Genesis 1 vs. Genesis 2: Literalness Isn't the Only Form of Truth

I want to throw out a theological point that I often use when discussing evolution with Creationists – or people who, for whatever reason, think Catholics cannot believe in the basic tenets of evolution. However, I’m not completely surefooted in my theological presuppositions and logic, so I would love some commentary, from those founded in theology and those who are not. What I pose here is not actually a complete argument for the coexistence of Catholic theology/doctrine and evolution, but simply an initial line of reasoning I often begin with.

a) We have two different creations stories in Genesis 1 and 2. They are both extremely familiar to us, but for whatever reason, people often don’t recognize that they are distinctly different – at least, that has been my experience. (By the way, different doesn’t mean contradictory, as I will point out later.) In Genesis 1, the world is made in 6 days. Man and woman are created on the 6^th day; they seem to be created together – “God created man in the image of himself, in the image of God he created him, male and female he created them” (Genesis 1: 7) – but I suppose this is an inference. The major thing I want to point out is that man is created after the animals. Now onto Genesis 2: Here, man is created without woman. Then the garden is created, etc. What is significant to note, in terms of a literal reading, is that the animals are created after man: “Yahweh God said, 'It is not right that the man should be alone. I shall make him a helper.' 19 So from the soil Yahweh God fashioned all the wild animals and all the birds of heaven. These he brought to the man to see what he would call them; each one was to bear the name the man would give it” (Genesis 2: 18-19). If we are reading this strictly literally, the two stories actually contradict one another. I don’t think they actually contradict one another; but a literal reading forces one to recognize their incompatibility.

b) I take this apparent contradiction to show that the writers of Genesis were not concerned with its literalness – at least not literalness in the sense that our modern world, borrowing certain ideological points from the scientific method, often uses the term. The first creation story flows directly into the second. Did they not recognize that the two didn’t mash? I don’t think we have to answer that question. I think we can simply recognize that the truths expressed through both creation stories are truths indeed; but these truths are not literal truths. (I’ve already made the point that if they were literal truths, one would be a lie.)

c) I don’t think this recognition in any way lessens the truth or beauty of the Bible. I think it simply presents us with an important point, especially for those that want to understand their faith: The writers of the Old Testament wrote the Scriptures with a different set of narrative and logical principles in mind. It is our modern set of principles that can make a sort of either/or statement: “Either the creation story is literally true, or it is false.” The following statements – we are made in God’s image and likeness; God rested; God asks us to abide by certain rules; we were initially naked and without shame – are all truths from the Genesis stories, independently of whether or not the actual events of the story took place.

d) Literal truth is only one mode of truth, and I definitely don't think it's the highest mode. I don’t want to get hokey here – “the truth doesn't need to be true” or “truth is what you want it to be” – but a point needs to be made that the deepest truths of God as expressed by man, the ones that get closest to His Truth, are probably mystical truths – truths that aren’t literal in the sense of the scientific method.

So is this sort of reasoning logical and/or theological? Am I missing something about creation stories, or the writers of the Old Testament, or something else? I desire dialogue, especially if I’m wrong in whatever way.

My Rambling Thoughts On Aggressive Self-Defense

Here are some thoughts of mine in relation to the other night’s topic. I was trying for one cohesive argument; I then decided it would be more like a semi-organized amalgamation of a interconnected thoughts; by now, I’ve simply decided to make separate points. If you can find the pattern or the unity, let me know.

1. Playing God. Although there is something in me that appeals to this argument, I don’t think it holds water by itself. We “play God” in creating life, in transferring organs, reorganizing ecosystems, etc. The obvious difference in most of these cases is the continuation of life vs. its termination, as in the act of aggressive self-defense. Regardless of this distinction, it remains true that we “play God” in ways that we find perfectly moral. God allows humans to be actors on this earth. In fact, there are many things that we are required to do.

2. Another reason I don’t like this appeal is the fact that I can flip the argument right over. Who is to say that God doesn’t want us to defend to the point of taking a life? I could then ask, “Who are you to say that God didn’t put your child in your life to protect?” or something like that. I’m not saying this is a good argument. I’m simply saying the argument, either way, must be developed further.

3. Mother and Baby in Womb. Let me use an analogy – although perhaps it’s not quite an analogy, but a related situation. If I remember correctly, if a mother’s life is in mortal danger, and her life can only be saved by an act or medicine that will undoubtedly end the life of the baby in the womb, the family is permitted, morally, to allow the woman to take the medicine – as long as a major requirement is met. The action taken cannot directly kill the baby. Therefore, almost all forms of normal abortion are not permissible, even though they would be saving the mother. The baby can’t be directly killed. The baby’s death must be a by-product of saving the mother.

4. Essentially, the argument and requirements here are a version of thedouble-effect. What this creates is the following moral truism: Act A has Effect B and C. B is necessary for saving the life of an innocent person. C will, by all conscious reflection, result in another death as well. Without getting into too many more specifics, Act A may be permissible if Effect B is intended, and Effect C is not intended. Although you may find this silly, I do think you can perform an action that has two results – both of which you are pretty sure will ensue – and that you can intend one and not the other.

5. This gets us to the issue of intention. I think it was Matt C that kept saying, “It’s all about intention.” Well, in this case, even though the ending of a life is a pretty sure consequence, it doesn’t mean it’s intended.

6. But even as I reflect on how to relate the mother-baby issue to our normal self-defense situations, I see problems. In the first case, I cannot directly kill the baby. So does that mean I cannot directly kill an attacker? Or is the case different because the attacker is not innocent like the baby? By now I’ve confused myself.

7. All of the rules and regulations of just-warism, or aggressive self-defense, almost lead me to say, “Let’s just make it easy. Let’s just say that all aggressive, intentional killing is wrong.” However, a desire for simplicity is not a basis for ethics. I find myself always trying to explain distinctions and such about religion, the existence of God, and morality to my agnostic brother; and he usually responds by claiming that these distinctions are just bogus. But the fact is that we live in a complex world. No answers about natural things seem to be easy – laws of physics, etc. – so why would moral answers be simple?

8. The Catholic tradition of the moral permissibility of killing to defend. Now, I don’t think that simply because there is a Catholic tradition for something, that this something is necessarily correct. There was a Catholic tradition for selling indulgences. However, when a Catholic tradition is being questioned or rejected, it is a serious matter. On a personal level, I don’t feel as if I have the ability or right to make definitive claims about heavy moral matters that are in opposition to the Catholic tradition. I can entertain arguments about such, even express my confusion or disagreement. But this is different than putting my own reasoning, my own ego, ahead of the Truth as it is preached by the Church that has been established by Christ.

9. I know that I am called to think open-mindedly and to bring my own personal self into matters, even if they are weighty matters. But I still don’t accept that I can argue something that is not in line with Catholic tradition, without there being some sort of opposing tradition.* I don’t trust my own mind. Although I make daily attempts to come to know the Lord – although I have experienced His presence in my life – I understand that recognizing the beauty of Truth takes more than simple logical reflection. This isn’t because human logic or reason is flawed, but because my sin, weakness, and position in a fallen world make it incredibly difficult for me to be sure I’m using my reason and logic well. For me, I know how my “objective, unbiased analysis” can be very much affected by my pride. But this is the beauty of Revelation. This is the beauty of the Catholic Church. We are able to reason wholeheartedly, to think and to question; but at the end of the day, we are able to submit ourselves to a body and a structure that we believe is established and supported by Christ – and that our willingness to submit our personalistic values and beliefs to this greater good is rewarded by an assurance that we are as close to Truth as we can be.

10. [*Of course, someone has to begin an opposing tradition. But as for me, I don’t trust myself to be this sort of person; and I wouldn’t trust someone unless they were a person of deep prayer life, a person who understood deeply the Trinitarian love. I like to think about John Henry Newman’s discussion about the development of doctrine. It’s not that Catholic doctrine is directly canceled or rejected, but that doctrine will look different to different cultures at different times. Truth doesn’t change; but the worlds in which it resides changes constantly.]

11. "The Catholic Church is the only thing which saves a man from the degrading slavery of being a child of his age"--G. K. Chesterton

Statement of the Issue:

...And for the support of this Declaration, with a firm reliance on the protection of divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes, and our sacred Honor.

Thus penned Jefferson, and signed the delegates of the Continental Congress in 1776, pitting grave resolve in the cause of liberty. This line struck me in relation to our discussion of "just wars" last night. In the depths of specificity and nuance, I think we may have at points left the ground of common experience which calls forth just war. This ground I believe to be the idea that one has a duty to protect one's family, clan, city-state, and country, with the understanding that family, clan, etc. are impossible without such a duty. Along these lines, Chesterton said, "The true soldier fights not because he hates what is in front of him, but because he hates what is behind him"; Ben Franklin (not necessarily our standard of moral rectitude, but a man capable of wisdom) said, "They who give up an essential liberty to obtain a little temporary safety deserve neither liberty nor safety"; and probably many other people have said many similar things. What I am observing is not a specific moral formula but a common thought that has a long tradition in humanistic history.

**Now, it could be argued that aggressive war also has a long tradition (God wills it!). However, it does seem that defensive war tradition is distinct in being accepted on its own merit, as opposed to requiring an outside motivation and legitimization (such as the will of God, realpolitik, or the requirements of a particular social system).**

It is from this tradition that this discussion begins. The claim of pacifism then enters the dialogue: the moral values from which we draw in order to defend defensive war (defending the innocent) are in fact grounded in the truth of human dignity. Thus when defense against evil resorts to killing human beings, it attacks its own moral foundations. The old tradition was a disordered legitimizing: like aggressive war, it held certain goals to be worth causing the destruction of human life. Even though those goals were the protection of innocent human life, and even though the ultimate and indirect cause is the aggressor's, the defender's decision to use force to the point of death is a breach of the fundamental moral value.

But is this the final word? Is this indeed the certain end of the conversation?

Beyond Five Senses and Three Dimensions: Part #3 in the Series “Science and Beyond Science”

Imagine for a moment that we had no eyes: human beings – if we’d be still be human beings – had only four major senses. If this were the case, would we be able to imagine the sense of sight? I think the answer to this is emphatically negative. Imagine humanity crawling around the globe, ever employed and directed by our sense of touch and sound; imagine what we wouldn’t know about the world today, in terms of astronomy, physics, etc. Could we ever extrapolate knowledge about the planets? Even the things we encountered would be encountered in a markedly different fashion. For example, a sunrise would probably not have the same effect. While the warmth of the sun’s rising would be pleasant, the beauty and magnificence of the rising star, recognized through vision, would be lost. In this line of thinking, let me not forget or overlook the positives of such a position. Perhaps without our sense of sight, we would recognize the beauty of things in a different way, a way lost to a species that operates primarily through its ocular powers. However, I think the point remains: There would be much missing, or at least diminished, in our study if we functioned with only four senses.

This being said, is there perhaps a sixth sense? I’m not, of course, referring to the normal use of the term sixth sense, as in some sort of special mental power of recognition. That aside, could we even imagine what this sixth sense might be, or how it might sense – or what it might let us “see” new things, or the same things in a new way? Just as the four-sensing species could not imagine the sense of sight, we cannot imagine a sixth sense. However, is it silly of me to imagine that a sixth sense is a possibility? Or perhaps a multitude of other senses? Or an infinite amount? If we find a four-sensing species silly to argue against our protestations that there really does exist a fifth sense, aren’t our protestations the same?

In line with the earlier logic, if there does exist a sixth sense – or a 1,000; or an infinite – isn’t there much missing in our recognition of reality? Isn’t there the distinct possibility that there exists reality that we cannot grasp through our five senses? I’m not talking about psychic reality, or invisible monkeys floating in dark matter; no, I’m simply talking about physical matter that needs a different sense to be established. Just as much of our knowledge, if not all, of the planets comes from using our sense of sight, and so this knowledge would be completely absent if we didn’t have this ocular sense, couldn’t there be other matter out there, analogous to our planet-knowledge, that needs a sixth sense? It doesn’t have to be in space; it could be right around us.

This topic is related to the topic of a fourth dimension. (I’m not talking about time as the fourth dimension, since time is part of the third.) Imagine being a two-dimensional creature – or, at the very least, you can only sense in two dimensions. Imagine a picture of person on a table in front of you. If you were able to talk to this person and tell them there was a third dimension, that of volume, they may ask for you to point to it. They understand the difference between two and three dimensions, but they can point to that extra, third dimension. The two-dimensional figure could point north, south, east, and west on the painting, but they necessarily can’t point outside of it, what I might imagine would look like “up” to someone sitting at the table upon which the painting it. The point I’m driving at, amidst my confusing visual, is that a two-dimensional person could not imagine the third dimension; at least he could not imagine what it would look like, or how he would sense within one. Now, might there be a fourth dimension? Using the analogy of the person stuck in a two-dimensional world, aren’t we, in a three-dimensional world, necessarily cut off from imagining the world in these four dimensions?

That being said, why are we prone to claiming the world really only exists in three? Or do physicists not make this assumption? Either way, what is it about reality that we can’t see or understand because of our three-dimensional limitations?

Narrative as the Center of Man’s Relation to the World: “Are Perceptions More Important than Physical Reality?” or “Why We Like Narrative Literature”

These are beginning thoughts concerning something I’ve been contemplating for four or five years. It is sort of a defense of studying literature; but it is simply more concerned with why I, and many others, love stories. Although I’ve thought about this for a while, I only took an hour or so to compose this. I intend to tweak things out in time.

As an English teacher, as well as a lover of narratives in general, I accept that I speak from a bias. Although I will approach the material as objectively as possible, I will not detach my love for narratives from my analysis. There are two reasons for this. First, not to get real philosophic (yet), but I believe truth is not captured or experienced objectively; I believe truth is experienced subjectively. Truth is lived. So I shouldn’t try to detach my passion from my analysis, since I believe my passion can lead me, with reason as a guide, to truth. Second, my passion for narrative literature, as it is a common trait in humanity, is, in a sense, the entire point of my piece. That leads me to the questions that form the underpinning of my rambling essay.

Why is that we love story-telling? From cave art, to the oral tradition, to Greek tragedy, to the Elizabethan stage, to the invention and production of the novel, and, importantly in modern days, to film – why is man led to retell his experience in terms of narrative; and why do these narratives of history find themselves, artfully, retold and restructured through the medium of fiction? What is the reason for our preoccupation with this art form? Because this set of questions is open to a grave amount of speculation that may be neither provable nor helpful in any sense of the word, I offer a second set of questions: What does this fascination with narrative fiction reveal to us about being human? In what way does humanity’s endless interest in narrative literature help us understand history, written texts, spoken texts, and man’s current predicament amidst existence here on earth?

To borrow phraseology from a couple of Dutch literary theorists who said that the self is the center of man’s narrative gravity, I claim that narrative is the center of man’s relation to and experience with the world. I think our brains interpret the data we experience narratively. I think this is how we make sense of the world around us. There is something about the very nature of narrative itself that is human.

Let’s take a look at a few examples. I could go back to older mythologies, but I am more familiar with Greek mythology. These stories and tales create a cohesive (although that may be an overstatement) perspective on reality and world. Lacking scientific study for things like the seasons, the Greeks interpreted data narratively. Why is there winter? Easy. Persephone, daughter of the Greek Olympian Demeter (goddess of the earth and vegetation), was abducted by Hades. After much haggling, Hades agreed to give Persephone back, as long as he is allowed to keep her for a 1/3 of every year. Thus, during the 1/3 of the year that Persephone plays the queen of the Underworld, Demeter weeps for her daughter and refuses to allow vegetation and life forms to grow on the earth.

Let me take an example from Christianity. We often refer to our faith as the story of salvation, or the salvation story. In fact, all of our perception of God and Christ takes the form of a story. God created the universe. Man sinned. God came to earth, died for man’s sins, and invited man to join Him in the heavenly realms. Life is the battle between reveling in the fallen nature of humanity and accepting the salvation won for us on the Cross. The end of the story is Heaven.

OK, so what’s the point in all of this? How does this affect anything? Well, I believe this changes quite a lot of how we view the world – or it can at least help us envision the world through a different lens. How? I know my bias is coming out, but here’s my point: the study of literature is essential to understanding human experience. Why? Simply because it reveals to us, the readers, how different human beings, throughout different generations and cultures, interpreted the world around them. Because humans essentially translate experience narratively, narratives of the times can give us an honest existential view of human experience.

We do not experience our lives as historical sets of data; instead, we view it as a story. The beginning and end are somewhat obvious in terms of a plot line, but the conflicts, climaxes, and characters vary day-by-day, and year-by-year. To understand a historical experience, one must go beyond the data – although this going beyond doesn’t imply disregarding the historical data and factors involved – but one must go beyond the data and understand the experience as a narrative.

Although narratives are further from literal truth than other sorts of analysis, they are a lot closer to lived truth, to truth as it is experienced on a human level. For example, if I were to study the brain activity of a person in love, I could figure out, on a literal level, what the physical properties of love are: I could understand the chemical processes and transferences that occur when one is in love – what areas of the brain reveal heavy activity, and what neurons fire where and when. However, although this is essentially more literal than a play that expresses how one feels in love (take a Shakespeare, for example), the play gets us a lot closer to the human experience of love than the scientific study. Now, I’m not claiming that the previous scientific study is irrelevant, unimportant, or doesn’t tell us something about love; however, I am claiming that the play, even though further from literal truth, gets us closer to lived truth – and this is because human experience is first and foremost narrative.

I’m not saying, “Let’s look at a narrative from WWI, and we’ll understand the historical reasons behind the war.” Or, “Let’s look at a narrative from WWI, and we’ll understand how people were back then.” Let’s remember that literary narratives are essentially fictional; also, a single person composes them. Both of these realities shed light on what studying literature primarily is not concerned with: studying characters or plots and comparing them to reality, or something of that nature. Instead, the study of literature should essentially be a study of the structure of the narrative, a diving into the different forms and constructions that people use to express their experience. This doesn’t mean we don’t concern ourselves with the historical experience that produces the narrative; this would, falsely, cut off the source of the inspiration. However, we should be more concerned with how different individuals, from different times and beliefs, formulate experience narratively.

And, in studying this, we are essentially studying what it means to be human – at least a part of it. If humans necessarily, or at least often, experience the world around them in a narrative fashion, understanding that narrative helps us understand humanity. So is the study of literature more important to humanity than the study of science? I’m neither biased nor blind enough to agree with this statement. However, the study of science gives us an incomplete picture of reality and truth, especially as they pertain to human experience.

Let me use some examples from Dostoevsky (all praise be his name on high). In his Notes from the Underground, the first part of the novella is concerned mainly with a philosophic problem. We can call the problem by different names: the problem of authenticity, identity, morality, or whatnot. However, the problem is not solved through philosophic debate. Getting to the heart of truth is not simply objectively, impassionedly studying a set of premises and conclusions, and circling the logical truism. No. Truth is lived, and truth is lived out narratively. Therefore, Dostoevsky gives us the second portion of the novella: a narrative. Now, I don’t want to oversimplify the matter and say that the second portion of the novel is an answer to the first; perhaps it’s simply a playing out of the ideas expressed in the first part. Either way, Dostoevsky intentionally gets beyond the philosophical problem he outlines, and dives into a more authentic approach to discussing philosophy and truth: through story-telling.

There is a similar pattern in The Brothers Karamazov. Ivan outlines some pretty intense arguments against God, free will, and much else – or at least problems with these ideas – in the chapters entitled “Rebellion” and “The Grand Inquisitor.” Alyosha does not do a great job with his philosophic rebuttals. In a certain way, Ivan wins. However, and I don’t intend to give anything away to anyone who hasn’t read the novel yet, but I think that it is the narrative that answers the problems Ivan describes. Could Dostoevsky have given us a more logical answer to the issues at hand? Could Alyosha have responded more critically and academically to Ivan? Perhaps. But perhaps Dostoevsky thinks that no, Alyosha could not have actually argued his way out of Ivan’s intellectual and religious dilemmas. Whatever the answer, Dostoevsky did in fact choose to provide an answer, or at least a perspective that offers potential answers, through the narrative. Of course, this reading implies that the novel answers the religious problems it presents. I think it does, but not in a simplistic sort of way. Unlike my reading of Notes, I am more confident that the actual narrative is the answer to Ivan’s problems.

For those who concern themselves with things like literary theory (to be blunt: what is it we’re doing when we study literature?), this idea is probably closest to the old and simple approach to literature: close reading. Sticking, for the most part, closely to the text helps us best understand the patterns and structures used to create the text; and studying these patterns and structures help us understand the human act of creating narratives – and since creating narratives is a universal human drive or ability, this study helps us understand humanity on a lived, existential level. Of course, the text is connected to its place of creation, both geographically and temporally; so understanding these levels help us understand the text. But we don’t abandon or forget the text in our analysis of the culture that produced it. For one, we would be in danger of distancing ourselves from the patterns and structures that shape the nature of the narrative; and second, we may be, implicitly, denying the fact that a certain part of human nature, what is means to be human, is universal, from culture to culture, from narrative to narrative.

Let me end very specifically. What sometimes annoys me in people’s study of literature (especially as it is portrayed on TV or in the movies) is how they analyze the characters as if they are real. People apply psychoanalysis to them, or at least attempt to uncover their real motives. Now, while a certain amount of that is OK, it is only OK in the context of understanding its limitations. The character in a movie or novel is not real; therefore, studying him as if he were is futile and misplaced. It is better to understand why a character such as he was created; or understanding how the character is influenced by the other powers in the novel, and how he influences these powers; etc. And all of this is not to understand how people actually act or react in real life, but simply to understand a perspective on how people perceive these things. These perceptions, as they are expressed through narratives, help us understand how humanity perceives the universe. And perhaps understanding how humans perceive the universe is, in fact, more important than what exactly the universe actually is.

The Philosophy Group: A Revisitation Through Gutierrez and Benedict

I realize a decent amount of time has expired since our last philosophy group. I haven’t gotten around to summing up the night’s discussion, along with posing provocative (and usually either opaque or meaningless) questions. Instead of racking my memory to achieve that goal today, I intend to present two quotations that I think represent two divergent perspectives on the issues surrounding our meeting. The first is by Gustavo Gutiérrez, from the text we discussed during the meeting. The second is by Pope Benedict XVI, from his Introduction to Christianity. (It’s actually from his newest introduction to the book, which was written within the last five years or so.) I guess the idea is to see, first of all, whether or not they disagree with one another; and, if so, to pick apart the disagreements in light of our own readings of history, Church teaching, sociology, theology, and our own personal experiences.

1. Gutiérrez, from his A Theology of Liberation: “The construction – from its economic bases – of the ‘polis,’ of a society in which people can live in solidarity, is a dimension which encompasses and severely conditions all of man's activity. It is the sphere of the exercise of a critical freedom which is won down through history. It is the universal determinant and the collective arena for human fulfillment.”

(If I remember correctly, this specific quotation was discussed throughout the night. This sounds extremely Marxist – and, by the way, I’m not presupposing that this means it’s incorrect, or even off base at all. I’m simply pointing out that Gutiérrez gives the economic and political spheres of man primacy in all of his interaction. In some ways, we can’t discuss man, according to Gutiérrez, outside of these spheres.)

2. B16, from his Introduction to Theology: “Now Marx appeared to be the great guidebook. He was said to be playing now the role that had fallen to Aristotle in the thirteenth century; the latter’s pre-Christian (that is, “pagan”) philosophy had to be baptized, in order to bring faith and reason into the proper relation to each other. But anyone who accepts Marx (in whatever neo-Marxist variation he may choose) as the representative of worldly reason not only accepts a philosophy, a vision of the origin and meaning of existence, but also and especially adopts a practical program. For this “philosophy” is essentially a “praxis”, which does not presuppose a “truth” but rather creates one. Anyone who makes Marx the philosophy of theology adopts the primacy of politics and economics, which now become the real powers that can bring about salvation (and, if misused, can wreck havoc)” (“Preface to the New Edition” in Introduction to Christianity 14-15).

(In particular, the end of this quotation seems to contradict Gutiérrez. The very idea that our consciousness is rooted in the economic sphere – and is, therefore, necessarily political – is what B16 seems to find problematic in liberation theologies. By the way, B16’s argument isn’t contained in here. You really need to read his whole book if you want that. I highly, highly recommend it. I suppose the same comment can be applied to the Gutiérrez quotation.)

So, in conclusion, do these two ideas cross each other out? Is one of these two inherently incorrect, or misguided? Discuss amongst yourselves.

“Leaps of Faith:” The Scientist’s and the Religious’: Part #2 in the Series “Science and Beyond Science”

I will not be expounding or discussing the regular use of the phrase “leap of faith.” Instead, I intend to argue that every line of thinking, everything formulation of an idea, takes its own leap of faith. I intend to shift the burden of proof to the scientist – or, at the very least, to somewhat even the playing field.

What we often refer to as a leap of faith is nothing more than recognizing the plausibility of the following statement: “I do not have enough faith in science and physics to accept that all of reality can be known through the narrow confines of the scientific method.” Why would it be the case that all that is true and real can be epistemologically proven? We go outside of epistemology to make this sort of statement.

Let me use an analogy. Let us imagine a house that is a mile away from us, the viewers and observers. Let us imagine that we have certain tools, like binoculars and computers – we even have a heat-sensing tool that allows us to discover somewhat of the nature of certain things through the walls. Now we observe. We can see through the windows quite easily; we see certain people as the pass the windows. We can see the outside of the house; we can see people if they come outside, or anything they bring outside. We can use the heat-sensing tool to recognize other forms of things within the house. But there is a limit to what we can see and observe from our position. Let us imagine that there is a dresser in a room, and this room is without windows; the dresser exudes no heat. With our tools, we would not be able to scientifically posit the existence of the dresser. This would be the case for many of the items within the house. However, it would be somewhat foolish to assume that only what we could prove empirically from our one-mile distance actually existed. There are things within the house that necessarily cannot be sensed or proven using the tools that we have. Now, it may be reasonable to state the claim, “I only accept the existence of something within the house that I can prove empirically.” This is rational. However, that does not translate into claiming the overstatement: “Only what I can prove empirically exists.” This is nearly as ridiculous as another observer, without any reason whatsoever, claiming that there exists a clown in the basement.

I think this is like empirical proof. Our tools for sensing and understanding the material world around us are vastly powerful. But they are only able to understand reality as it conforms to their abilities of sensing. Just as the dresser in the house was necessarily outside of the reach of the tools, so too might there exist other properties of reality that are outside of the reach of the empirical sciences. Like with the analogy, I think it a reasonable claim to say, “I do not believe in what I cannot prove empirically;” but to go beyond this and claim only “what I can prove empirically exists” is not logical.

I’m not boiling down the “leap of faith” to a statement of logic or probability. However, I’m reassigning the onus of proof. If a scientist wants to claim that nothing exists but what can be known through the sciences, he is making his own leap of faith – a leap, I may say, that is not scientific. A religious person, on the other hand, who makes his own leap of faith, at least makes one in line with religion. His leap is one based on moral and religious conviction. In other words, the religious man’s leap of faith is justified by his set of rules – belief, religion, faith – but the scientist’s leap of faith, in this instance, is not justified by his set of rules, such as the scientific method, laws of physics, etc.

As with every analogy, this one limps; however, how it limps can be helpful to additionally understanding the subject. In the said example, the dresser undetected by the tools of investigation was a completely different object than, say, the people that had walked past the window. This would seem to argue that there are, perhaps, invisible objects that our senses cannot detect. Now, I’m not saying that this isn’t the case; but at the moment, that’s not the objective of my argument. I’m more concerned with understanding that there may be principles of objects we can detect by our senses that have non-material properties – properties of final causation, purpose, or moral order, for example. There may be principles and structures of reality that do not conform to empirical diagnosis – and, not only would be it outside of the bounds of science to say these don’t exist because they can’t be empirically proven, it will also be a self-proving point. Science cannot make the claim that only science can make claims about reality.

Materialism and Radical Materialism: “Why Science Can’t Say Only Physical Matter Exists:” Part #1 in the Series "Science and Beyond Science"

I constantly have abstract arguments and logical syllogisms racing through my head – or, more appropriately, blindly knocking around my head, heedless of their all-too-often nonsensical and inconsequential nature. Recently, one of the central debates raging inside the corridors of my often-miscalculating mind has been the dispute between what I’m calling science and beyond science.

To be more specific, I have been contemplating the wonder, mystery, and limits of science. I am sure to blog about a whole bunch of these thoughts, as well as a number of tangential topics. As usual, please feel free to point out my flaws. Most of this occurred strictly within the confines of my single brain, and I have known many brains acting solely (and may I add solipsisticly) to come to wacky or misguided conclusions via flawed assumptions or undue emphasis of certain things – and my brain is most definitely not an exception to this observation.

For this first thought-process, I am stealing very exorbitantly and without compunction from an American fantasy writer, John C Wright. I recently began a trilogy of his after running across his name on a list of current Catholic writers. Besides being very entertained by his books – I’m now on the second one – I was reading some of his online blog. He writes a lot concerning free will, and how free will does not contradict or pose a problem to physics. In one of his posts, he distinguished between materialism and radical materialism. Materialism is a simple acceptance that there is physical matter, and this matter is guided by rules and laws. We can use things like physics, empirical data, and the scientific method to help understand the physical matter within our universe. However, radical materialism takes it one step further: it states that all of the universe – all of reality, in fact – is composed of matter. Wright goes through why he thinks materialism does not explain the totality of reality, etc. He ends up showing how free will fits into this narrative without rattling any findings in physics or elsewhere.

However, Wright’s early dichotomy between materialism and radical materialism got me thinking about something I was discussing recently in a medieval spirituality course I’m taking at Drew. We were discussing John Wickliffe’s (rather new for the time) idea that everything Christian must have its basis in the Scriptures. In many ways, Wickliffe is an obvious predecessor to Luther. In class, we were discussing how the idea of solo Scriptura is somewhat contradictory – or, at the very least, lacking plausibility. [I’m sure people have an answer to the argument I’m about to outline; but remember, the point here is materialism, not religion.] There is nothing within the Scriptures that says the Scriptures are the only thing that contain truth; you must posit an outside idea, belief, or revelation that argues that solo Scriptura holds water. But the problem should be obvious: you are using an outside idea or revelation to make the point that no outside ideas or revelations should be trusted, only those that find their root in Scriptures.

Let me draw the analogy. There is nothing within materialism, within the physical sciences, that allows it to posit radical materialism: to say to there is only material in the universe. It is simply not within the scope of what science or materialism can do. This is not to belittle or scorn science, but to simply point out its necessary limitations. You can’t use a method that only studies physical matter to claim that there is only physical matter. This is akin to using a specific lens that only reveals certain colors to prove that only those colors actually exist. Well, the lens is only made to see those colors, so obviously it cannot see the rest of the colors. And so with science: of course it can only find or prove that matter exists, for all science can talk about it physical matter. This is a somewhat obvious point, but it often seems to go unnoticed.

It is outside of the bounds of science to discuss non-material existence – free will, intention, real emotions, real thought, metaphysics – and so it should be an obvious logical syllogism that allows us to state, even before science does, that science does will not prove or discover any of these things. If any of these things are non-material, then science simply cannot prove them. But the irony lies in the fact that scientists and materialists repeatedly sit upon the their scientific chairs and claim that material is all that the universe is composed of. This leap is, how shall I say, non-scientific?

To return to the analogy of the lens that only recognizes certain colors – let’s say blue and green – someone may object and say, “Yes, but the scientist in this case can simply put down his lens, and see that the world exists in more colors than blue and green.” My response is, yes, it is obvious that reality extends beyond the colors of blue and green. But I think it equally obvious, even if less appealing to a scientific world like our own, that there exists more to reality than physical matter. Everyone experiences free will; everyone has experienced emotion – love, fear, regret, guilt, or loss – as something beyond its physical properties. Now, I’m not saying these “experiences” prove the existence of non-material reality; what I’m saying is that they point to, even in an empirical sort of way, something beyond materialism.

One may claim that our emotions are completely connected to or dependent on the physical matter of our brains – but even this sort of connection or dependence cannot then make the bold claim that, therefore, there is only material in this universe. If there is connection between my emotion of loss – say, when a person close to me dies – and something physical going on in my brain, then all you are proving is that the specific emotion is not purely non-material; you are not, however, proving that all of emotion is physical. This, quite simply, is outside the bounds of what science can say.

Rightfully so, an objector may ask the following questions: A) Knowing what we know of science, what actually points us in the direction of the existence of non-material reality? OK, so science can’t say “only material exists,” but what would lead us to say there is stuff beyond matter, other than long-held superstition? B) If you’re claiming that empiricism cannot truly discuss the non-material, then how is one to talk about it?

To answer B, I say, “Philosophy.” Pick up and read Aristotle. The man is not a dualist who believed in non-material Forms like Plato, but he is definitely discussing the existence of non-material reality. Answering A takes more time, and perhaps that’s what I’ll work on next: for I truly think our basic experience of the world around us points us beyond radical materialism 100 times a day; but in a scientific world, we either don’t recognize these moments, or we are afraid of claiming them as such. I plan on stepping beyond these fears very soon.