several times. Now, any human that even once had ever beat somebody up, even in the heat of passion, would be disqualified from the category of "all-loving". But for God, there's always an apologist loophole because you'd decided beforehand that God was all-loving and will stop at nothing to make sure that label sticks.

What the scripture says is that God is love. Not that He is loving, but that He is love itself. Yes, it is true that God took the lives of thousands of people in the Old Testament because of disobedience. That is indisputable. What you're claiming is that this was "mass murder". The fundamental question being posed here is, does God have the right to take a life? If He does, then there is nothing unjust about what He did, and therefore it is not inconsistent with His love.

Now, God is the author and sustainer of life. Meaning, that life is a gift and a privilege for human beings. There is no fundamental right to be alive. Neither is there anything we can do to continue our life a second longer than God ordains. When we are born and when we die is entirely in His hands. He is the one who is causing our lungs to receive breathe, who is maintaining the coherence in our atomic structure. So what life we do have is a tender mercy from God, especially considering the fact that all of us abuse His creation and spit in His face on a constant basis.

Further, God has ordained that the punishment for sin is death. The people you speak of in scripture were all sinners, and most of them grievous sinners at that. Why is God unjust for enforcing His law? What is wrong with God enforcing His law at His prerogative?

Considering that we live because of God, and that it is a gift which can be revoked at any time because of sin, why is it unjust for God to do so? If you're going to say I am being intellectually dishonest, then prove it and explain why. Where is the flaw in my reasoning here?

Or the claim of intercessory prayer. Of the rigorous studies that have been done, all have said there is no correlation between prayer and positive health effects, even when religious groups sponsor the study. To anybody using reason, this proves that prayer doesn't work. But you need so badly for it to be true that you ignore the statistical evidence, and rely instead on anecdotes or the studies (however rigorous) that showed a positive effect, or you dismiss all the studies because they are science, and science is a false religion, or whatever. Regardless, as the result, "Prayer doesn't work" is unacceptable, any results by any method you will invent fault with, even if you agreed to the method beforehand.

Some Christians may feel that way, but only because they don't understand scripture:

Luke 4:12

And Jesus answered him, “It is said, ‘You shall not put the Lord your God to the test.’”

The Lord doesn't perform on camera for skeptics because He isn't a guinea pig subject to our experiments. Those who test the Lord will not get any results.

Hebrews 11:6

But without faith it is impossible to please him: for he that cometh to God must believe that he is, and that he is a rewarder of them that diligently seek him.

>> ^messenger

About your perceived arrogance. I'm not judging anybody on the Sift. You alone are the one who came here with a single-purpose account to try and convert people to your faith. I'm telling you how you come off and how it's affecting your goal. Your spamming of what I consider nonsense into the middle of what I consider rational discussions and your indifference to the fact you're irritating people, in my mind, gives me licence to be blunt. You could accept it as honest criticism and go from there.

About evidence. You and your religion are the ones showing up uninvited and making incredible claims. If you're making the claim, it's to you to provide a way to prove it. The only way a claim has any meaning is if there's some way to falsify it. But your claim is designed in such a way that it is literally impossible to falsify it. That's the weakness that inspired the spoof deities like FSM and the Invisible Pink Unicorn, and Bertrand Russell's Teapot: in practice, one is exactly as falsifiable as the other. In theory, your faith has seemingly falsifiable statements, but in practice, every time one of them is falsified, theologians and apologists work endlessly to somehow "make" it still hold true, sometimes by changing the meaning of words retroactively, or claiming retroactively it was just a metaphor or whatever. Sometimes it's a legitimate save, but usually it's intellectually dishonest. When someone points that out, you come up with some other intellectually dishonest way of getting out of that too.

Here's an example of what I mean: You make the claim that God is all-loving. To me, if words have meaning, "all-loving" that means God will only do loving things. But he commits mass murder several times. Now, any human that even once had ever beat somebody up, even in the heat of passion, would be disqualified from the category of "all-loving". But for God, there's always an apologist loophole because you'd decided beforehand that God was all-loving and will stop at nothing to make sure that label sticks.

Or the claim of intercessory prayer. Of the rigorous studies that have been done, all have said there is no correlation between prayer and positive health effects, even when religious groups sponsor the study. To anybody using reason, this proves that prayer doesn't work. But you need so badly for it to be true that you ignore the statistical evidence, and rely instead on anecdotes or the studies (however rigorous) that showed a positive effect, or you dismiss all the studies because they are science, and science is a false religion, or whatever. Regardless, as the result, "Prayer doesn't work" is unacceptable, any results by any method you will invent fault with, even if you agreed to the method beforehand.

If you disagree that you're being intellectually dishonest, find a definition of the term that you agree with, and I'll show you what I mean.>> ^shinyblurry:

You have said to me that you attempt to give me the benefit of the doubt, which I appreciate, however most of those here tell me I am wrong, so is that somehow less arrogant in your eyes? In any case, it is both falsifiable and provable. You could find Jesus' grave for instance. It is also provable in that God does reveal Himself, as billions of people today, and billions more throughout history have found out. Whether you believe that or not is beside the point. The point is, if you demand evidence, tell me how we should find it. How would you test for God? If God exists, the entire Universe is evidence for God. How would you tell if you were in a Universe created by God or one created by random chance?>> ^messenger:
"The answer"? Not sure what part of Feynman's interview response you're alluding to or what exactly "the question" was, but the best you personally can say is that you have "an answer", and one which may or may not be true, and which is both unfalsifiable and unprovable. Commenting all over the Sift like you know "the answer" and as if the rest of us are too stupid to just accept it is why people call you arrogant, FYI.>> ^shinyblurry:
It's better to know the answer than remain ignorant of it.

The main point of the video that the only real test of God's existence according to the Bible (and if the Bible's wrong, then we've proven our point) is to do what God asks, and see if God shows up. Dude's comments at the beginning were stupid rebuttals to supposed disproofs of God and then suggestions of God in nature, not proof of God itself, but the real message was the Bible's own test.

To my mind, he has to address the Russell's Teapot problem before the onus falls on atheists to test anything. He also has to prove that if someone were to do what the God of the Bible wants, and if they perceive that they are now in contact with God, that that in fact is the real God, and not a phenomenon of human nature that when we manipulate our brains in certain ways that we have numinous experiences, same as can be achieved with drugs and a sweat lodge.

I'm an atheist, can I be under YOUR umbrella? I think both theists and atheists are under the agnostic umbrella. You can't know...hence why there's still a debate. Theists claim something that cannot be proved false. Russell's teapot and all...>> ^VoodooV:

Ditto. Agnostic is the only sane choice. Fuck Atheists who want to put agnostics under their "umbrella"

In reply to this comment by UsesProzac:
I wish I could hug every cat!!!

Thanks so much for your help with this. As you can tell I am new to this site and I am learning step by step. I am very grateful and look forward to enjoying all the fun.

His name is Leo. >> ^rottenseed:

Is his name "Russell"?

Soooo cute. I only ever find teabags in my teapots.

Maybe they are just trying to save the teapot?


In reply to this comment by deathcow:
lol at their puny lift.... when the big one hit Alaska in the 1964, cars were hopping FEET off the ground from the vertical acceleration.. when a nice one hit in 2002, it did this to one of our highways-
http://www.aeic.alaska.edu/Denali_Fault_2002/richardson_offset.jpg
(man wouldnt you love to see that RIP! right in front of your eyes)

to summarize... i think this technology will save you from all the earthquakes you dont need to be saved from

Me? I don't even attempt to follow the rules of your pixie... And try to look at yourself before judging others, which appears to be something you excel in.
BTW, since I had 12 years of bible studies as an Israeli Jew, allow me to ask you this - do YOU follow the rules of god as written in the old testament? I'm pretty sure you don't... since you probably have at least 1-10 portraits of your god at home, you go to church which is filled with fake gods and saints (which is also forbidden).
Your god has no value to me, no more than a common pixie - when I was a kid, I believed that I get presents from pixies when I lose my teeth. Now I've grown up out of it... I think It's time for you to do the same... you'll find out that you can be a good person without the big brother in the sky to help you out.

>> ^shinyblurry:

So you're apathetic about the existence of God, but you also have formed a definite opinion on the probability of Gods existence, comparing Him to pixies. So I think it's more accurate to say you don't care because you don't believe. If you thought He was likely to exist I think you would care, don't you think? It's really a fallacy to compare God to pixies or teapots, because they explain precisely zero. The idea of God has explanatory power for our lives, and for the existence of the Universe.
So, what do you think happens to you when you die? You say you are generally moral, and I have no trouble believing that, but restraining yourself from killing people is not exactly the picture of morality. How well do you follow the ten commandments? Do you ever look at a woman with lust? Do you hate anyone? God calls us to a much higher standard than what you seem to be implicating.
>> ^G-bar:

So you're apathetic about the existence of God, but you also have formed a definite opinion on the probability of Gods existence, comparing Him to pixies. So I think it's more accurate to say you don't care because you don't believe. If you thought He was likely to exist I think you would care, don't you think? It's really a fallacy to compare God to pixies or teapots, because they explain precisely zero. The idea of God has explanatory power for our lives, and for the existence of the Universe.

So, what do you think happens to you when you die? You say you are generally moral, and I have no trouble believing that, but restraining yourself from killing people is not exactly the picture of morality. How well do you follow the ten commandments? Do you ever look at a woman with lust? Do you hate anyone? God calls us to a much higher standard than what you seem to be implicating.

>> ^G-bar:

So I take this to mean that you are truly agnostic about all
non-Christian gods. You will refuse to state unequivocally that there
is a council of 5 supreme beings who created the universe.

No, I will state unequivocally that Jesus is God, and that anyone else claiming to be a god is a pretender to the throne.

You do have me on the trivializing part, because god and a teapot in
space mean about the same to me since there is the same amount of
evidence for both.

I'm looking at the same evidence you are. The difference is in the presuppositions of your worldview. If you took off those glasses then you might start to see what I am talking about. For instance, the Uniformity in nature, how do you explain it?

There is no appearance of design in biological
systems (we made great leaps in understanding biology in the last 100
years or so)

Biology is the study of complicated things that give the appearance of having been designed for a purpose.

Richard Dawkins
The Blind Watchmaker p.1

Biologists must constantly keep in mind that what they see was not designed but rather evolved.

Francis Crick Nobel Laureate
What Mad Pursuit p.138 1988

There certainty is the appearance of the design, and these systems were in fact designed, but you say it is simply chance that created these sophisticated and irreducibly complex systems. I say something irreducibly complex cannot have been evolved.

, and the "fine-tuning" of physical laws are easily
explained without a higher being, and so it is not necessary.

They are not easily explained away. It is virtually a mathematical impossibility for the laws to be tuned the way they are. Check this out:



(Any universe without those properties would make life impossible and so we
would never know it existed

If I stood in front of a firing squad of 100 highly trained marksmen and survived the execution without a scratch, I should not be shocked to find out they missed, since if they hadn't, I wouldn't be alive to know that they did. In the same manner, while we shouldn't be shocked we are alive in a life permitting Universe, it doesn't follow that we shouldn't be surprised the Universe in which we find ourselves is life permitting.

, we do not know how many universes exist,
have existed, or can exist, etc.

If there are multiple universes, it just makes the fine tuning problem worse. The fine tuning on the mechanism for the multiple Universe generator would be infinitely more improbable.

If you want to maintain a god of the
gaps you are welcome to, but the natural solutions to every mystery
ever make the future of such a worldview tenuous at best.)

It isn't the God of the gaps when God is the superior explantion for the evidence, such as the information in DNA.

The presence of a supernatural being is, by definition, unfalsifiable.
The concept of a supernatural being is literally meaningless, since
you can say anything about it and not be proven wrong (or right). It
cannot be measured

Is believing in the existence of the external world falsifiable? Is the idea that the Universe began 5 seconds ago and all of your memories are false falsifiable? Is the fact that you cannot falsify either of those ideas make your existence meaningless?

The non-existence of God certainly is falsifiable; He could show up, as in the second coming. God cannot be measured by emprical methodology because God is a Spirit. This doesn't prove He doesn't exist. I notice you didn't answer my question, which is basic..you say you have an open mind, so I ask, if Jesus is God, would you turn your life over to Him and follow Him?

>> ^botono9