The Psychology of Religion, Chapter 12: Benefits of Unfounded Belief

Another interesting—but potentially troubling—angle on all of this is that people can sometimes latch onto a belief system whose claims are plainly unfounded, and yet experience real improvements that they had not found otherwise. Those improvements can entrench the belief further, because the person now has lived evidence: “It worked for me.” The mechanism is similar to the self-deception-mediated dynamic Trivers describes, and similar to the way psychoanalysis could help people even when much of its causal theory was exaggerated or wrong.

For example, some people latch onto an extremely rigorous or bizarre diet with a completely spurious rationale, and yet end up stabilizing a prior eating problem or obesity problem. Often what makes the diet “work” is not the theory, but the frame: the diet becomes a totalizing structure, a rule-set, a ritual, a commitment device. Strong belief in the diet’s narrative can increase adherence—sometimes dramatically—especially when the belief is reinforced by “spiritual” practices, authoritative texts, a charismatic leader, and enthusiastic support from fellow adherents. The resulting improvement may have little to do with the supposed mechanism (“toxins,” “energy,” “inflammation caused by impurity,” or whatever the myth is) and much to do with ordinary behavioral ingredients: attention to quantities and timing, reduced ultra-processed foods, fewer calories, more routine, more social accountability, and sometimes more exercise. In other words, the distinguishing features of the theory may be fictional, while the behavior change is real.

It is tempting to treat these forays into false belief as harmless whenever they produce visible gains. But there is a dark side. Some dietary regimens are medically dangerous; some aggravate eating disorders; and many cultivate a loyalty to the framework that discourages critical thinking. When a person’s identity becomes fused with a belief system, they may reject better treatments when those treatments are indicated—especially if a setback is interpreted as evidence of insufficient “faith,” insufficient purity, or insufficient devotion. In addition, these frameworks often come packaged with community. People who join one cluster of unusual health beliefs can be pulled, by social gravity, into neighboring clusters: new spiritual doctrines, political identities, conspiratorial worldviews, and the subtle expectation of financial contribution—paid coaching, proprietary supplements, retreats, memberships. The incentives are often misaligned.  

And there is another distortion worth naming: we mostly hear from the success stories. The people for whom the diet failed, harmed them, or simply became an expensive obsession rarely become public evangelists. The community’s narrative therefore becomes skewed toward “miracles,” while the quiet attrition and collateral damage remains invisible.

Finally, just as in religions, the next step is often proselytizing. People who believe they have found salvation—whether dietary, medical, or spiritual—tend to recruit. They may pressure friends and family to “convert,” and disparage outsiders as ignorant or closed-minded. In the context of fad diets and alternative medicine, that can do real harm to public health.

So the point is not that false belief never “helps.” The point is that when it helps, it often does so through common human mechanisms—structure, community, meaning, identity, accountability—while smuggling in risks that are easy to deny and hard to reverse once the belief becomes an emblem of belonging.

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