For many years, I believed I was a hardcore atheist. I came out about this soon after my father, a theologian trained at the Wesley Theological Seminary in Washington, DC, died. At that time, around 2010, I felt I was finally free to speak my mind on matters concerning the Bible, Jesus walking on water, the resurrection after three cold-dead days, the whale that swallowed this guy, the donkey that talked on the street (“Why are you hitting me?”), turning wine into water and the seedy business of washing feet. But when I joined the atheist camp, I found myself in the company of snots like Richard Dawkins, whose book The Selfish Gene not only did lasting damage to the biological sciences but also audaciously chained the complexities of genetic replication to a dry fiction constructed by main

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