Faith in the Age of Science

Atheism, Religion, and the Big Yellow Crane

Mark Silversides

• Publisher: Sacristy Press
• Year: 2012
• ISBN:
  9781908381545
• Topic: Théologie et religion
• Subtopic: Philosophie de la religion

"An outstanding book, and a much needed one, presenting a reasoned response to atheism. Appreciating the great scientific advances of our time and their religious components, the book is user friendly, even to readers who are not trained scientists. Mindbending terms and maths are explained clearly as far as such can be, and the judgements feel fair not partisan. I recommend it to my students and colleagues for reading, studying and underlining-my special accolade. I found it hard to put down." - Rabbi Lionel Blue, Contributor to Thought for the Day on BBC Radio 4

First-time author and former vicar Mark Silversides tackles one of the most challenging questions of our day: should we have faith in the age of science? Claims made in favour of both atheism and religious observation are examined engagingly and sensitively. Proponents of both viewpoints will find Faith in the Age of Science a challenging and deeply interesting read.

CHAPTER 1

Atheism in Crisis

There have been atheists throughout western history, starting from the pre-socratic philosophers of the sixth century BCE, but generally as a very small minority. Until the eighteenth century the almost infallible rule was that people would follow the religious belief into which they were born, or convert to a different faith, voluntarily or under duress.

The atheist viewpoint had greater freedom to develop with the onset of the Enlightenment during the seventeenth century, so that in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries atheism became more of an option. This modern phase is generally held to start with Baron d’Holbach (1723–89) and a handful of others in the second half of the eighteenth century. D’Holbach was one of the materialists (we shall consider this philosophy in more detail later) who provided the intellectual groundwork for the French Revolution. Julian Baggini in his book Atheism: A Very Short Introduction gives greater detail of what he calls “the birth of avowed atheism” at this time and connects it across the centuries with the pre-socratics as part of an ongoing story, although, as he himself admits, not all authorities would agree with him on this point.

Baggini’s book is an excellent introduction to atheism, both concise and constructive, and he may be correct in making a theoretical link with the ancient Greeks. There was also some medieval discussion concerning atheistic views, for example in the works of Peter Abelard (1079–1142). However, for modern readers, atheism in our western culture originated in eighteenth-century Europe.

Atheism Today

I suspect that Baggini would not support the belligerence of the extreme Dawkinsians as he seems to be more interested in promoting useful philosophical discussion. In a similar vein, Lewis Wolpert is a card-carrying atheist, but is more conciliatory than aggressive in tone. Martin Rowson, a piercing humorist and author of The Dog Allusion: Gods, Pets and How to Be Human thinks it would be better just to pat religion on the head and leave it alone in its basket to gnaw on its leg. Hopefully, this might keep it out of politics, a wish also expressed (at least most of the time) by commentators such as the late Christopher Hitchens. Like The God Delusion their writings often draw insufficient distinction between types of religious belief, and show little real engagement with the content of those beliefs. Margaret Wertheim labels herself as a “pinko-liberal-feminist atheist”—hardly a religious fanatic—yet castigates Hitchens, along with Sam Harris, for an attitude of blanket condemnation and undiscerning invective. The same criticism could be brought against other popularising atheists.

Victor J. Stenger appears to be the latest proponent of the aggressive “shoot first” tendency, which is unfortunate because his physics in God: the Failed Hypothesis is thought-provoking, compared to his general attacks on faith, which have been doing the rounds for centuries and are getting rather tired. Likewise, I fear Dawkins’ atheist successor at Oxford, Marcus du Sautoy, may go the same way—brilliantly presented mathematics, but with the odd snipe at religion popping up for no obvious reason. On the other hand, the physicist Brian Cox enjoys dialogue with religious individuals and does not see the value of attacking religion as such, making an understandable exception for creationists.

Modern atheism, then, is a very mixed bag—I almost said “broad church”. For Dawkins, any peace-brokering with religion is betrayal. Tolerant sceptics like Michael Ruse, who has even had the nerve to point out areas of congruence between Darwinism and Christianity, and palaeontologist Stephen Jay Gould, are associated with 1930s politician Neville Chamberlain as mere “appeasers”. A somewhat similar hard line attitude emerges from The Brights, an internet-based network for those who do not believe in the supernatural, of which Daniel Dennett is a founding member. Yet there are others who are more tolerant.

Long-standing bodies like the British Humanist Association, National Secular Society and Rationalist Association are of course not always belligerent. Bertrand Russell, the favourite uncle of modern atheism, was certainly an activist but seemed content to build an argument rather than throw up dust. Such clarity is often difficult to find, because many organisations and networks admit agnostics—the “don’t knows” of the faith world—as well as atheists, therefore it is hard to know whether their statements represent a distinctively atheistic viewpoint. Sometimes the word “humanist” is used in a broad sense to mean something like “atheist with a heart” but that doesn’t help much. In fact, it seems that almost all atheists claim to be humanists, although not all humanists claim to be atheists.

It is difficult to say, then, that there is a specifically atheistic line on practically anything, apart from the claim that there is no God and therefore all religion is mistaken. The general attitude is to follow the hallowed principle known as Occam’s Razor, which states that explanations are not to be multiplied unnecessarily. If it is not necessary to believe in a God then we should not do so, any more than we should believe in fairies. Because of the strength of this assumption, the typical assertive atheist feels he has made his case if he mounts a good attack on any supposed evidence for God’s existence. It is also de rigeur to assume that science is the most valuable source—probably the only source—of knowledge.

However, even with their common starting point, atheists often disagree on the logical implications. For example, they are divided on the American presence in Iraq, as Tina Beattie analyses with great perception in The New Atheists. The general tenor of much current atheist output is consistent enough: religion (radical Islam) is responsible for “9/11”, and religion (American fundamentalism) is responsible for the war in Iraq. The difference arises as to whether or not it is a good thing to set a thief to catch a thief. Using one group of religious fanatics to get rid of another could be seen as rather clever. The underlying hypothesis tends to be that religion is the root of all evil, so that ultimately any form of conflict, including terrorism, is caused by religion. Of course, all religions are held to be basically the same in that respect. This is not a well-founded view, but popular atheism is not always precise.

Atheists’ lack of precision is particularly clearly seen in this example, for the great majority of terrorism has always been politically and nationalistically motivated. Suicide attacks in the last two centuries go back to nineteenth-century Russian nihilists, the Japanese Kamikaze, the Viet Minh in Vietnam, the PKK in Turkey, and the Tamil Tigers in Sri Lanka, who first devised the suicide bomber’s vest. Using the “root of all evil” methodology we could say that atheism (revolutionary socialism) was primarily responsible for this modern trend. However, that seems to be overlooked in favour of the assumption that religion is the driving force behind all such horrors, even though none of these movements were religious. Intriguingly, Aditya Chakrabortty writing in The Guardian, in the wake of Osama bin Laden’s death, cites much evidence that even Islamist suicide bombers are not primarily driven, for the most part, by religion. Nationalistic idealism, often coupled with a sense of cultural or ethnic humiliation, seems to be far more important.

Atheism is not a solid movement with a long development. Denial of the existence of God is clearly of the essence, frequently followed by attacks on religion, adulation of science, and selective use of historical facts to bolster the cause. There is, of course, much that is justifiable in attacks on religion, much that is praiseworthy in science, and much that is ambiguous about history. The flaw is in the one-sidedness, although this is less pronounced in the more tolerant members of the atheist community. As always, though, the less tolerant tend to have the loudest voices.

Much of this book is concerned with science, so I shall not say much about it in this chapter. My main concern at present is to tackle the question of what atheism is, what its effects have been and what its weaknesses are.

Some History: Lisbon, 1755

An earthquake occurred in Lisbon on All Saints’ Day (1st November) 1755. By all accounts it was a severe quake followed by a tsunami, which devastated the city and killed 30–50,000 men, women, and children, with some estimates even higher. The psychological impact on Europe was immense and is difficult for us to understand today, even though our contemporary media bring us heart-rending images of similar, and sometimes even greater, catastrophes.

Amongst what we call the “chattering classes” the effect of the earthquake was dramatic, for the general mood had been one of optimism. Things were moving forward, particularly in science and philosophy. Sir Isaac Newton (1643–1727) and Gottfried Leibniz (1646–1716) had reduced the apparent mysteries of physics to a few simple laws and developed calculus to help with the sums. Empiricist philosophy tied in well with the ever-developing science which seemed able to explain, at least potentially, the secrets of the universe. Suddenly, with the Lisbon earthquake, everything was called into question. How can this be the “best of all possible worlds” (a phrase coined by Leibniz in his philosophical mode) when suddenly so many men, women, and children are destroyed, without reason or warning?

News of the earthquake eventually reached a grumpy philosopher with the pen name “Voltaire” (1694–1778), who responded initially with a poem and then, four years later, with his short novel Candide, the best known of his works. It tells how the youthful and optimistic Candide travels from his home, the castle of the most-noble Baron of Thunder-ten-tronckh, which is the best of all possible castles. His optimism is derived from the teaching of Dr Pangloss, the greatest philosopher in the province and therefore in the world.

There follows a whirlwind global tour, in the course of which Candide meets a variety of beliefs and religions. Those encountered include Jesuits, Dutch Protestants, Anabaptists, Jews, and Turks. It is fairly clear that the effect of the earthquake was to confirm Voltaire’s cynicism about all types of religion and religious philosophy, leaving what I think we could call a kindly humanitarian deism. It’s a rattling good read—here’s a tiny snatch from the opening chapter that gives an excellent insight into the teachings of Dr Pangloss:

Master Pangloss taught the “metaphysico-theologo-cosmolo-nigology”. He could prove to admiration that there is no effect without a cause; and that, in this best of all possible worlds, the Baron’s castle was the most magnificent of all castles, and my lady the best of all possible baronesses.

“It is demonstrable”, said he, “that things cannot be otherwise than they are; for as all things have been created for some end, they must necessarily be created for the best end. Observe, for instance, the nose is formed for spectacles, therefore we wear spectacles. The legs are visibly designed for stockings, accordingly we wear stockings . . .”

Voltaire was not an atheist, but a deist, like many of his fellow philosophes. This is the philosophy of the absentee God, the creator who set the universe going and then simply left it to its own devices. After all, if he were concerned about us, earthquakes and all the other afflictions we suffer wouldn’t happen. As I put it earlier, this God is always out to lunch. Voltaire had an intense dislike of d’Holbach and his atheistic philosophy, but even so, once God was pushed away to a respectable distance it became much easier to cease believing in him at all. The trend is perfectly understandable, particularly when large, powerful ecclesiastical structures appeared to have been indifferent to much that was wrong in the world.

Although there were certainly other causes, I think it is highly likely that the Lisbon earthquake, the general public reaction to it, and Voltaire’s brilliance combined to place the problem of suffering right at the top of the agenda for atheists, agnostics, and many religious believers alike. As we shall see, it often occupies that position today, with Leibniz in the background playing the role of naive optimist, particularly in the minds of atheists.

The Best of All Possible Colleges

It would be wonderful at this point if one could show an atheist train of thought that developed in a humanitarian direction despite the upheavals of the French Revolution, the Napoleonic wars, the great movements of industrialisation and empire, and on into the twentieth century. Eventually we should arrive at Bertrand Russell (1872–1970), whose influence is well known—as is his criticism (partially justified) of religion. This positive view would lead us to consider the happy development of atheistic humanitarian institutions in the twentieth century and their effects today. Unfortunately, the atheist cause is not as coherent as its defenders would like it to be.

I happened to be attending a meeting recently at University College London, which I later found considers Jeremy Bentham (1748–1832) as its “spiritual” founder. During the lunch break, in search of sustenance, I noticed nearby the pub named after Bentham, with a plaque outside quoting his maxim for morals and legislation, “the greatest happiness for the greatest number”. I also learned that his mummified body is kept on display in University College, but with a wax head, the real head having been damaged in the embalming process and later locked away for safe keeping. Apparently it used to be regarded as quite a jape among students to purloin Jeremy’s head.

I’m not sure how this gruesome presence (requested by Bentham himself) contributes to the greatest happiness for the greatest number, but it’s hard to deny the attractiveness of that principle. Sometimes it’s called utilitarianism, and was also followed—and developed—by John Stuart Mill (1806–73). Now of course the religious person could claim that the greatest happiness for the greatest number is always procured by following some version or other of a divine law, but this is not the route taken by the utilitarian. Rather, because utilitarianism focuses on outcomes, it is a branch of consequentialism. This is the principle that human actions should be governed, not by some claimed “higher law”, but solely by their consequences. Naturally most atheists support this principle, since the danger with a higher law is that it so easily suggests a higher Being.

It seems difficult to offer any comment on atheistic belief as such because of its all-embracing basic principle. Religious belief generates whole libraries, atheism doesn’t. What can you say about a non-existent God? There are many ways of existing, but only one way (as far as I can see) of not existing. Some might say there are an infinite number of ways of not existing, but that hardly improves matters.

At first sight, then, atheism might seem to be impervious to criticism. However, any culture needs an ethical system in order to enjoy stability, and it has generally been the role of religion to provide this. Atheism can hardly claim to supplant religion if it has little to say on this front, and in my opinion this is its first great weakness.

The problems with developing an atheistic ethic are many, even when consequentialism is amended to include other principles. Baggini recruits Aristotle (384–322 BCE) to the cause. From “the philosopher” we may derive the principle that we should conduct ourselves so that life goes well. Being in the grip of vice (or, for that matter, compulsive “do-gooding” or religious activity) goes against this and therefore should not be part of the wise person’s life, for it will not produce happiness. Practical wisdom, consisting largely of enlightened self-interest, involves steering between the various extremes to find a virtuous “golden mean”. Baggini also invokes the principle of “universalisability” that was propounded by Immanuel Kant (1724–1804). According to Kant we should always ask ourselves, “What would happen if everyone behaved in this way?” or “How would I feel if this were done to me?”

These ideas are part of ethical debate down the centuries, but they do appear inevitably to raise the question of why either the golden mean or consideration of others should be regarded as important. The utilitarian is bound to answer that they are conducive to the total aggregate of human happiness. Such a claim, however, does not impinge on the very fundamental question of what constitutes human happiness in the first place. Some people are happy with a coffee and a sandwich, while others regard champagne in a chic environment as a basic essential of life. Some visit art galleries, museums, and opera houses, others go to football matches or bingo. Some, even when there is no compulsion, follow a religion, others do not. Some are happy in the pursuit of sporting achievement, others prefer to exert unbridled aggression.

Mill’s answer to this problem sounds today unbearably elitist. He claims that those who have experienced both “refined” and “vulgar” pleasures generally prefer the former and should be heeded in preference to those who have experienced only one or the other. Well, I beg to differ. I can appreciate Beethoven’s late quartets, Grosse Fugue and all. I can also appreciate contemporary “pop” music, and would be hard pressed to say which gives me greater happiness. I should certainly not like to claim that there is some kind of moral difference between the two that would justify sanctioning one more than the other. Nor do I believe that substituting some other word such as “contentment” in place of “happiness” alters the basic problem.

Even if we accept the validity of all forms of happiness it would appear difficult to make the quantitative evaluations required to estimate the aggregate of human happiness. Measuring the happiness potential of a burger as against a banana would be much more difficult than simply weighing up nutritional values. Moreover, happiness cannot be considered in isolation. Aldous Huxley rightly pointed out that happiness is generally a by-product of other things. If that is so, then almost anything in life can be a source of happiness in the right context.

The most that can be said is surely along the lines of a via negativa, that there are some things that almost always act against happiness. The list is short and simple: illness, poverty, isolation, starvation, insecurity of person or property, humiliation, and purposelessness would probably suffice. To make the removal of such things a measure of utility seems eminently sensible, and does not require elaborate assessment of the thoughts or feelings of others. A less negative slant can be achieved by listing positive equivalents such as good health, material sufficiency and so on. These can be built into a “rule-based” utilitarianism, which holds that keeping to the rules will ultimately produce happiness with greater sureness than trying to evaluate every human act in its own right.

Mill tended in this “rules-based” direction, but even if such thinking is valid we still have no reason, from within utilitarianism itself, to give any value to these aspirations. Significantly, even though Mill was an agnostic and possibly atheistic, he admitted to the utility of religion in producing morality.

Unpredictability

The second great difficulty of any form of consequentialism is that of knowing what the consequences of an act will be. As I was drafting this section a good example was spotlighted on the morning news. The British government is to spend many millions of pounds on vaccinating 12–14 year old girls against cervical cancer and its precursors, which stem from the human papilloma virus (HPV). Will this produce a net benefit? Or will it signal to adolescent minds that it’s now acceptable to do whatever they like, thus leading to escalation of other sexually transmitted infections (STIs) such as Chlamydia—already a huge threat to public health?

This is nothing to do with trying to frighten teenagers into not having sex. I agree with Sam Harris that such a policy is probably not effective. But I do not agree with him that the solution lies in education—the line frequently taken by governments. There is a growing realisation that sex education (coupled with free contraception) is not producing the anticipated outcomes. Teenage abortions and STIs are on the increase. Sex education may decrease teenage angst but does not dramatically affect behaviour. In addition, reputable non-religious organisations such as the NSPCC, Girlguiding UK, and the Mental Health Foundation are now drawing attention to the effects of normalising under-age sexual activity. As well as intensifying peer pressures, this trend has opened the way for increasing manipulation of young people by commercial interests. As if to confirm such misgivings, it was recently announced that record numbers of children in the UK are being prescribed the contraceptive pill at the age of eleven.

Other examples of such contrariness are not hard to find in various fields. Does imprisonment of minor criminals reduce recidivism, or give them a training ground for more serious crime? Will increasing the minimum wage make the poor better off, or will it increase unemployment as employers ...

Table of contents

• Introduction
• Atheism in Crisis
• The New “F-word”
• The Appliance of Science
• Daftness and Beyond
• Mr Charles Darwin had the Gall to Ask
• The Evolutionary Enigma
• The Blind Project Manager
• The Golden Grain
• Narrowing the Odds
• Quantum Quirkiness
• Harold from Cowley Reveals All
• A Pause for Reflection
• The Big Yellow Crane
• Return to the Philosophical Forum
• The Theological Theme Park
• Significance
• Glossary
• Bibliography
• Endnotes