And the lesson for understanding religion, to repeat, is that when we ask the Darwinian question, ‘What is the survival value of religion?’ we don’t have to mean genetic survival value. The conventional Darwinian question translates into: ‘How does religion contribute to the survival and reproduction of individual religious people and hence the propagation of genetic propensities to religion?’ But my point is that we don’t need to bring genes into the calculation at all. There is at least something Darwinian going on here, something epidemiological going on, which has nothing to do with genes. It is the religious ideas themselves that survive, or fail to survive, in direct competition with rival religious ideas.
It is at this point that I have an argument with some of my Darwinian colleagues. Purist evolutionary psychologists will come back at me and say something like this. Cultural epidemiology is possible only because human brains have certain evolved tendencies, and by evolved we mean genetically evolved. You may document a worldwide epidemic of reverse baseball hats, or an epidemic of copycat martyrdoms, or an epidemic of total-immersion baptisms. But these non-genetic epidemics depend upon the human tendency to imitate. And we ultimately need a Darwinian – by which we mean genetic – explanation for the human tendency to imitate.
And this, of course, is where I return to my theory of childhood gullibility. I stressed that it was only an example of the kind of theory I want to propose. Ordinary genetic selection sets up childhood brains with a tendency to believe their elders. Ordinary, straight-down-the-line Darwinian selection of genes sets up brains with a tendency to imitate, hence indirectly to spread rumours, spread urban legends, and believe cock-and-bull stories in chain letters. But given that genetic selection has set up brains of this kind, they then provide the equivalent of a new kind of non-genetic heredity, which might form the basis for a new kind of epidemiology, and perhaps even a new kind of non-genetic Darwinian selection. I believe that religion, along with chain letters and urban legends, is one of a group of phenomena explained by this kind of non-genetic epidemiology, with the possible admixture of non-genetic Darwinian selection. If I am right, religion has no survival value for individual human beings, or for the benefit of their genes. The benefit, if there is any, is to religion itself.
* * *
*1 The Tanner Lectures on Human Values were founded in Cambridge in 1978, with the unusual remit of rotating around a number of different university venues. I have given Tanner Lectures in Edinburgh and Harvard. My two Harvard lectures, given in 2003, were a symmetrical pair called ‘The science of religion’ and ‘The religion of science’. The first of them, in abbreviated form, is reproduced here.
*2 My confidence definitely does not reside in any particular hypothesis such as that dirty wings impair flight. I am confident only that grooming must do something to improve the flies’ genetic survival, simply because they spend so much time doing it.
*3 For a wonderful example of this – how worker bees tell their fellows where to find food by reference to the sun – see the essay ‘About time’ in section VI of this collection (see this page).
*4 Think of the compound eye as a hemispherical pincushion, densely covered with pins. Each ‘pin’ is actually a tube called an ommatidium, with a tiny photocell at its base. So an insect ‘knows’ the location of an object, such as the sun or a star, by which of its tubes is/are receiving light from that object. It is a very different kind of eye from our ‘camera eye’, whose image is upside down and left/right reversed. Insofar as a compound eye can be said to have an image at all, it is the right way up.
*5 This family of hypotheses could be called ‘by-product’ hypotheses. Just as moth self-immolation behaviour is a by-product of the useful light compass, so religious behaviour is a by-product of – in my particular suggestion – child obedience. What else might religion be a by-product of? Another suggestion I favour is the ‘vacuum gratitude’ which was the topic of my Afterword to a previous essay in this section (see this page). Gratitude is a manifestation of the beneficial reciprocation tendency of our brain. Vacuum gratitude is a by-product of this and religion is a by-product of vacuum gratitude.
Is science a religion?*1
IT IS FASHIONABLE to wax apocalyptic about the threat to humanity posed by the AIDS virus, ‘mad cow’ disease and other infectious perils. I think a case can be made that one of the greatest of these – comparable to the smallpox virus but harder to eradicate – is faith.
Faith, being belief that isn’t based on evidence, is the principal vice of any religion. And who, looking at Northern Ireland or the Middle East, can be confident that the brain virus of faith is not exceedingly dangerous? One of the stories told to young Muslim suicide bombers is that martyrdom is the quickest way to heaven – and not just heaven but a special part of heaven where they will receive their special reward of seventy-two virgin brides. It occurs to me that our best hope may be to provide a kind of ‘spiritual arms control’: send in specially trained theologian commandos to de-escalate the going rate in virgins.
Given the dangers of faith – and considering the accomplishments of reason and observation in the activity called science – I find it ironic that, whenever I lecture publicly, there always seems to be someone who comes forward and says: ‘Of course, your science is just a religion like ours. Fundamentally, science just comes down to faith, doesn’t it?’
Well, science is not religion and it doesn’t just come down to faith. Although it has many of religion’s virtues, it has none of its vices. Science is based upon verifiable evidence. Religious faith not only lacks evidence, its independence from evidence is its pride and joy, shouted from the rooftops. Why else would Christians wax critical of Doubting Thomas? The other apostles are held up to us as exemplars of virtue because faith was enough for them. Doubting Thomas, on the other hand, required evidence. Perhaps he should be the patron saint of scientists.
One thing that provokes the comment about science being my religion is my belief in the fact of evolution. I even believe in it with passionate conviction. To some, this may superficially look like faith. But the evidence that makes me believe in evolution is not only overwhelmingly strong; it is freely available to anyone who takes the trouble to read up on it. Anyone can study the same evidence that I have studied and presumably come to the same conclusion. But if you have a belief that is based solely on faith, we can’t examine your reasons. You can retreat behind the private wall of faith where we can’t reach you.
Now in practice, of course, individual scientists do sometimes slip back into the vice of faith, and a few may believe so single-mindedly in a favourite theory that they occasionally falsify evidence. However, the fact that this sometimes happens doesn’t alter the principle that, when they do so, they do it with shame and not with pride. The method of science is so designed that it usually finds them out in the end.
Science is actually one of the most moral, one of the most honest disciplines around – because science would completely collapse if it weren’t for a scrupulous adherence to honesty in the reporting of evidence.*2 As James Randi has pointed out, this is one reason why scientists are so often fooled by paranormal tricksters and why the debunking role is better played by professional conjurors; scientists just don’t anticipate deliberate dishonesty so well. There are other professions (no need to mention lawyers specifically) in which twisting evidence, if not falsifying it, is precisely what people are paid for and get brownie points for doing.
Science, then, is free of the main vice of religion, which is faith. But, as I pointed out, science does have some of religion’s virtues. Religion may aspire to provide its followers with various benefits – among them explanation, consolation and uplift. Science, too, has something to offer in these areas.
Humans have a great hunger for explanation. It may be one of the main reasons why humanity so universally has religion, since religions do aspire to provide explanations. We come to our individual consciousness in a mysterious universe and long to un
derstand it. Most religions offer a cosmology and a biology, a theory of life, a theory of origins and reasons for existence. In doing so, they demonstrate that religion is, in a sense, science; it’s just bad science. Don’t fall for the argument that religion and science operate on separate dimensions and are concerned with quite separate sorts of questions. Religions have historically always attempted to answer the questions that properly belong to science. Thus religions should not be allowed now to retreat from the ground upon which they have traditionally attempted to fight. They do offer both a cosmology and a biology. However, in both cases it is false.
Consolation is harder for science to provide. Unlike religion, science cannot offer the bereaved a glorious reunion with their loved ones in the hereafter. Those wronged on this Earth cannot, on a scientific view, anticipate a sweet comeuppance for their tormentors in a life to come. It could be argued that, if the idea of an afterlife is an illusion (as I believe it is), the consolation it offers is hollow. But that’s not necessarily so; a false belief can be just as comforting as a true one, provided the believer never discovers its falsity. But if consolation comes that cheap, science can weigh in with other cheap palliatives, such as pain-killing drugs: the comfort they offer may or may not be illusory, but they do work.
Uplift, however, is where science really comes into its own. All the great religions have a place for awe, for ecstatic transport at the wonder and beauty of creation. And it’s exactly this feeling of spine-shivering, breath-catching awe – almost worship – this flooding of the chest with epiphanic wonder, that modern science can provide. And it does so beyond the wildest dreams of saints and mystics. The fact that the supernatural has no place in our explanations, in our understanding of the universe and life, doesn’t diminish the awe. Quite the contrary. The merest glance through a microscope at the brain of an ant or through a telescope at a long-ago galaxy of a billion worlds is enough to render poky and parochial the very psalms of praise.
Now, as I say, when it is put to me that science or some particular part of science, like evolutionary theory, is just a religion like any other, I usually deny it with indignation. But I’ve begun to wonder whether perhaps that’s the wrong tactic. Perhaps the right tactic is to accept the charge gratefully and demand equal time for science in religious education classes. And the more I think about it, the more I realize that an excellent case could be made for this. So I want to talk a little bit about religious education and the place that science might play in it.
Among the various things that religious education might be expected to accomplish, one of its aims could be to encourage children to reflect upon the deep questions of existence, to invite them to rise above the humdrum preoccupations of ordinary life and think sub specie aeternitatis.
Science can offer a vision of life and the universe which, as I’ve already remarked, for humbling poetic inspiration far outclasses any of the mutually contradictory faiths and disappointingly recent traditions of the world’s religions.
For example, how could any child in a religious education class fail to be inspired if we could get across to them some inkling of the age of the universe? Suppose that, at the moment of Christ’s death, the news of it had started travelling at the maximum possible speed around the universe outwards from the Earth? How far would the terrible tidings have travelled by now? Following the theory of special relativity, the answer is that the news could not, under any circumstances whatever, have reached more than one-fiftieth of the way across one galaxy – not one-thousandth of the way to our nearest neighbouring galaxy in the hundred-million-galaxy-strong universe. The universe at large couldn’t possibly be anything other than indifferent to Christ, his birth, his passion, his death. Even such momentous news as the origin of life on Earth could have travelled only across our little local cluster of galaxies. Yet so ancient was that event on our earthly timescale that, if you span its age with your open arms, the whole of human history, the whole of human culture, would fall in the dust from your fingertip at a single stroke of a nail-file.
The argument from design, an important part of the history of religion, wouldn’t be ignored in my religious education classes, needless to say. The children would look at the spellbinding wonders of the living kingdoms and would consider Darwinism alongside the creationist alternatives and make up their own minds. I think the children would have no difficulty in making up their minds the right way if presented with the evidence.
It would also be interesting to teach more than one theory of creation. The dominant one in this culture happens to be the Jewish creation myth, itself based on a Babylonian creation myth. There are, of course, lots and lots of others, and perhaps they should all be given equal time (except that wouldn’t leave much time for studying anything else). I understand that there are Hindus who believe that the world was created in a cosmic butter churn and Nigerian peoples who believe that the world was created by God from the excrement of ants. Don’t these stories have as much right to equal time as the Judeo-Christian myth of Adam and Eve?
So much for Genesis; now let’s move on to the prophets. Halley’s Comet will return without fail in the year 2062. Biblical or Delphic prophecies don’t begin to aspire to such accuracy; astrologers and Nostradamians dare not commit themselves to factual prognostications but, rather, disguise their charlatanry in a smokescreen of vagueness. When comets have appeared in the past, they’ve often been taken as portents of disaster. Astrology has played an important part in various religious traditions, including Hinduism. The three wise men were said to have been led to the cradle of Jesus by a star. We might ask the children by what physical route they imagine the alleged stellar influence on human affairs could travel.
Incidentally, there was a shocking programme on BBC radio around Christmas 1995 featuring an astronomer, a bishop and a journalist who were sent off on an assignment to retrace the steps of the three wise men. Well, you could understand the participation of the bishop and the journalist (who happened to be a religious writer) – but the astronomer was a supposedly respectable writer in that field, and yet she went along with this! All along the route, she talked about the portents of when Saturn and Jupiter were in the ascendant up Uranus or whatever it was. She doesn’t actually believe in astrology, but one of the problems is that our culture has been taught to become tolerant of it, even vaguely amused by it – so much so that even scientific people who don’t believe in astrology often think it’s a bit of harmless fun. I take astrology very seriously indeed: I think it’s deeply pernicious because it undermines rationality, and I should like to see campaigns against it.
When the religious education class turns to ethics, I don’t think science actually has a lot to say, and I would replace it with rational moral philosophy. Do the children think there are absolute standards of right and wrong? And if so, where do they come from? Can you make up good working principles of right and wrong, like ‘do as you would be done by’ and ‘the greatest good for the greatest number’ (whatever that is supposed to mean)? It’s a rewarding question, whatever your personal morality, to ask as an evolutionist where morals come from; by what route has the human brain gained its tendency to have ethics and morals, a feeling of right and wrong?
Should we value human life above all other life? Is there a rigid wall to be built around the species Homo sapiens, or should we talk about whether there are other species which are entitled to our humanistic sympathies? Should we, for example, follow the right-to-life lobby, which is wholly preoccupied with human life, and value the life of a human fetus with the faculties of a worm over the life of a thinking and feeling chimpanzee? What is the basis of this fence we erect around Homo sapiens – even around a small piece of fetal tissue? (Not a very sound evolutionary idea when you think about it.) When, in our evolutionary descent from our common ancestor with chimpanzees, did the fence suddenly rear itself up?
Moving on from morals to last things, to eschatology, we know from the Second Law of Thermodynamics that a
ll complexity, all life, all laughter, all sorrow, all are hell-bent on levelling out into cold nothingness in the end. They – and we – can never be more than temporary, local buckings of the great universal slide into the abyss of uniformity. We know that the universe is expanding and will probably expand for ever, although it’s possible it may contract again. We know that, whatever happens to the universe, the sun will engulf the Earth in about sixty million centuries from now.
Time itself began at a certain moment, and time may end at a certain moment – or it may not. Time may come locally to an end in miniature crunches called black holes. The laws of the universe seem to be true all over the universe. Why is this? Might the laws change in these crunches? To be really speculative, time could begin again with new laws of physics, new physical constants. And it has been plausibly suggested that there could be many universes, each one isolated so completely that, for it, the others don’t exist. There might even be, as suggested by the theoretical physicist Lee Smolin, a Darwinian selection among universes.
So science could give a good account of itself in religious education. But it wouldn’t be enough. I believe that some familiarity with the King James version of the Bible is important for anyone wanting to understand the allusions that appear in English literature. Together with the Book of Common Prayer, the Bible gets fifty-eight pages in the Oxford Dictionary of Quotations. Only Shakespeare has more. I do think that not having any kind of biblical education is unfortunate if children want to read English literature and understand the provenance of phrases like ‘through a glass darkly’, ‘all flesh is as grass’, ‘the race is not to the swift’, ‘crying in the wilderness’, ‘reaping the whirlwind’, ‘amid the alien corn’, ‘eyeless in Gaza’, ‘Job’s comforters’ and ‘the widow’s mite’.
Science in the Soul Page 28