Ever since I was a small boy I have been fascinated by matters which I have not had the slightest possibility of understanding. Although I have found this particularly helpful in forming my opinions, and essential in expressing them, it has been a drawback all the same. But please note that modern science backs me up. Take, for example, Werner Heisenberg and his uncertainty principle. Even the name has a certain quality of reassurance for those of us who would like to understand such things as mathematics and physics, but who have always had difficulty in being entirely certain that two and two make four. (When I was at primary school the headmaster informed me that if I couldn't do arithmetic I would never amount to anything. He was quite right - I couldn't and I haven't.)
The uncertainty principle tells us that at the quantum level of reality it is just not possible to be sure about the behaviour of atoms, let alone their constituent parts such as electrons and quarks. And given the fact that atoms are themselves more than ninety-nine per cent empty space, and that the tiny fraction which is something rather than nothing can be described as 'a blur' I can't say I feel too bad about my ignorance.
This is especially so as Heisenberg's successors seem to be approaching the great Somers-Edgar principle which is simply this - the universe doesn't actually exist. Even as a eleven or twelve-year old I had my doubts. I can remember standing at the bottom of Pitt Street at the time when I was still attending Arthur Street School and wondering whether the scene before me was actually the way I percieved it, or if it was even there at all. (I might say that at this point in my life I was drinking nothing stronger than milk.) Perhaps the presence of Knox Church to my left unhinged me somewhat, but I had the same doubts even when I was standing inside St Patrick's Basilica. Nowadays, I must confess, inside all too many churches this is not so much a doubt as a hope.
Clearly something exists in some way or other, but it is not at all clear just what that way might happen to be - especially, it seems, to physicists. Which makes the pious (or impious) certainties of Richard Dawkins and his friends hard to credit. With empty atoms, string theory, the possibility of eleven dimensions (at the last count), imaginary time, quantum mechanics and other scientific propositions, not to mention the theory that the universe divides into millions of complete and separate versions of itself in order to accomodate all possible outcomes - by comparison with all this, believing in God is mere child's play.
Friday, January 29, 2010
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Doubting Thomas
Today we have been observing the feast of St Thomas Aquinas, for whom I have a somewhat ill-informed liking, if only for two particular reasons. The first is that as a small child he would apparently ask his elders "What is God?" Not who?, you will note, but what? I entirely realise that he should actually have been asking whether anyone had found his teddy bear, and I thus have some sympathy with his poor elders - but I do think he was on the right track. God has got to be more than a little old man on the top of a middle eastern mountain with a long beard and a short fuse.
I also like Aquinas for his reported answer to his own question at the end of his life, namely, that having actually experienced the Real Thing (please note the capital letters) he understood that there could be no answers, except for the ones that make sense. And where God is concerned, sensible answers often make no sense at all. Thus the Angelic Doctor is said to have refused to finish his great Summa with the statement that what he had already written (and that was an awful lot) was only so much straw.
The contrast between St Thomas and a good many of the Doubting Thomases of our own time (often fully paid-up clergy and theological professors, alas) could hardly be greater.
I also like Aquinas for his reported answer to his own question at the end of his life, namely, that having actually experienced the Real Thing (please note the capital letters) he understood that there could be no answers, except for the ones that make sense. And where God is concerned, sensible answers often make no sense at all. Thus the Angelic Doctor is said to have refused to finish his great Summa with the statement that what he had already written (and that was an awful lot) was only so much straw.
The contrast between St Thomas and a good many of the Doubting Thomases of our own time (often fully paid-up clergy and theological professors, alas) could hardly be greater.
Monday, January 04, 2010
Taking urgency
16th December was the anniversary of my baptism in 1951. I can't say that I remember it well, but I do recall looking up at the wooden roof and seeing the sunlight slanting through the windows. This was in St Matthew's Church on the corner of Hope Street (most appropriate!) and the officiating priest was Archdeacon Hamblett, the father-in-law of the painter Colin McCahon. At the time even members of my family would have wanted other people to think that they believed in God - even though most of them didn't, some of them with good reason. The latter included my father and his siblings. The reason for their somewhat determined unbelief was not scientific or philosophical, but much closer to home than that - it was their own dear mother.
Grandma was quite a character, and had had quite a life, not much of it very pleasant or enjoyable. Both her father and his father before him had fallen into debt and had chosen (at different times) to remove themselves from this world as a result, leaving their respective daughter and granddaughter to fend for herself and her children. As a result they all spent at least one winter on the west coast in nothing more than a tent before my great-grandmother was imprisoned for debt (of course!) and her children were sent to the workhouse. Not a very good beginning, I think you will agree, and it didn't improve very much after that either. Grandma grew up to be a beautiful and charming young woman, but not one with the best judgement it would seem, as she went on to marry a well-bred but not entirely useful Englishman who fathered her children but appeared to be largely incapable of supporting them. So Grandma turned to religion, and not just to any religion - she became a Seventh Day Adventist. She also became an absolutely determined advocate for her faith, whether her family or anyone else liked it or not. Hence her children's militant unbelief.
Naturally the failure of her offspring to follow her on the path of righteousness was a considerable disappointment, but Grandma nevertheless remained ever-vigilant against ungodliness. When I was six years old, and my parents were out of the house, she got me to sign the pledge. On their return they insisted on tearing it up and gave Grandma a stern lecture on the evils of manipulating impressionable young minds. I, meanwhile, burst into tears, crying that I would become a gin-soaked alcoholic because Grandma had told me so - as indeed I did, although I had to work at it for some years thereafter. Grandma was not always wrong.
There was also something of a kerfuffle when she gave her eldest son a book about the South Seas. As he already had a copy, his wife took it back to the shop, where the saleswoman examined it to make sure it was resaleable. It wasn't. One of the photographs in the book showed a most attractive Polynesian girl wearing nothing but a grass skirt - and a large piece of black tape which Grandma had placed strategically just below her neck in case my uncle (then in his fifties) was led astray. My aunt, who had no time for religion of any sort - let alone Grandma's - took the book and drove home in something of a rage. On the way a little idea popped into her head. She turned up at Grandma's and announced that at last she had Seen The Light. Grandma was thrilled - until my aunt informed her that she was going to became a Roman Catholic. (She didn't, of course.)
My other grandmother was also religious. She was a Christian Scientist and would tell me when I was sick that my illness was in my head, something which was particularly true whenever I had a cold. On the rare occasions that she and Grandma met you could see that they didn't exactly have a lot in common, but as they were the only members of my family to have some sort of religion, I think I did rather well to remain a mere Anglican, which is rather more than I can say for most of my cousins who (most understandably) remain resolutely indifferent.
And I think I know why. Some years ago, when another of my father's brothers arrived in England for a holiday with his wife, I accompanied them to various historic monuments, including a few churches. In one of the latter my uncle put some money into the offertory box, and when I asked him why he had done so, he replied in two words, "Fire insurance." Naturally I enquired as to whether or not he actually believed that. He didn't. And just to make his reasons clear he said in a quietly mocking voice, "Ah yes - little children dying of cancer, and all to please the God of Love." Merely theological explanations at this point didn't quite seem appropriate. My uncle had caught God out, at least in his own mind, and even now, almost forty years later I'm not at all sure what would have been an adequate reply, or even if such a thing were possible.
So my uncle had found that God was fundamentally heartless, perhaps not so much immoral as amoral, and thus not worthy of his attention, let alone his allegiance. He could simply dismiss him from consideration, backed up, of course, by what he understood of modern science. And how could I have found just the right words in those circumstances to effect the necessary change of mind and heart? He had, after all, heard it many times before.
So why didn't it convince him? That's the sort of question I don't think we ask ourselves often enough. Insofar as I have any kind of answer, I think it has a lot to do with context in which the Gospel is preached. Something must already be part of the experience of your listeners for them to build on. Where the first Christians were concerned their understanding of things already included a belief in what we would (rather loosely) call the supernatural, so more of the same not only made sense, it helped to make sure that the supernatural was on your side and not otherwise. Becoming God's friend (and staying that way) was thus a very good idea.
But nowadays God can seem too unreal (and too unreliable) to bother about. Darwin, Marx and Freud have seen to that. Not to mention celebrated scientists like Richard Dawkins and famous philosophers like Antony Flew. Or at least that's what we thought. But recently, Professor Flew has let the side down badly by becoming a theist (a deist in fact). And why do you suppose that is? Because science (if you please) has convinced him that there must be what he describes as an omnipresent, omnipotent, omniscient Spirit which is both eternal and completely good. Otherwise the universe could never have happened, it could not show the extraordinary order that it does, our genome could never have evolved by chance no matter how many billions of years it had at its disposal, and self-reproducing life just could not arise spontaneously from inanimate matter.
My uncle was able to be an unbeliever without too much trouble. He didn't really have to think about it. God's shaky morality and scientific implausibility gave him the right to dismiss the deity without looking too closely at his opinions and the reasons for them. But it is my belief that those who share those opinions are in for something of a shock in the coming years. Despite, or even because of, the Darwinian fundamentalists, science is beginning to reveal a reality which I am sure is a necessary part of the Gospel - and we should loudly and ostentatiously proclaim it as such.
As the title of Professor Flew's latest book says, There is a God. If we want to make faith in God much more widely possible for our generation we need to investigate closely this new development in the sciences. For if people come to believe that 'an omnipresent, omnipotent, omniscient Spirit which is both eternal and completely good' and which created and sustains everything including themselves, is not just scientifically plausible but perhaps even scientifically necessary, then the question of their relationship with this reality (or the lack of it) might well become rather more urgent.
Grandma was quite a character, and had had quite a life, not much of it very pleasant or enjoyable. Both her father and his father before him had fallen into debt and had chosen (at different times) to remove themselves from this world as a result, leaving their respective daughter and granddaughter to fend for herself and her children. As a result they all spent at least one winter on the west coast in nothing more than a tent before my great-grandmother was imprisoned for debt (of course!) and her children were sent to the workhouse. Not a very good beginning, I think you will agree, and it didn't improve very much after that either. Grandma grew up to be a beautiful and charming young woman, but not one with the best judgement it would seem, as she went on to marry a well-bred but not entirely useful Englishman who fathered her children but appeared to be largely incapable of supporting them. So Grandma turned to religion, and not just to any religion - she became a Seventh Day Adventist. She also became an absolutely determined advocate for her faith, whether her family or anyone else liked it or not. Hence her children's militant unbelief.
Naturally the failure of her offspring to follow her on the path of righteousness was a considerable disappointment, but Grandma nevertheless remained ever-vigilant against ungodliness. When I was six years old, and my parents were out of the house, she got me to sign the pledge. On their return they insisted on tearing it up and gave Grandma a stern lecture on the evils of manipulating impressionable young minds. I, meanwhile, burst into tears, crying that I would become a gin-soaked alcoholic because Grandma had told me so - as indeed I did, although I had to work at it for some years thereafter. Grandma was not always wrong.
There was also something of a kerfuffle when she gave her eldest son a book about the South Seas. As he already had a copy, his wife took it back to the shop, where the saleswoman examined it to make sure it was resaleable. It wasn't. One of the photographs in the book showed a most attractive Polynesian girl wearing nothing but a grass skirt - and a large piece of black tape which Grandma had placed strategically just below her neck in case my uncle (then in his fifties) was led astray. My aunt, who had no time for religion of any sort - let alone Grandma's - took the book and drove home in something of a rage. On the way a little idea popped into her head. She turned up at Grandma's and announced that at last she had Seen The Light. Grandma was thrilled - until my aunt informed her that she was going to became a Roman Catholic. (She didn't, of course.)
My other grandmother was also religious. She was a Christian Scientist and would tell me when I was sick that my illness was in my head, something which was particularly true whenever I had a cold. On the rare occasions that she and Grandma met you could see that they didn't exactly have a lot in common, but as they were the only members of my family to have some sort of religion, I think I did rather well to remain a mere Anglican, which is rather more than I can say for most of my cousins who (most understandably) remain resolutely indifferent.
And I think I know why. Some years ago, when another of my father's brothers arrived in England for a holiday with his wife, I accompanied them to various historic monuments, including a few churches. In one of the latter my uncle put some money into the offertory box, and when I asked him why he had done so, he replied in two words, "Fire insurance." Naturally I enquired as to whether or not he actually believed that. He didn't. And just to make his reasons clear he said in a quietly mocking voice, "Ah yes - little children dying of cancer, and all to please the God of Love." Merely theological explanations at this point didn't quite seem appropriate. My uncle had caught God out, at least in his own mind, and even now, almost forty years later I'm not at all sure what would have been an adequate reply, or even if such a thing were possible.
So my uncle had found that God was fundamentally heartless, perhaps not so much immoral as amoral, and thus not worthy of his attention, let alone his allegiance. He could simply dismiss him from consideration, backed up, of course, by what he understood of modern science. And how could I have found just the right words in those circumstances to effect the necessary change of mind and heart? He had, after all, heard it many times before.
So why didn't it convince him? That's the sort of question I don't think we ask ourselves often enough. Insofar as I have any kind of answer, I think it has a lot to do with context in which the Gospel is preached. Something must already be part of the experience of your listeners for them to build on. Where the first Christians were concerned their understanding of things already included a belief in what we would (rather loosely) call the supernatural, so more of the same not only made sense, it helped to make sure that the supernatural was on your side and not otherwise. Becoming God's friend (and staying that way) was thus a very good idea.
But nowadays God can seem too unreal (and too unreliable) to bother about. Darwin, Marx and Freud have seen to that. Not to mention celebrated scientists like Richard Dawkins and famous philosophers like Antony Flew. Or at least that's what we thought. But recently, Professor Flew has let the side down badly by becoming a theist (a deist in fact). And why do you suppose that is? Because science (if you please) has convinced him that there must be what he describes as an omnipresent, omnipotent, omniscient Spirit which is both eternal and completely good. Otherwise the universe could never have happened, it could not show the extraordinary order that it does, our genome could never have evolved by chance no matter how many billions of years it had at its disposal, and self-reproducing life just could not arise spontaneously from inanimate matter.
My uncle was able to be an unbeliever without too much trouble. He didn't really have to think about it. God's shaky morality and scientific implausibility gave him the right to dismiss the deity without looking too closely at his opinions and the reasons for them. But it is my belief that those who share those opinions are in for something of a shock in the coming years. Despite, or even because of, the Darwinian fundamentalists, science is beginning to reveal a reality which I am sure is a necessary part of the Gospel - and we should loudly and ostentatiously proclaim it as such.
As the title of Professor Flew's latest book says, There is a God. If we want to make faith in God much more widely possible for our generation we need to investigate closely this new development in the sciences. For if people come to believe that 'an omnipresent, omnipotent, omniscient Spirit which is both eternal and completely good' and which created and sustains everything including themselves, is not just scientifically plausible but perhaps even scientifically necessary, then the question of their relationship with this reality (or the lack of it) might well become rather more urgent.
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