G. K. Chesterton once defended the amateur against the professional by
aphorizing that “if a thing is worth doing, it is worth doing badly” (What’s
Wrong with the World [1910]; Part Four, Chapter XIV, last
sentence). And so in the spirit of this site’s “workshop”
character, I am posting my notes toward an investigation (that began as a
book review last year) which, unfortunately, I do not see myself returning
to, at least not in the near future. The importance of the question, and
of the sources that have led me to a provisional answer, outweighed my
hesitation to publish this draft, shortcomings and all. In displaying
this unripe fruit, I acknowledge that I may have overlooked as many
important sources as I’ve cited, or misinterpreted the latter. I invite
interested readers to show whether either of these potential failings of
mine is more than a theoretical possibility.
Anthony Flood
Posted
October 15, 2006
Modern Atheism: Catholicism’s Frankenstein Monster?
Notes on David Ray
Griffin’s Implicit Counterpoint to Thomas E. Woods
Anthony Flood
Thomas E. Woods has
written a book with an ostensibly Catholic apologetic purpose.[1] By
locating the roots of the West’s choicest fruits (science, law, education,
charitable institutions, economics, etc.) in the soil of Western
Christianity, Woods offers an eloquent, if indirect, apologetic for the
Catholic faith. By indirect I mean that his observations do not so much
argue for the truth of what Catholics believe as challenge those who are
sure that what Catholics believe is false. Presupposing that it is
irrational to malign one’s own benefactor, Woods’ challenge trades on his
reader’s being a beneficiary of the civilization that the Catholic Church
built. In one of its chapters, however, he has unintentionally documented
the way in which the Catholic Church, while building Western civilization,
planted, seeded, and watered the garden of that civilization’s weeds,
namely, materialistic mechanism, upon which it is now in danger of
choking.[2]
Woods never
comments on this dialectical reversal, whose irony cuts much more deeply
than does his correction of popular ignorance of, say, what really
happened in the Galileo episode. In recent decades scholars have been
paying increasing attention to extra-scientific influences in the rise of
modern science. What Woods’ narrative leaves unasked is whether
science—sustained, experimental study of nature—not only might have
developed other than the way it did, but whether such an alternative was
already incipient in Western Europe.
In fact, Catholic
divines nipped that alternative in the bud ostensibly because they deemed
it incompatible with revealed truth, and more pragmatically because any
loss of their spiritual monopoly was bad for business. That is, science
as “a self-perpetuating field of endeavor” was “enabled by a Catholic
milieu” (76) because Catholic divines prevented another milieu, equally
Western and arguably on the way to establishing that field of endeavor,
from flourishing.
The historical
record suggests that soon after the theologians backed the mechanistic
horse in that derby, its owners discarded the supernaturalist operating
instructions that the theologians packed into the box. The price of the
victory for science was the enthronement of the early modern worldview
from which the late version, with its mechanistic atheism, followed as the
night the day. Any role, therefore, that the Catholic Church may have
played in mechanism’s social ascendancy, however unintentional, cannot
fail to be of interest to admirers of Woods’ book, including those who,
like the present writer, share many of his values.
*
The heirs of
Western Europe’s
scientific revolution are presuppositionally and publicly atheistic. There
is no common, public language for using, as opposed to merely
mentioning, the word “God,” except when denouncing the God of orthodox
Christian theism. The Constitution of the European Union, for instance,
will not acknowledge its Christian inheritance. Christian morality is
rejected, nowhere more consequentially than in the cultural enthronement
of a contraceptive absolutism. The latter’s logic will soon make the
matter moot for long before the heat-death of the cosmos there will be
no Europeans. Muslims of various ethnicities, fruitful and
multiply-ing, will occupy lands once named European and pay taxes to the
central governments of Rome, Paris, and Berlin. But there will be no
Europeans, let alone Christians. Their eschaton is nihil.
There is evidence that this is
a concern of the current Pontiff.
At the root of this
racially suicidal outworking of presuppositions is the philosophy of
mechanism. Ironically, Catholic divines, jealous of the Church’s social
prerogatives, backed mechanism against its main rival, the hermeticist,
magical, neo-Platonist philosophy, now commonly viewed as a footnote, if
that much, to the history of science. Indeed, the whirlpooling of the
hermeticists down the memory-hole is essential to the reception of theses
like Woods’. That is, the historical defeat of the hermeticists is
virtually total, in the cognizance-obliterating sense. Specialists and
hobbyists aside, whereas our contemporaries may at least have heard of
Descartes and
Newton, the
names of Bruno, Ficino, Paracelsus mean nothing to them. That victory has
left standing only two unequal players in the public square; on one side,
the high priests of mechanism enthroned in the halls of academia, often in
symbiotic relationship with government; and on the other, the high priests
of supernaturalism who wonder why the ungrateful heirs of the mechanistic
philosophy did not stay within their laboratory instead of boring through
its walls to chew up the rest of the academic scenery.
The most famous
representative of hermeticism was Giordano Bruno, whom the Inquisition
physically incinerated in 1600. By 1700, the year of Newton’s Principia, the rival philosophy had been socially
incinerated. Newton, himself much influenced by the Third Tradition,
eventually formulated his under-standing of gravitational pull in a way
that did not offend the hegemonic mechanists who suspected the notion of
giving credence to the hated notion of “action at a distance.” During the
intervening century, mechanism went its merry way “protecting” classical
theism’s utterly transcendent God, disen-chanting nature in the process.
The mechanistic philosophy became a monster that would one day bite the paps that gave it suck.
Modern atheism is as
Western as modern science, and both have a common source. Ironically if
unwittingly, the Church made the ascendancy of atheism possible by
championing the mechanist against the hermeticist: She insisted on the
having the exclusive right to say just when God interrupted the workings
of His Created Machine, which we are otherwise to approach as if there
were no such interruptions. Unfortunately, this stacked the deck,
psychologically if not also logically, in favor of suppressing all
reference to a divine interrupter. The cultural success of the
application of the new scientific method only increased pressure on
supernaturalistic dualists, and body-mind dualists to boot, to give up one
member of the “duo” in favor of a materialistic monism. This has put
defenders of classical theism—the only kind that have mattered for most of
the West’s modern history, but not the only kind possible—on the
defensive, constantly defending their place at the table of serious
intellectual discussion.
*
According to Woods,
the Church is due great credit for establishing the modern scientific
enterprise in the West by insisting that Her children understand the
relationship between God and the world in certain ways and not in others.
That is, She fostered modern science by:
(1)
affirming the doctrine of creation out of nothing, i.e., creatio ex
nihilo (CEN), without which the notion of inertial motion has never
arisen in any culture,
(2)
favoring observation and experimentation over speculative inference
about what one anticipates finding in the universe,[3]
(3)
de-animating nature so that we view it, for scientific purposes, as
non-experiencing, subjectless, extended stuff (into which God may, of
course, infuse animae or souls or intervene miraculously in other
ways). Consequently, according to Woods, “it was up to the Scholastics of
the High Middle Ages to carry out the depersonalization of nature,
so that, for instance, the explanation for falling stones was not said to
be their innate love for the center of the earth.” (79) Except for human
beings, created things are not self-creative. Thus the source of the
mind-matter bifurcation.
(4)
“disenchanting” Nature so that she is seen as, essentially, a machine
that can be taken apart, examined, and put back together without requiring
one to ask about the machine’s origins.
This cosmology was
opposed to that of every other civilization which, in one way or another,
(1) affirmed (a) creation out of pre-existing finite, non-divine
actualities, some or all of which may be creative subjects themselves and
therefore (b) a charmed or enchanted, intersubjective cosmos; and (2)
consequently failed to establish science as an ongoing cultural
enterprise as did Western civilization uniquely.
Woods follows in the
footsteps, and draws attention mainly to the work, of Father Stanley Jaki
(b. 1924).[4]
Early in Science and Creation, Father Jaki previews his thesis:
Great cultures, where
the scientific enterprise came to a standstill, invariably failed to
formulate the notion of physical law, or the law of nature. Theirs was a
theology with no belief in a personal, rational, absolutely transcen-dent
Lawgiver, or Creator. Their cosmology reflected a pantheistic and
animistic view of nature caught in the treadmill of perennial, inexorable
returns.
The scientific quest
found fertile soil only when this faith in a personal, rational Creator
had truly permeated a whole culture, beginning with the centuries of the
High Middle Ages. It was that faith which provided, in sufficient
measure, confidence in the rationality of the universe, trust in progress,
and appreciation of the quantitative method, all indispensable ingredients
of the scientific quest.
. . . The future of man
rests with that judgment which holds the universe to be the handiwork of a
Creator and Lawgiver. To this belief, science owes its very birth and
life. Its future and mankind’s future rest with the same faith.
The apologetic
import of this research is clear: contrary to the village atheist, the
Catholic Church has been a champion, not an enemy, of scientific
rationality. Science is not so much a Western enterprise as a Christian
one that developed under the impetus of distinctively Christian generative
ideas. “The appearance of modern science in the Catholic
environment of
Western Europe,”
Woods writes, “was no coincidence.” (114) Woods’ implicit appeal to
scientists is that they ought to show Mother Church more respect, if not
filial affection. In their general apostasy, they are more like prodigal
sons.[5]
Granted, a definite
approach to nature was required if it was to be studied, and certain other
approaches would have made science impossible. The Jaki thesis concerns
history, the realm of contingent truth, but Jaki implicitly claims to have
found a necessary one. That is, after all, the significance of Woods’ “no
coincidence,” is it not? This enterprise entails these
ideas as presuppositions. Absent the latter, the former cannot happen.
But even if an event strictly entails its concrete conditions and if
modern science’s was 17th-century Catholic Europe, it does not follow that what we call the scientific enterprise was
incapable of variable instantiations. That is, in 17th-century Catholic
Europe there
were men who affirmed a general theistic philosophy (no one would call
them atheists), but not the one that the Roman See underwrote at its
seminaries.
Jaki argues that
certain ideas were necessary conditions of the emergence of science and
embedded in the Catholic worldview. But all that was necessary was the
operation of a universal mind, not an exnihilator who, in accordance with
an eternal blueprint, “imposed laws” on what had not one iota of
independent existence. The idea of an exnihilator in whom all power
resides led to evacuation of all self-creativity and self–determination
from finite individuals. The supernatural was conceived as so
transcendent, so independent, so nonrelative to the finite,
that its role in the creative advance of the cosmos became superfluous.
And then dubious.
A “rational orderly universe” “indispensable for the
progress of science” means no interference by subjectivity (unless
God’s). This set the stage for conceiving the elements of the universe as
“dead” or inert. They were molded in accord with a blueprint.
Sensationism restricts range of what counts as relevant evidence, thereby
undermining assent to the very supernaturalism that allegedly set this
logic in motion, for minds and souls are not possible objects of sense
perception.
They eventually become topics of inference, like the God of the
cosmological argument. Combined with dualistic interactionism, the
reduction to materialism cannot be avoided.
The force of Woods’
Jakian apologetic gambit depends, of course, on the positive charge that
attaches to science, for the latter it is potentially a witness for the
prosecution. He is on firm ground if he believes that most of his readers
admire science as a source of progress, abstractly considered apart from
ultimate ends. They will therefore tend to impute that positive regard to
whatever helped make it possible, in this case the Catholic Church. But I
believe this is to survey things from the wrong end of the telescope.
Many people are existentially “out of sorts” because they have assimilated
modernity’s presuppositions into their marrow, and modern science is
central to them.
Granting
arguendo
the broad historical
conclusion at which Jaki arrived, I contend that if today’s scientists are
the Church’s prodigal sons and daughters, it is in part because Her effort
to protect Her claim of exclusive mediatorship between Christ and man
unwittingly spawned the Frankenstein monsters of sensationism, dualism,
materialism, and atheism. And even if some of their 17-century ancestors
acknowledged their filial debt, most others soon regarded Her as so much
scaffolding to be discarded.
Is there sufficient
evidence for the view that the hermeticists did not believe that “every
detailed occurrence can be correlated with its antecedents in a perfectly
definite manner” and therefore lacked what Whitehead (and Jaki after him)
say science requires? I don’t know. If there isn’t sufficient evidence,
however, we are not entitled to conclude that medieval, i.e., Roman
Catholic, theology, was a necessary condition of science.
Woods follows Jaki in arguing that stillbirths of science in various non-Western cultures were due to “lack of
belief in a transcendent Creator who endowed His creation with constant
physical laws” (76-77). Surely, however, as Eastern Orthodox history
attests, a “Christian milieu,” not lacking such a belief, is not a
sufficient condition of science, for it did not develop there as it did in
the West. What the record shows is that science was developing in Western
Europe and might have developed along different lines had it not been for
the role that medieval theologians played in theologically and socially
marginalizing the alternative.
According to Woods,
following Jaki, God “imparted” motion to the celestial bodies upon
creating them which, encountering no friction, continue to move. I wonder
whether one can even properly conceive of an electron that did not move.
For it is subatomic particles—not possible objects of thought in the 17th
century—and not celestial bodies that have formed modern science’s
Archimidean point.
Jaki argues that
inertial motion is modern science’s fundamentum, and no other
culture came up with it because it believed in an everlasting cosmos, not
one which had motion imparted to it by an exnihilating deity. Therefore,
Woods concludes (following Jaki): “Insofar as science is a quantitative
study of things in motion and the first law of Newton is the basis of
other laws, one may indeed speak of the substantially medieval origin of
modern science.” (84-85)
According to David Ray Griffin, the “mechanistic view of nature . . . had
become a Frankenstein monster, destroying not only its creator—the
extremely supernaturalistic version of the Christian faith—but the
possibility of any significantly religious view of the world whatsoever.”[7]
In a defense of panexperientialist physicalism, Griffin lists several reasons for questioning the
presumption that “vacuous actuality” characterizes nature’s fundamental
units. One reason
is the recognition, recently emphasized by historians
of science, that the “mechanical philosophy of nature,” according to which
the units of nature are wholly devoid of experience, spontaneity, and the
capacity for influence at a distance, was adopted in the seventeenth
century less for empirical than for theological-sociological reasons, such
as defending the existence of a supernatural deity, the reality of
supernatural miracles, and the immortality of the soul. For example, this
idea of nature’s elementary units, according to which they were wholly
inert and (in Newton’s words) “massy, hard, and impenetrable,” proved (to
the satisfaction of Boyle, Newton and their followers) that motion and the
mathematical laws of motion had to have been impressed upon these
particles at the beginning of the world by an external creator. The fact
that this strategy eventually backfired, as this idea of matter eventually
led to an atheistic, materialistic worldview, has long obscured the
original theological motives.[8]
Brian Easlea, one of
Griffin’s chief sources for this period, has argued that hermeticism’s
magical, neo-Platonist philosophy of nature threatened to develop
scientific inquiry and experimentalism in a way that tended to undermine
belief in the Church’s claim of exclusive mediatorship between God and
man.[9]
If action at a distance, for example, was a natural potency of all things,
then perhaps Christianity’s evidentiary miracles are not break-ins from
beyond. Perhaps Jesus was perhaps no more than a magician. Miracles
conceived as “supernaturalistic” invasions into the natural order set up
an intolerable intellectual tension, one that Hume eventually relieved to
the detriment of Christianity.[10]
In short, magic was a threat to establishment of throne and altar[11]:
The rejection of the
transcendent, voluntaristic creator would thereby undermine the basic
assumption upon which the authority of the church rested.[12]
The Church’s
theology excluded ruled out all notions of natural attraction at distance,
leaving only direct contact. Mechanists therefore struggled to make gravity, the
apparently mutual causal influencing of mind and body, and the organic
form of growth cohere with this theological posit. They were not
obviously superior to the hermeticists on these points.[13]
Citing Hugh
Trevor-Roper, Griffin argues that the scientific revolution of the 17th century owed more to
neo-Platonism and to hermetic mysticism than to rationalism:
Because the mechanistic
view of matter became incorporated into a fully materialistic, atheistic
worldview, many have assumed that this idea was originally adopted in the
17th century for anti-religious or at least extra-religious reasons.
Nothing could be further from the truth.[14]
Received opinion has
it that hermeticism was an anti-scientific philosophy that would
have led to another of science’s many “stillbirths” and at worst to social
upheaval. Science, however, could have developed as a going enterprise
under the impetus of similar, but not the same, ideas that would
not lead to the ironic, dialectical reversal experienced under mechanism.
This Third Tradition
championed experimentalism, animism, pantheism or panentheism, divinely
implanted powers, effect at a distance, nonsensory perception, and
pansophism. Echoing Trevor-Roper,
Griffin
claims that tradition was “extremely influential upon attitudes, methods,
and actual discoveries of what is called ‘modern science’” and gave vent
to the “impulse to look for mathematical regularities.”[15]
The Third Tradition, not just the mechanical one, was interested in moving
away from scientia contem-plativa and toward scientia activa,[16]
but also held that it is dignified for man to operate as magus to control
destiny. This the Church found understan-dably intolerable. In reaction
to it, She unfortunately tarred the whole tradition with an anti-Christian
brush, apparently unmindful of the equally anti-theistic philosophy that
She was thereby fostering.
“Although the
so-called scientific revolution of the latter seventeenth century retained
the emphasis on mathematics,” Griffin writes,
its adoption of the
Democritean view of matter made nature’s units seem intrinsically
incapable of embodying mathematical patterns. This fact necessitated—or
allowed—the . . . explanation of the “laws of nature” in terms of
supernatural imposition. With the transition to the fully materialistic
worldview, the Divine Imposer was dropped, but the notion of vacuous bits
of matter “obeying” external laws was retained.[17]
Father Marin Mersenne was a major figure in ascendancy of mechanistic
philosophy of nature. The hermeticist magical tradition was the enemy
because it “denied supernatural character of the miracles upon which the
Catholic Church was built.” (RSN 125) That is, events could be miraculous
only if they were naturally impossible—which tends to undermine the
credibility of any testimony in their favor. That is, if they were
supernaturally possible, then they were highly improbable. “Nature reduced
to any interplay of mechanical forces was the salvation of science: it
was, for religion, a new guarantee of its transcen-dence and its dignity.”
Jaki’s claim that
“Insofar as that broad creedal or theological consensus is the work of
Christianity, science is not Western, but Christian” (84) leaves at least
two matters undecided: (a) whether the theism of the neo-Platonic magical
spiritualist tradition (which no more than orthodoxy held “a pantheistic
and animistic view of nature caught in the treadmill of perennial,
inexorable returns”) could not have founded and fostered science as going
enterprise and (b) why Eastern Orthodox cultures, whose deity is also a
“personal, rational, absolutely transcendent Lawgiver,” did not do so.[18]
Jaki’s many books
and articles do not take seriously (I welcome correction) either (a) the
Third Tradition, alternative to the mechanical philosophy which, for all
Jaki has shown to the contrary, could have developed science as a
going enterprise; or (b) the enervating cultural and spiritual effects of
that mechanism. Jaki’s (and Woods’) silence on this imply that the
triumph of mechanism was an unalloyed blessing, even though its
sensationism left no intellectually respectable way by which awareness of
the Holy could be understood. Awareness or experience of God could
only be a private matter.
As Woods relates the
story, what gives popular currency to the “myth” that the Church is
intrinsically hostile to science is a misreading of the transcripts of the
Galileo affair. Had the astronomer merely held Copernican heliocentrism
only hypothetically, Galileo would not have been viewed as having “usurped
the authority of the theologians” (71) who feared they could not reconcile
that position with scriptural verses that strongly suggested geocentrism.
Now, how much weight
a laborer in a field of inquiry ought to assign to a body of evidence
falls presumptively within the competence of his fellow laborers to
adjudge. That is, “usurpation” describes the attempt by laborers in
another field, a hermeneutical one at that, to determine the degree of
tenacity with which an astronomer should hold an empirico-mathematical
judgment. Yet that is the role these theologians took upon themselves.
Woods dubs the
censure Galileo received at the hands of theologians “unwise” because it
“tainted the Church’s reputation” (74). The author of the article on
Galileo in the 1909 Catholic Encyclopedia, went further, declaring
that “it is undeniable that the ecclesiastical authorities committed a
grave and deplorable error, and sanctioned an altogether false principle
as to the proper use of Scripture.”[19]
What Galileo’s observations and calculations rendered problematic,
however, was geocentrism, not Holy Scripture.
The theologians,
however, did not see how they could reinterpret Scripture in the
light of heliocentrism or any other nongeocentric viewpoint, for that
matter. Galileo, however, was condemned for suggesting that it was
their problem. This discredits the suggestion that concern for the
canons of empirical inquiry alone motivated the Holy Office.
By arguing that
Galileo only brought trouble on himself when he affirmed categorically
what his inquisitors believed merited only hypothetical status, their
present-day defenders overlook a salient fact. The accumulating evidence
would eventually not only tip in favor of the hypothesis that Galileo
championed, but would also go on to render heliocentrism itself obsolete.
(“Obsolete,” yes, but still more adequate to the evidence than was
geocentrism. Surely the cosmology that has displaced heliocentrism is not
more acceptable to believers in Joshua’s idle sun?)
Therefore, an
inquisitor who believed that the Bible did tell us “how the heavens
go” as well as how to go to heaven would soon realize that the problem of
interpreting those recalcitrant biblical verses was only postponed, not
solved. Mankind would soon learn that the sun is no more “fixed” than the
earth, so Bellarmine’s implicit demand for evidence, while displaying
admirable “theoretical openness” (72), still burkes the central question:
within whose competence do such matters fall?
Woods does not
reveal his position on this issue of theological monitoring of scientific
and scholarly investigation, even though its relevance to his chosen topic
is obvious. For before Western science settled into sensationist,
dualistic, and materialistic patterns of thinking, it had logically
severed itself away from its foundress, Mother Church, to the detriment of
both institutions, and its first complaint concerned this strain of
inhibiting theological protectionism.
As early as the
patristic period, Christian thought, albeit typically only by implication,
began the de-animation of nature—that is, the removal from our conception
of the universe any conception that the celestial bodies were themselves
alive, or constituted intelligences in their own right, or were unable to
operate in the absence of some kind of spiritual mover. (93)
Of course, the
de-animation did not limit itself to disabusing mankind of the idea that
planets could think and feel. De-animation, or as Jaki terms it,
“deanimization”—“nature
had to be de-animized” if science were to be born—goes
much further: it renders matter utterly vacuous [Whitehead], thereby
saddling the future of science with the mystery of the evolution of life
and of consciousness. The evolution-creation controversy, with all its
acrimony, can be laid at the feet of this deanimation campaign. Woods
continues:
Scattered through the
writings of such saints as Augustine, Basil, Gregory of Nyssa, Jerome, and
John Damascene are statements to this effect. But it was only later, when
scholars began applying themselves more deliberately and consistently to
the study of nature, that we begin to see thinkers who consciously
conceived of the universe as an entity that was mechanistic and, by
extension, intelligible to the inquiring human mind.(93)
Woods overstates
things when he virtually identifies the intelligible with the mechanical.
There was no shortage of men in the neo-Platonic magical spiritual
tradition who with equal deliberateness and consistency applied themselves
to the study of nature who thought mechanism a distortion of reality. The
decision to favor a de-animated universe over one in which anima
was universal was indeed a conscious one, but its spurs were provided less
by science than by theology and politics. The resultant disenchanted
universe has not been more hospitable to theistic belief.
“During the twelfth
century in Latin Europe,” writes Dales [as Woods cites him], “those
aspects of Judeo-Christian thought which emphasized the idea of creation
out of nothing and the distance between God and the world, in certain
contexts and with certain men, had the effect of eliminating all
semi-divine entities from the realm of nature.”(93)
It certainly
did—leaving only the divine itself to be eliminated. “Distance” protected
God so much that His relationship to the world become more and more
attenuated the more “distant” he was thought to be.
* * *
What makes the
development of science impossible? The conception of (a) the universe as
organism, (b) dominated by a pantheon, and (c) eternal cyclical
recurrence. That is, a culturally dominant animism would have made
science impossible. Science requires the cultural reign of an anti-animistic
philosophy.
Mechanism, however,
eventually made it impossible to continue. Mechanism is not adequate for
science’s continued progress. Surely Woods the Catholic apologist
can see the danger in anchoring an appreciation of Catholicism in such a
transient contingency as the birth of modern science.
It “conceived of the
divine as immanent in created things” which made “the idea of constant
natural laws foreign” (77) But immanence is not identity, and Woods must
know that Catholic theology has a notion of God’s immanence in creation.
Transcendence ruled out the idea that created things “had minds and wills
of their own” for that “all but precluded the possibility of thinking of
them as behaving according to regular fixed patterns.” The implication is
that the universe can be orderly and predictable only if it is evacuated
of all subjectivity.
The denial of any,
even rudimentary, subjectivity (if not “minds” and “wills”) to the
fundamental entities of the cosmos is the denial of any self-determination
on their part. And this is to affirm determinism, the past’s exhaustive
efficient causality of the present. Determinism is a congenial
philosophy for a certain approach to nature, but augurs disaster for any
humanistic science. And thus the stage is set for the bifurcation of
nature into extension and mind. Dualism becomes a live option. Enter
Descartes.
Creatio ex nihilo
requires a certain notion of omnipotence, one that
deprives creatures of any self-creative power. Exnihilation promotes
divine voluntarism, for nothing can withstand God’s will. Might makes
right. This in turn promotes nominalism, which informed the Protestant
revolt. Interestingly enough, Eastern Orthodoxy escaped an analogous
experience, just as it did not see the birth of science).
Supernaturalism
paved the way for mechanism by gutting nature of subjectivity. If, as
Jaki says, this was necessary if science was to get established, then
arguably the cost was prohibitive. Mind, life, subjectivity become
exceptional “special creations” that God throws onto an essentially
mindless, lifeless, vacuous, subject-less stage. The Church claimed the
authority to decide when and where those exceptions, those interruptions
of the natural order, occurred (e.g., miracles or sacraments). They
become of doubtful probability. No better way to bias metaphysics toward
materialism is conceivable.
* * *
The world does
not look designed as from blueprint. When I see photographs of a
galaxy, I am struck by its relative disorder, spontaneity, and divergence
from ideal frequency as I am by order, regulation, and exemplification of
ideal frequency. Christian apologists rarely acknowledge this ambiguity.
Granted that a realm
of finite individuals is insufficient to account for cosmic order, yet to
invoke a legislator who imposes order coercively is unnecessary.
Transcendence guards
against pantheism, but not against atheism. For that a sound concept of
divine immanence is necessary.
“Allah could not be
restricted by natural laws.” (79) Could Jehovah? Woods holds up for
derision the Muslim idea of God’s “habits,” seemingly unaware of
Whitehead’s use of that term to describe the origin of “laws.” Let the
sage speak to this point at length:
Two conclusions are now
abundantly clear. One is that sense-perception omits any discrimination of
the fundamental activities within nature. For example, consider the
difference between the paving stone as perceived visually, or by falling
upon it, and the molecular activities of the paving stone as described by
the physicist. The second conclusion is the failure of science to endow
its formulas for activity with any meaning. The divergence of the formulas
about nature from the appearance of nature has robbed the formulas of any
explanatory character. It has even robbed us of reason for believing that
the past gives any ground for expectation of the future. In fact, science
conceived as resting on mere sense-perception, with no other source of
observation, is bankrupt, so far as concerns its claim to
self-sufficiency.
Science can find no
individual enjoyment in nature; science can find no aim in nature; science
can find no creativity in nature; it finds mere rules of succession. These
negations are true of natural science. They are inherent in its
methodology. The reason for this blindness of physical science lies in the
fact that such science only deals with half the evidence provided by human
experience. It divides the seamless coat—or, to change the metaphor into a
happier form, it examines the coat, which is superficial, and neglects the
body, which is fundamental.
The disastrous
separation of body and mind which has been fixed on European thought by
Descartes is responsible for this blindness of science. In one sense the
abstraction has been a happy one, in that it has allowed the simplest
things to be considered first, for about ten generations. Now these
simplest things are those widespread habits of nature that dominate
the whole stretch of the universe within our remotest, vaguest
observation. None of these laws of nature gives the slightest
evidence of necessity. They are the modes of procedure which within the
scale of our observations do in fact prevail. I mean the fact that the
extensiveness of the universe is dimensional, the fact that the number of
spatial dimensions is three, the spatial laws of geometry, the ultimate
formulas for physical occurrences. There is no necessity in any of these
ways of behavior. They exist as average, regulative conditions because the
majority of actualities are swaying each other to modes of intercon-nection
exemplifying those laws. New modes of self-expression may be gaining
ground. We cannot tell. But, to judge by all analogy, after a sufficient
span of existence our present laws will fade into unimportance. New
interests will dominate. In our present sense of the term, our spatiophysical epoch will pass into that background of the past which
conditions all things dimly and without evident effect, on the decision of
prominent relations.
These massive laws, at
present prevailing, are the general physical laws of inorganic nature. At
a certain scale of observation they are prevalent without hint of
interference. The formation of suns, the motions of planets, the geologic
changes on the earth, seem to proceed with a massive impetus which
excludes any hint of modification by other agencies. To this extent
sense-perception on which science relies discloses no aim in nature.[20]
I am not aware that
Muslims believe in CEN any less ardently than do Thomists, let alone
Orthodox. As Whitehead scholar Elizabeth M. Krauss put it:
The widest
environmental analogies are those provided by the society dominating the
cosmic epoch: the so-called “laws of nature.” Thus Whitehead is not
reduced to postulating either a mechanism of externally imposed law or a
crude Aristotelianism of internally determining substantial forms.
Regularity is spawned by regularity; ordered environments tend to
propagate themselves analogically, because regularity in the past is
prehended into present occasions which form the social environment out of
which future occasions will grow.
[21]
Anselm’s distinction
between potentia ordinata and absoluta is specious, because
the former is reducible to the latter. “. . . He [God] has therefore
bound Himself to behave in a certain way . . . .” (80) That fuels the
problem of evil, orthodoxy’s other great source of embarrassment. For if
even on the Sabbath, Jesus noted, one spontaneously rescues an animal that
has fallen into a pit, to suggest that God’s failure to rescue a child in
the same situation because of a self-imposed “binding obligation” is to
impute to His mind a legalism compared to which Phariseeism is positively
Franciscan. We implore you, Lord, unbind Yourself!
But He is perhaps
not so bound. Lacking a localized body,
He cannot
coerce localized bodies to move as bodies, no matter how
morally urgent the need to do so. For
He would if He could.
Woods says Ockham
“emphasized God’s absolute will to a degree that was unhelpful in the
development of science” (80). It was, however, a latency awaiting
logical explication. It is ineffectual to call a halt to it. “Don’t
develop potentia absoluta in that direction!” won’t do. The damage
was done. Scientists couldn’t care less about potentia absoluta.
As long as one
affirms “God’s freedom to create any kind of universe He wanted”
(80)—and as long as the denial of that divine freedom is equated with
atheism—problems cannot be avoided.
Aristotle had posited
an eternal universe, whereas the Church taught that God had created the
world at a moment in time, out of nothing. Aristotle also denied the
possibility of a vacuum. A modern reader could easily overlook the
theological implications of this point, but a great many Catholics,
particularly in the thirteenth century, did not. To deny the possibility
of a vacuum was to deny God’s creative power, for nothing was impossible
to an omnipotent God. (89-90)
That depends on how
one understands “omnipotence.” An eternal universe could be one in which
God never finds himself without a field of finite entities. The actual,
concrete state of the universe at any moment, however, depends
partly on God and partly on the creativity of all the non-divine
actualities.
Duhem: the Parisan
Condemnations of 219 Aristotelian propositions in 1277 “represented the
beginning of modern science.” Modern science begins with ecclesiastical
inhibition?[23]
This episcopal act had “a positive effect on the development of
science,”(91) for it forced
thinkers to break out
of the intellectual confinement that Aristotelian presuppositions had
fastened upon them, and to think about the physical world in new ways. By
condemning certain aspects of Aristotelian physical theory, they began to
break Western scholars of the habit of relying so heavily on Aristotle,
and gave them an opportunity to begin thinking in ways that departed from
ancient assumptions.(91)
This overlooks the
equally condemned neo-Platonic tradition’s potential to break them of that
habit.
After the condemnations
were issued, scholars were now required to concede that the all-powerful
God could indeed create a vacuum. This opened new and exciting scientific
possibilities.(92)
I’m not sure if
“exciting” was the word used by the scientists who had their minds
canalized, on pain of excommunication, to describe their experience.
And certainly subsequent scientists did not believe that the continued
affirmation of a vacuum required the affirmation of God.
Another condemned
Aristotelian proposition was that “the motions of the sky result from an
intellective soul.” (92) This condemnation “denied that the heavenly
bodies possessed souls and were in some way alive—a standard cosmological
belief that had enjoyed currency since antiquity.” Consequently the
cosmos was disenchanted, gutted of all subjectivity except in those bodies
into which God allegedly infused souls, thereby creating anomalous facts
and fostering mind-body dualism.
One incontrovertibly
good by-product of the ascendancy of mechanism was the end of the
anti-witch craze, but what worldview do we have to thank for that in the
first place?
Solicitous of God’s
transcendence, the mechanist philosophers and their theological backers
unwittingly turned God into a smiley face on a helium-filled balloon,
always there, to be sure, but ever further away from the day-to-day
action. Atheism is, of course, the last thing Catholics divines would
knowingly promote. Only by facing its reversals squarely, however, can
Catholics hope to promote a synthesis of the Christian worldview and the
scientific that improves upon the one we've inherited.
How the Catholic Church Built Western Civilization
[Regnery 2005]. Numbers within parentheses in the body of this review
refer to pages of this book. All other citations are made in the
footnotes.
In my review of
Woods’ The Church and the Market, I noted that his “treatment
of their interface [i.e., of Austrian economic methodology and
Catholic dogma] . . . reminded me of some outstanding philosophical
issues whose exploration was not to Woods' immediate purpose and so
falls outside of the scope of any fair review of his book. I have
therefore reserved treatment of those issues to a future essay.”
Anthony Flood, “A Profound Philosophical Commonality,”
LewRockwell.com,
April 23, 2005. This is my attempt at such a treatment.
Woods lauds St. Albert the Great’s “insistence on direct observation
and—for all his admiration of Aristotle—his refusal to accept
scientific authority on faith were essential contributions to the
scientific frame of mind.” (95) That is, the modern “scientific frame
of mind” is sensationist, and has banished religious
experience, which is inherently non-sensationist, from Modernity’s
public square. Another unintended consequence of good intentions.
The presumed value judgment, of course, is that this promotion of
science was a good thing. Science is a great benefactor of mankind,
the Catholic Church is her alma mater, and this nurturing
merits appreciation. Both sides should stick to their knitting, but
perhaps occasionally compare notes. As Pope Leo XIII affirmed in
Providentissimus Deus, “[n]o real disagreement can exist between
the theologian and the scientist provided each keeps within his own
limits.” Pius’ words occasioned in the mind of the late neo-Darwinist
Stephen Jay Gould the notion of “nonoverlapping
magisteria.”
After Hume, classical Christian apologetics can never attain
plausibility; it must ever settle for parity, if they can get that,
for the presumption against the occurrence of miracles is virtually
unanswerable. Of course, “an orderly natural world” is “the backdrop”
for recognizing a miracle but, as Hume interjected, it is also a
reason for regarding its occurrence as extremely improbable. Without
the Church’s cultural hegemony to even out those odds, atheism tends
to win.
In a yet-unanswered e-mail to Father Jaki (June 28, 2005), I asked him
whether in his view “the cultures on the eastern side of the Great
Schism fail[ed] to develop science as a going enterprise because they
were insufficiently Christian in their worldview, or insufficiently
Western, or for some other reason.” Perhaps a reader would care to
answer that question, or point me in the direction of an answer.
[Father Jaki passed away on April 9, 2009.--A.F.]