Rocks of Ages (10 page)

In White’s complex metaphor, the flowing river represents human progress, while ice marks the chill imposed by dogmatic theology upon the findings of science. Progress cannot be impeded indefinitely, and if theology does not yield its former control over the proper magisterium of science, then religion, with all its virtues, will die in a cultural or political explosion destructive to all humanity. But if theology—with goodwill, thoughtfully, and step by step—cedes this disputed ground to the rightful occupants of science, then the river of progress can flow gently on, just as the Neva will not flood if the
mujiks
make enough little channels through the wall of ice.

Interestingly, White did not formulate his thesis about warfare between science and theology primarily
to advance the cause of science, but rather to save religion from its own internal enemies. In trying to establish Cornell as a nondenominational university, White had been greatly frustrated by the opposition of local clergy who regarded such a secular institution as the devil’s work. He wrote:

White, who was personally devout and more interested in religion than in science, wrote about his work with Ezra Cornell: “Far from wishing to injure Christianity, we both hoped to promote it; but we did not
confound religion with sectarianism.” White presented his basic thesis in the introduction to his book:

In all modern history, interference with science in the supposed interest of religion, no matter how conscientious such interference may have been, has resulted in the direst evils both to religion and to science … on the other hand, all untrammelled scientific investigation, no matter how dangerous to religion some of its stages may have seemed for the time to be, has invariably resulted in the highest good both of religion and of science.

While we can only applaud White’s intentions, his influential model of warfare between two inexorably opposed forces vying for the same turf—a common late-nineteenth-century trope, by the way, and a metaphor strongly (and in this context ironically) promoted by the common cultural reading of Darwin’s key phrases about “struggle for existence” and “survival of the fittest”—has generated unfortunate consequences for the perennial discussion of relationships between science and religion. Although White meant only to castigate dogmatic theology—in the interests of promoting true religion, as noted above—his thesis has usually been read in a superficial and self-serving manner as a
claim that human progress requires a victory of science over the entire institution of religion.

This unfortunate confusion can also be traced to the second major book in this literary genre, the earlier and equally popular work by the trained physician and avocational historian John William Draper, published in 1874 and titled
History of the Conflict Between Religion and Science
. Draper, far less subtle than White, and far less friendly to religion, also meant “dogmatic and sectarian theology” when he wrote “religion” in his title, but Draper’s text can be legitimately read as an attack upon religion, or at least upon a particular religion—for, while he held hope for a supportive relationship between science and Protestantism, Draper strongly promoted the all-too-common prejudice of successful old Americans in his time—a virulent anti-Catholicism directed against the religion of most poor immigrants, the “great unwashed” who threatened to dilute the native stock.

No matter how logical or humane we may regard the model of NOMA, and no matter how false and simplistic we may judge the alternative notion of inherent warfare between science and religion, no one can deny that overt struggle has characterized many prominent cases of historical interaction between these two institutions. How then can NOMA be defended if patterns of actual history speak in such a different voice? I
believe that four major reasons—all artifacts of history or consequences of psychology, rather than defendable arguments against a desirable and eminently reachable goal—can explain this anomaly and help us to grasp why such a laudable argument as NOMA continues to face so many obstacles toward acceptance, or even understanding.

1. As stated before, and to oversimplify history a bit (while remaining true to a basic pattern), the human mind cannot help wondering about the nature of things, both for practical reasons of planting and sailing, and for more general motives inspired by our blessed sense of wonder—as in, why does the sun shine, and why is grass green? At earlier periods of most Western cultures, when science did not exist as an explicit enterprise, and when a more unified sense of the nature of things gathered all “why” questions under the rubric of religion, issues with factual resolutions now placed under the magisterium of science fell under the aegis of an enlarged concept of religion.

The caretakers and intellectuals of religion often treated such questions in a manner that we would regard as scientific today—observing and calculating astronomical cycles, for example, in order to develop calendars for both practical and religious reasons (as in the complex determination of movable festivals like
Easter). But, in the absence of scientific knowledge, and often for narrow or dogmatic reasons, other questions now belonging to the magisterium of science frequently received authoritarian (“how do I know, the Bible tells me so”) or oracular (“angels did it”) answers now deemed contrary to the spirit of NOMA.

If human nature includes such admirable features as our blessed sense of wonder, we are also driven by less estimable propensities realized in such common principles of action as “Don’t give up power or turf voluntarily, even if you hold no right to the territory.” I don’t know that we have to look much deeper in order to understand why history often features warfare, when NOMA should prevail. All professions include dogmatists and powermongers, and such people often gain positions of influence. Religion once held enough secular power to attract more than its share of such people. Many religious intellectuals have always been happy to cede inappropriate territory to the legitimate domain of science, but others, particularly in positions of leadership, chose not to yield an inch, and then played the old hand of dichotomy to brand the developing magisterium of science as a sinister bunch of usurpers under the devil’s command—hence the actual and frequent warfare of science, not with religion in the full sense, but with particular embodiments better characterized as dogmatic theology, and contrary to most people’s
concept of religion, even while sometimes bearing the official label of a particular creed.

2. General principles don’t always animate particulars. These realities of history have caused severe clashes between institutions representing science and religion on many specific issues, even though abstract logic and ordinary goodwill should inspire tolerance under NOMA. And if we recognize the intensity of some contests between particular religious leaders and certain scientific conclusions (the case of Galileo, or our modern battles with creationists), just consider the even greater (and often literal) wars of some religious leaders with contrary political forces—all over turf or power, even if publicly defended in terms of doctrine.

To cite just one obvious example, Draper and White—the originators of the standard model of warfare between science and religion—wrote their books with one of the great dramas of nineteenth-century European history firmly in mind: the long conflict between the founders of the state of Italy and one of the most fascinating and enigmatic figures of his time—the originally liberal, but increasingly embittered and reactionary Pope Pio Nono (Pius IX), who still holds the record for papal longevity (reigning from 1846 until his death in 1878).

Early in his regime, and as a consequence of the
revolutions of 1848, Pio Nono had been forced into exile at Gaeta in the kingdom of Naples (the nation of Italy did not yet exist). He returned to power in 1850, and pursued an ever more conservative and confrontational agenda against surrounding political realities for the rest of his pontificate—culminating in the infamous Syllabus of 1864, listing the eighty “principal errors of our times,” and effectively declaring war on modern society, especially on science and the concept of religious tolerance. Pio Nono convened the First Vatican Council in 1869, where he maneuvered an overwhelming vote to affirm the doctrine of papal infallibility (John XXIII’s Second Vatican Council, opened in 1962, pursued a starkly different nonconfrontational agenda).

The modern nation of Italy had been proclaimed in 1861, and control of Rome and surrounding areas—where the Pope ruled as a secular “king” of real territory as well as a spiritual prince—became an issue that could not be avoided for long. On September 20, 1870, Italian troops entered Rome after symbolic resistance from the papal armed guard. Pio Nono remained in the Vatican (which Italy left under papal control, a situation that still continues) for the rest of his life, bitterly protesting his loss of power, and proclaiming himself a prisoner.

Now, should this history be interpreted as an episode in the warfare between religion and the modern
state? Such a reading would make a mockery of history’s complexity. First of all, no monolith called “religion” exists. The major struggle in this story occurred
within
the Catholic church, as Pio Nono defeated and purged his own liberal wing. Second, why should we read these events as a tale of religion versus the modern secular state rather than a clash between two political powers, each using the rhetorical tools at its command? So, if a genuine battle, over real territory, between a major religion and a new nation can’t be viewed as a war of inherently opposing institutions, why should we accept such a model for the more diffuse, less clearly definable, and generally less contentious dialogues of science and religion? Liberal clergymen of all major faiths have always welcomed and respected science, while many leading scientists remain conventionally devout in their religious beliefs.

3. When scientific conclusions have been denied on grounds explicitly identified as religious by supporters of a contrary view, the subjects involved almost always cut closest to the psychological bone of our deepest hopes and fears—to such questions as “what is man [meaning all of us, despite the language of the King James Bible] that thou art mindful of him?”

To be sure, scientific facts relevant to certain aspects of this question cannot resolve issues about spiritual values
or ultimate meanings—subjects under the magisterium of religion. But the factual conclusion that we last shared common ancestry with apelike ancestors some 5 to 8 million years ago does scare the bejesus out of many folks who haven’t grappled with NOMA, and who fear that anything other than divine creation
ex nihilo
might rob human life of a special status necessary for personal equanimity in a world of frequent tragedy. One may identify another person’s comfort as illogical, but one may not deny the psychological reality of such solace, or even its potential necessity in whatever formula an individual follows to persevere against hardship. Such beliefs about matters of fact will not be surrendered lightly, even if religious faith remains logically immune to the contrary findings of science. And don’t forget the comforting answer that Psalm 8 gives to the searing question posed above: “Thou madest him to have dominion over the works of thy hands; thou hast put all things under his feet: all sheep and oxen, yea, and the beasts of the field; the fowl of the air, and the fish of the sea, and whatsoever passeth through the paths of the seas.”

4. If science and religion, when properly separated by the NOMA principle, stood far apart and never discussed the same subject again, then our long history of unnecessary and illogical conflict could perhaps be
closed. But, as noted previously (
this page
), the two magisteria—to use a pair of organic metaphors—belly right up to each other, and interdigitate in the most intimate and complex manner. Science and religion must ask different, and logically distinct, questions—but their subjects of inquiry are often both identical and maximally meaningful. Science and religion stand watch over different aspects of all our major flashpoints. May they do so in peace and reinforcement—and not like the men who served as cannon fodder in World War I, dug into the trenches of a senseless and apparently interminable conflict, while lobbing bullets and canisters of poison gas at a supposed enemy, who, like any soldier, just wanted to get off the battlefield and on with a potentially productive and rewarding life.