By Francis X. Maier
Science is a strange topic to choose on the eve of Holy Week. Or maybe it’s not so strange. In a certain way, science is miraculous. It is an expression of man’s dignity and genius. It offers our species two profound satisfactions: the joy of discovering how the world works and the means to use what is learned to improve our lives and those of others. It also seems to answer the «why» of things. Why do colliding atoms produce energy? Why can a sufficient amount of that energy, properly channeled, vaporize an entire city like Hiroshima? And why can we even ask such things?
The first two questions are really disguised versions of «how.» To the third question, science will offer an equally reasonable theory of evolution: the path from chemicals in a primordial soup to the contents of a Tiffany jewelry store window. It will explain why those substances could combine and transform; why some ended up as very expensive diamonds; and why those diamonds trigger favorable biological responses in the mating dance of a singularly intelligent animal. But authentic science has the modesty to know its own limits; to recognize and respect other paths to truth and human fulfillment.
Therefore, when it comes to questions about why, science will not answer —because it cannot— the great question: Why is there something rather than nothing?
The above has been said by others, many times. But it is still worth mentioning a point raised by social scientist Christian Smith in Moral, Believing Animals. There are no «non-believers». That includes militant atheists. We all believe in something. All of us, first and often unconsciously, formulate a foundational assumption about the nature of the world based on our instincts, preferences, or experiences. Then we build a rational framework on it to answer and address the «whys» of life. It happens that some options are better, and others worse, than the rest.
For example, scientism is not science. It is a materialist philosophy about nature dressed in scientific garb. It is animated by the belief —a confident leap of faith— that reality is purely «matter» and material processes. It assumes that science, at least theoretically, can one day unravel all or most of what there is to know. Thus, we can adequately accept something implausible but very real like superposition in quantum physics: the fact that a quantum particle can be and not be, in the same place, at the same time. After all, nature is mysterious. But a virgin birth? A resurrection from the dead? Biblical nonsense.
Here is the irony. Intellectual vanity is good news for a gifted writer. It is an excellent target. That is why Arthur C. Clarke’s work, he himself a convinced atheist, could reap praise from people like C.S. Lewis. In the early 1950s, Clarke wrote a story —»The Nine Billion Names of God«— that is unforgettable and especially relevant to our reflections here.
The plot is simple. A Buddhist monastery high in the Himalayas contacts an American computer company. The monks hire two of its engineers, who travel to install and operate a computer on site. This will drastically accelerate a project the monastery has been working on for 300 years: enumerating the nine billion names of God (as the monks claim). The engineers think this is nonsense. But the pay and food are good, the monks welcoming, and the landscape impressive. By day, the world is an endless succession of amazing mountains. By night, the sky is a tapestry of intensely beautiful stars.
The deeper «why» behind the project eventually becomes clear. When all the names of God are collected and encoded, the purpose of man (as the monks believe) will have been fulfilled and Creation will end. The engineers suspect that when the world does not obligingly disappear, the monks will be unhappy —very unhappy— with them. So, on the night the project nears its end, they sneak away on horseback for the long journey to an airfield much farther down and the trip back to reality. They chat amiably during the descent. Then, one of them falls silent. And they look at the sky.
Above them, one by one and without any fuss, the stars go out.
So, what is the lesson for Holy Week? There are two.
First, in Job God asks: «Where were you when I laid the foundation of the earth?» (38:4). The answer is easy: nowhere. We are the dust into which He breathed life. We owe Him everything. Isaiah 55:8-9 says: «For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways —declares the Lord—. For as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways and my thoughts than your thoughts.» God owes us nothing, much less an explanation for everything He does. We have five senses that, together, resemble a small glass: it is of precious value, but it cannot contain the ocean of reality. Yet God loves us and calls us back to Him even when we pretend to be gods ourselves. He gives purpose to our lives and meaning to the world. He fills Creation with a symphony of beauty, glory, and harmony.
Second, John 3:16 says: «For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him might not perish but might have eternal life.» In John 11:25, Jesus says: «I am the resurrection and the life.» And in John 14:6, Jesus says: «I am the way and the truth and the life; no one comes to the Father except through me.» No matter how many names humanity uses, in the end there is only one God: the God of Israel and his only Son, our redeemer, Jesus Christ. Jesus is the Word of God made flesh, who died and rose for our salvation.
The Hebrew root of the word holy (kadosh) means «distinct from.» We are called to be distinct from the ways of the world and worthy witnesses of God’s love. May we remember and truly live it, next week and beyond.
About the author
Francis X. Maier is a senior research fellow in Catholic studies at the Ethics and Public Policy Center. He is the author of True Confessions: Voices of Faith from a Life in the Church.