The Watch on the Heath: Science and Religion before Darwin
In fact, the possibility of an ancient earth had been proposed and dismissed many times before Hutton, even by Aristotle. A preoccupation of many eighteenth-century writers about the earth had been to counter theories, like Aristotle’s, of an eternal earth having neither a beginning nor an end. The authority of Genesis must be greater, they insisted: the world must have had a Beginning and was proceeding to a definite End. But Hutton supported his new ideas both with solid empirical evidence and an underlying theory based on a Newtonian balance of forces. He saw a pattern in the history of the rocks: gradually worn down by erosion, washed into the seas, accumulating as sediments, raised up as new dry land, only to be eroded again. Not the linear narrative of Creation to Final Conflagration that the Bible foretells, but something cyclic, balanced, timeless, unending. Hutton also openly espoused Erasmus Darwin’s ideas about organic change; they helped explain the successions of life that had inhabited his recycling globe. And the threat that Hutton’s geological science posed was the greater because, where Erasmus Darwin had a wild-eyed hypothesis, he had a cold, sober theory.
The strength of Hutton’s case made science and a literal interpretation of biblical creation virtually irreconcilable. Now too many of the central, commonsensical dogmas of religion had been replaced by theories that were not just difficult to understand and to prove, but also challenged the central core of established belief. Little wonder, then, that someone was needed to respond to all these challenges from the side of organised religion.
Writing in 1802, however, Paley had greater challenges to face even than these. While natural philosophy was concerned with the definition, description and material causes of natural phenomena, Paley also had to engage with moral philosophy, which is concerned with values, meaning and purposes, and metaphysics, which probes the ultimate nature of what is, and how we know. Science is all about causes: what causes the apple to fall from the tree? What caused the apple to become separated from the tree so that it could fall? What caused the apple to ripen? What caused the apple tree to flower and the bee to pollinate it? What caused the tree? But in a religious context, cause and its metaphysical counterpart ‘purpose’, look very different. For a theologian in Paley’s time, as today, God was always referred to as the First Cause. Then there are Second Causes, which are due to the inherent nature of matter and material systems and the operation of natural laws. Newton’s laws of motion and gravitation, Kepler’s laws of celestial mechanics, the laws of thermodynamics, gravity, the laws of chemistry (for example, the valency of atoms), and (in our time) the coded and coding sequences of amino acids in the DNA molecule, are all formal expressions of Second Causes. In turn they depend on further nested sets of causes in nuclear, atomic and quantum mechanics, and so on. In a sense, all of science – which is a system of investigation based wholly in material properties and processes – is the discovery of Second Causes.
If these Second Causes shape and drive the daily economy of the earth and its cycles of life and death, we are presented with a dichotomy. Now there are two rival views of God: one (more or less the Christian God) is a creator who is also the endless, continuous, loving God who has counted every hair on our heads and sees the fall of every sparrow. This God not only created but continually directs his Second Causes. The daily business of the world matters to this God, and particularly to his son Jesus. The alternative is a more distant (deist’s) God who created the world and then set it to run like a giant cosmological train set or clock. All its processes and phenomena – orderly and predictable, contingent and occasionally random, from the movements of the heavens to the physiological bases of diabetes, and by which the cosmos has changed over millions of years – all these are the results of Second Causes, flowing inevitably from the nature of matter itself. In this case, once God had created the conditions for Second Causes and the rules of their operation, he made it unnecessary to have a direct hand in every single act of man and nature.
The dilemma created by the new scientific philosophies was therefore the potential relegation of God from all-powerful to first power only, and the acknowledgement that other scientific (Second) causes drove the world day by day, year by year. The consequent and even greater dilemma was that, once one admitted Second Causes, it was only a simple extrapolation to all the processes of life being definable in terms of such causes. In the process, the need for a First Cause would simply fade away. There would be no room – no need – for God at all. All causation might ultimately be, as Erasmus Darwin put it, ‘without parent’, nothing more than the result of chance collisions of atoms in empty space, as proposed first by Democritos and the Epicureans. Indeed, Descartes had even suggested that, if one could know the nature and precise motion of all the atoms in the universe at a single moment, one could predict their future arrangements; in other words, one could predict the future (Although if the future were simply the inevitable extrapolation of the present movements of atoms, it would also mean there was no such thing as free will).
Beyond First and Second Causes, there is the Final Cause – the purpose that God purportedly had in having created the world, and the end goal of all its daily operations, summed up over the millennia. Traditional Christians, with their emphasis on the Trinity, on Revelation, and on the promise of Redemption, naturally believe in the concept of Final Cause – purpose. Putting it simply, God has in mind a purpose for each of us and for the whole world he created. That is why, even though Second Causes may be operating, he still steers the ship. This is not a God who has set the world going like some autonomous machine; the Christian’s God is one who will eventually, through his Son, redeem all our sins. First Cause, Second Cause, Final Cause – all (relatively) easy to believe in, difficult to live up to, and hard to prove.
If there is no God, then there is no purpose. And the reverse might be true: if there is no purpose, there is no God. In Paley’s time, the ‘death of God’ was a very distant, if still fearful, prospect. God’s role as First Cause and Final Cause was, for the moment, reasonably secure, even among the most radical of philosophers such as Descartes. As Robert Boyle wrote in an early classic essay:
Epicurus, and most of his Followers … Banish the Consideration of the Ends of Things; because the world being, according to them, made by Chance, no Ends of Things can be suppos’d to have been intended. And, on the contrary, Monsieur Des Cartes, and most of his followers, supposed the Ends of God in Things Corporeal to be so Sublime, that ’twere Presumption in Man to think his Reason can extend to Discover them.30
But there is a telling passage in the work just quoted. It reveals what a scientist sees as an unacceptable inconsistency but a theologian sees as evidence of God’s omnipotence. Boyle had to allow: ‘Nor is this Doctrine [of Final Cause] inconsistent with the belief of any True Miracle; for it supposes the ordinary and settled course of nature to be maintained [while] the most Free and powerful Author of Nature is able, whenever he thinks fit, to Suspend, Alter, or Contradict those Laws of Motion, which He alone at first establish’d and which need his perpetual Concourse to be upheld.’ This seems to be playing both ends against the middle. If God can do anything he likes (as in causing the sun to move backwards), why has he bothered to set nature going as a system according to the strict laws he gave it? In science, the exception never proves the rule.
Final Cause is rather difficult for a scientist to come to grips with. It is rather like the soul, belonging outside the material and the natural. Science is particularly the opposite of everything supernatural; its very nature is to challenge and explain away anything that smacks of a paranormal world. At its harshest, science would deny that such realms exist; at its most charitable it would say that such things must be studied by some other logic. In any case, whatever a reader in 1800 thought of ‘purpose’ in nature and in philosophy, the cosmologists had long since reset the terms of intellectual engagement: the universe now had to be seen as moving according to precise laws; Newton had reduced the laws of cosmology so brilliantly expounded by Copernicus, Kepler and Galileo to the laws of everyday existence. The moon is held in orbit around the earth, and the earth (and moon) around the sun, by the same force that causes the apple to drop four feet from the tree. In the process, natural philosophy had produced some conflicting and dangerous new truths and consequences. On the one hand, the cosmos might have been created by God in an instant of time, remaining fixed and unchanging until he sees the need to destroy it and to redeem his people. On the other hand, the world might be imagined as coalescing out of a whirling mass of fiery atoms, now cooling. The latter world was one of continuous change rather than the traditional series of fixed points along a preordained path: Beginning, Fall, Deluge, Final Conflagration. In such a world of material causes, people had – if they dared look – a new view of free will, predestination and, perhaps more subversive than anything else, change. No wonder most societies had previously kept literacy and learning for a very few, with only the controlling seers being allowed to contemplate the eternal mysteries. For ordinary mortals (to paraphrase), a little knowledge would be an extremely dangerous thing. Once Pandora’s box was opened and a new, lesser, role ascribed to God, who could predict where matters would end?
CHAPTER THREE Problems at Home
‘There are more things in heaven and earth … than are dreamt of in your philosophy.’
Shakespeare, Hamlet, I, 5
If the Church found itself besieged by the discoveries of science, it found little support from metaphysics either, starting with Descartes, whose philosophy demanded new rigour and personal judgement in the search for proofs of what we know. In such a philosophy, mysteries like faith and revelation are unreliable guides to the truth. A very similar line was argued by John Locke (1632–1704) who, in his Essay on Human Understanding, also explored the very nature of knowledge. To what extent does reality exist outside of our perception of it? Knowledge involves the relations of ideas, but ideas do not exist outside of the mind and experience. Does the mind therefore contribute to the reality of things, or in fact remove them further from reality? In fact, Locke becomes rather confusing on the subject of matter, or substance, which in philosophical terms was recognised through its three essential properties of solidity, extension (property of occupying space) and action (motion). Bishop Berkeley (1685–1753), on the other hand, in his ‘immaterial hypothesis’, was quite emphatic on this subject: ‘No matter exists except in our perception.’ Other than our own persons, ‘all other things are not so much existences as manners of the existence of persons’. The great Dr Johnson (1709–1784), predictably enough, thought that the idea of the non-existence of matter was nonsense. ‘I refute it thus,’ he exclaimed, kicking at a stone (and giving it a distinctly Newtonian acceleration).
When John Locke taught that ‘Reason must be our last judge and guide in everything,’ he (along with continental philosophers such as Spinoza, Leibnitz and Gassendi) put his seal on the Age of Reason, and at the same time laid down a challenge. His philosophical system has no room for blind faith. ‘Faith is nothing but a firm assent of the mind: which, if it be regulated, as is our duty, cannot be afforded to anything but upon good reason … He that believes without having any reason for believing, may be in love with his own fancies; but neither seeks truth as he ought, nor pays the obedience due to his maker.’ In that case, a bishop’s (or a pope’s) say-so was definitely not a sufficient reason for believing anything. And nowhere was any philosophy more threatening than when it turned a hard-edged logic and the disciplined, unforgiving eye of reason onto the Bible itself, and particularly onto the miracles – those supernatural episodes in the life of Christ and the saints that form the very basis of Christian revelation. As Paley insisted in Evidences, for the Church the miracles are God’s way of vouchsafing to his people the authority of his purposes for them. Otherwise, God is materially unknowable; in all normal respects the Holiest of the Holy Ones is hidden from the people. The ‘breath’ and ‘hand’ of God are figurative, not literal. The special exceptions take the form of paranormal phenomena – a burning bush, or the sun standing still or moving backwards, for example. Later, he sent his Son to save the world, and the miracles of the New Testament (starting with the immaculate conception – ‘for behold a Virgin shall conceive and bear an son’ – and proceeding through the raising of Lazarus from the dead, the feeding of the five thousand, and ending with the Resurrection itself) are his way of demonstrating the Saviour’s bona fides. But throughout the eighteenth century, philosophers had secretly or openly questioned the reality of miracles, requiring that the miracles of Christ either be explained in material, scientifically understandable, terms or rejected (the raising of Lazarus, for example, looks exactly like an example of cardiopulmonary resuscitation).
One of the great joys of the Renaissance, Reformation and Enlightenment was the freedom philosophers, scholars and ordinary people acquired to think for themselves. Hence the search for proofs of the unprovable, for the qualities of the ineffable, and for facts about the unknowable. Today we take this freedom for granted, and equally cheerfully slide over some deep philosophical difficulties. Not so for the Scottish philosopher David Hume, whose own epistemology has been no less influential than that of Descartes and Locke in shaping Western thought. Much of Hume’s philosophical writings are necessarily deep and abstract, but others are set in more familiar terms and deal with readily appreciated (if still dangerous) questions.
Hume was born in Edinburgh in 1711 and had early trained for the law – a subject that appealed to him about as much as medicine at Edinburgh later attracted Charles Darwin. His passion was for a wide learning based in philosophy, starting with the classics of Cicero and Virgil. He had been a delicate young man, in large part because of his intense studying and, evidently, hypochondria. To help recover from a depression or mental breakdown, he travelled to France, living as frugally as possible, and eventually spent two years at La Fleche in Anjou where he had access to the library of the Jesuit college. It was here that he wrote his monumental work, A Treatise of Human Nature (published between 1739 and 1740). At the college, the same institution where Descartes had studied, he heard a Jesuit teacher explaining a recent ‘miracle’ and immediately wrote out a rebuttal of the whole concept. For Hume, the miracles reported in the New Testament were ‘a contest of opposites … that is to say, a question whether it be more impossible that the miracle be true, or the testimony real’. For its day, that was almost as heretical as the present-day argument that some, if not all, of the miracles are mere fictions, constructed as a mythology around which to unite the fledgling first-century Christian Church.
Hume aimed to elevate moral philosophy to a science following the examples of Bacon and Newton in natural philosophy. A sceptic, he lost his faith very early, perhaps when a student at Edinburgh. The Treatise of Human Nature was the foundation of his later fame, even though the book earned little for him at first; in fact it was a commercial failure and a bitter disappointment, Hume wryly complaining that it ‘fell still-borne from the press’. Needing to earn a better living than his pen afforded, he spent a curious period first as a tutor to the insane son of the Marquis of Annandale and then as secretary and judge-advocate to General St Clair on an expedition against the French at Port Lorient, Guernsey, at the end of the War of the Austrian Succession. While now relatively hale and hearty, the life of a man of action scarcely suited him, but attempts to procure a more suitable position, a chair at Glasgow then one at Edinburgh, failed.
Following the death of his mother he returned to the family home in Scotland and began a period of great productivity, during which, in 1751, he wrote two works that had special bearing on an evolving, perhaps revolutionised, view of religion. In his Natural History of Religion (1757) and Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion (only published after his death in 1779)31 he used all his powers of reason and argument to test the case for traditional revealed religion as opposed to the deist position, that everything that was important about religion could be (must be) derived by reason alone. In the Dialogues Hume carefully covered his tracks by laying out his arguments in the form of a conversation among three different philosophers. This was the familiar philosopher’s device that Galileo used in his Dialogue concerning the two major world systems (1632) – without fooling the Inquisition. Both Galileo and Hume were following the example of Cicero’s De Natura Deorum, or On the Nature of the Gods (77 BC), which is set as a debate among Epicurean, Stoic and Academic philosophers.
Hume’s Dialogues did its damage not so much in the conclusions it reached as in daring to ask the awkward questions: What do we know that is true and independently verifiable about God, as opposed to what we are told? How do we know? Hume even asked the evolutionary question: Is it not more logical to assume that complex living creatures had their origins in simpler ones than via some miraculous creation by an infinitely powerful, but nonetheless unknowable, designing intelligence? Hume challenged everyone who thought they could find a rational basis for understanding God. He expressed the problem very simply: If we had never thought about there being a God in the first place, would objective, rational investigation and argument necessarily uncover his existence and define his nature? If we are already sure that God exists, it is not difficult to find seemingly rational arguments to support that notion and even to conclude that God must have certain specifiable ‘properties’, but if we were to start from scratch – if we were immigrants from some distant pagan shore or outer space – would objective study of the natural world and deep philosophical enquiry produce ineluctable proofs of God? Would there be miracles and signs, for instance, that could not be explained away rationally? Was Voltaire right when he said that if God did not exist, it would be necessary to invent him?
And we always have to worry about the final ace that Hume has up his sleeve: logically, he says, anything that can be imagined as existing can also be imagined as not existing. For every piece of evidence we can find for the Creator, we have to allow the existence of equally powerful evidence against. Hence Paley’s dilemma.
As for religion itself, it would be wrong to think of it as having been a passive spectator at these feasts of the intellect. Indeed, the Church and the churches became their own best and worst friends. Ever since Martin Luther in 1517 nailed his Ninety-five Theses to the church door in Wittenberg and unleashed a flood of independent thinking about forms of worship and modes of belief, it had become impossible for the Church to speak with one voice and proclaim one doctrine. Instead, many voices, doctrines and practices competed for people’s attention. A single original discipline had been opposed by a structureless freedom reaching to the heart of belief. Each group was defined on nuances of doctrine and separate routes to personal salvation, defended in the name of reason.
One such argument was between the theists and deists over the critical matter of revelation. For the Christian Church, revelation meant the events, especially the miracles, by which God had communicated with his chosen people, and it especially meant God’s self-revelation in the form of his son Jesus, sent for the redemption of our souls. Deists, however, insisted that revelation was just the public-relations machinery of a controlling priesthood. God was enough to stand on his own, with the vast panoply of nature itself forming the only necessary evidence of his Being. In the Age of Reason, therefore, rational study of the world alone could reveal the Unworldly One. As Thomas Paine (of American Revolution fame) was to write in his deist manifesto:
When the divine gift of reason begins to expand itself in the mind and calls man to reflection, he then reads and contemplates God and his works, not in the books pretending to revelation … The little and paltry, often obscene, tales of the bible sink into wretchedness when put in comparison with this mighty work. The deist needs none of those tricks and shows called miracles to confirm his father, for what can be a greater miracle than creation itself, and his own existence.32
Trinitarians opposed Unitarians, Arians and dozens of other sects over the divinity of Christ and the identity of the Holy Ghost and ‘Christ with God’. Was Christ the same as God? (Sabellians); was God different from the Holy Ghost and again from Christ, who was his son? (Trinitarians); or was Christ (as the Socinians argued) merely another in the line of prophets? Then the Sub- and Infralapsarians opposed the Supralapsarians on the question of whether the Fall of Man was intended by God or only permitted after he saw man’s wickedness – an argument that parallels the dispute among the Armenians, Calvinists and others over the issue of the predestination of individual salvation. Many English sects dissented from the Thirty-nine Articles that defined the core precepts of the Church of England. Among them were the Occasional Conformists and Non-Jurant Schismatics, who otherwise remained true to the doctrines of the Church but rejected part or all of its discipline. And there were those who dissented against practices of worship and inclusion, the latter including the Baptists, Anabaptists and Paedobaptists, with their differing views on the issue of baptism and consent.
After 1662, non-conformists of every stripe in England were persecuted with a new and ruthless zeal, but they always bounced back. Many schismatic sects, such as the Plymouth Brethren, became even more rigid in matters of piety than the Church of England or Catholics from whom they had split. Others were quite liberal in the interpretations of the Bible, particularly the Mosaic account of creation, thus allowing their followers to reconcile the new discoveries of science with their beliefs. As long as anyone insisted that Genesis remained the one unimpeachable source, however, the obvious result was confrontation and discord.
In 1696, all Europe was scandalised by the radical scepticism of John Toland, whose book Christianity not Mysterious33 was ordered to be burned by the public hangman in Ireland. Toland was born in Ireland and brought up as a Catholic, then became a Protestant and a free thinking rebel, eking out a living as a writer of highly polemical tracts and books and dodging from country to country just ahead of a host of would-be persecutors. (Among other accomplishments, he invented the term ‘pantheism’.) His writings exemplify what happened when free thinking and (even more dangerous) outspoken populists started to apply the pure reason of thinkers such as John Locke to a close study of the Bible. Toland thundered: ‘Whatever is contrary to Reason can be no Miracle, for it has been sufficiently prov’d already, that Contradiction is only another word for Impossible or Nothing.’ Toland dared to write what many felt, that it was absurd that the wine at the communion service should be thought literally to be transubstantiated into the blood of Christ. It was absurd that the disciples could have seen Christ walk on water. If you can believe in miracles, Toland argued, what is to prevent you from believing any nonsensical fiction? A church that depended on subjecting its adherents to the discipline of believing in miracles, and held its members in awe of the unknowable, was not worth belonging to. The precepts of the Church had to be understandable in material terms and expressed in plain words.
