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held all of our own infinite cosmos intact. Philosophers and theologians are quick to point out the untenable assumptions of atheism, noting that the nonexistence of an intentional God is not a scientific hypothesis, because it cannot be proved or disproved. But, in spite of its philosophical soundness and explanatory relevance, and the fact that it also cannot be proved or disproved, few would equally strenuously defend this type of accidental-origin hypothesis.
     
     
    Our species’ overabundant theory of mind has clear repercussions for our ability to reason logically about the origins of species, because creationist appeals, however they may vary from one another on the surface, invariably involve an intelligent first “agent” as cause (the “Prime Mover” in cosmological terms). “Someone” or “something” is seen as having engaged deliberately— mindfully —in the act of Creation.
    Yet how exactly does theory of mind spill over into our thinking about our own individual creation, as unique members of our species? When it comes to religion, most believers reason that human beings are here “for” some divine purpose. And if they’re not particularly religious, then you’ll often hear people referencing a vaguely spiritualized purpose to human existence, such as “to be happy” or “to love one another.” As Camus wrote, “Revolt against man is also directed against God.” 25 But many of us go even one step further than this in teleo-functional absurdity, saying that individual members of our species also exist “for” a special reason. This is what the concept of destiny implies and what Sartre was trying to get at all those years ago: that each of us feels as if we’re here to satisfy our own unique purpose, one crafted specially for us by intentional design. In our heads, not only are “we” (as in “we humans”) here for a reason, but also “we” (me, you, the lady next door, the clerk behind the counter, and every single one of the billions of individuals on this planet) are each here for an even subtler shade of this overall purpose. At least, that’s what people like Rick Warren would have you believe. “God broke the mold when he made you,” the expression goes.
    To see how fantastically odd this highly focused degree of teleo-functional reasoning actually is, imagine yourself on a nice sunny farm. Now have a glance around at the landscape. See that horsefly over there, the one hovering about the rump of that Arabian mare? Good. Now compare its unique purpose in life to, say, that other horsefly over there, the one behind the barn, waltzing around the pond algae. And don’t forget about the hundreds of larvae pupating under that damp log—each of which also needs you to assign it a special, unique purpose in life. It’s hard enough to come up with a teleo-functional purpose for horseflies as a whole, such as saying that horseflies exist to annoy equestrians or to make the rear ends of equines shiver in anticipation of being stung. Just as American poet Ogden Nash famously penned, “God in His wisdom made the fly / And then forgot to tell us why.” But to suggest that each individual horsefly is here for a special, unique reason—one different from that of every other horsefly that has ever lived or will live—by using our theory of mind to reflect on God’s intentions in crafting each its own destiny, may get us institutionalized. (If horseflies don’t do it for you, simply replace the nominal species with another nonhuman species of your choice; perhaps goats, elm trees, or wild boars may suit your imagination better.) Yet this is precisely what we do when it comes to reasoning about individual members of our own species; and, curiously, the concept of destiny doesn’t strike most of us as being ridiculous, insane, or conceptually flawed at all.
    In fact, by all appearances, it feels quite natural. Just ask Fergie, one of the lead vocalists for the hip-hop group the