The hard facts
Spirituality can be regarded, among other things, as a quest for truth. Even in the case of, say, a Roman Catholic that happens to have reached the same conclusions on any matter of importance -- from abortion to homosexuality -- as the Vatican, we can still make out a desire to find the truth. Our RC friends are only working under the inexplicable assumption that what the Church says has to be right, and then think "backwards" to explain why. They got the method wrong, but still what they seek is the truth.
Not every truth (or every piece of nonsense) is relevant from a spiritual perspective. For instance, I have yet to understand why the integrity of the Virgin Mary's hymen before, after and during birth was ever considered of theological significance. Incidentally, it was in order to have that most relevant of truths explained to me by a teacher at school that, at the age of thirteen, I learned about the existence of such a thing as the hymen. It now strikes me as kind of kinky that that poor old sod of a teacher (an Opus Dei numerary, i.e. celibate and tormented) should be concerning himself with the intimate anatomy of no less than the virginal mother of God.
It seems bizarre that so many believers would hold such fairy-tale dogmas dear and attach so much significance to them, and then disregard what science has to say about life, us, the mind, the universe. It is true that some of the most significant aspects of our existence fall beyond the reach of science, but, if truth is what you're after, it makes sense to at least begin with science, which will provide you with the "hardest" facts available. Regardless of what would be desirable, comforting, beautiful, or coherent with any one religion, science will push ahead uncovering the truest truth that we have so far been able to discover.
If I care about science it's not because it makes me feel all good and spiritual, "look at the universe, isn't it amazing" kind of thing. If anything it makes me feel depressed and existential. The hard facts can be hard indeed. It makes me depressed to dwell on the very real possibility that we owe our existence only the combination of blind chance and natural selection. It makes me depressed to realise how utterly insignificant we are in relation to the spatiotemporal scale of the universe. 13.7±0.2 billion years old, at least 93 billion light years across, at least 70 sextillion (7×10^22) stars in the observable universe. In a way that shouldn't mean anything, and it often doesn't, but when it catches you on a gloomy day, believe me, it isn't an uplifting thought.
It also makes me depressed to think of myself as matter, to realise how fragile our bodies are. Nature, that most idealised of concepts, makes no distinction between us and, say, Mycobacterium leprae. We are both living organisms, evolved by mutation and natural selection, that do what we are "programmed" to do. From this point of view health isn't any more "natural" than disease, normal cell reproduction isn't more natural than cancer. Nature doesn't care. The universe doesn't care. It sprouts galaxies, stars and planets, and some of those planets sprout intelligent, conscious, self-aware beings, some of which sprout existential thoughts like these. But the universe doesn't care. Again, not very uplifting.
This is one of the many "spiritual moods" I can be in. Scientificly-inspired nihilism. Some people like it. The other day I heard Susan Blackmore, a renowned sceptic and zen practitioner, in an interview say that she takes comfort in reminding herself that existence is pointless, or something to that effect. Good for her, I thought, but what do the rest of us do? Feel stupid because pointlessness seems a ghastly possibility to us? I was going to say that it'd be nice if she gave us an insight into how pointlessness, meaninglessness, or whatever her actual words were, can be liberating in any way, but then I thought that, whatever the answer, I've probably heard it a million times already, and it hasn't worked for me.
My position is not to believe in whatever appears to give meaning to existence. Of course not. I want to be honest with myself. I'm interested in the truth. If the truth is that the universe is meaningless, just a set of physical laws and heaps of matter and energy, I want to face that reality, not delude myself. I am open to that possibility at least as much as I am open to the contrary. I just don't think I'll ever find it reassuring. By the way, did you know that mildly depressive people have been shown to be more realistic in their self-appraisals than the rest of the people? Corollary: the truth will make you miserable.
