The universe is awesome in its size, astonishing in its intricacy. Every part of it fits neatly with every other part. Consider an ant, an anteater, an antirrhinum. Each is perfectly suited to its role (or 'purpose'). The ant exists to be eaten by anteaters, the anteater exists to eat ants, and the antirrhinum ... well, bees like it, and that's a good thing. Each organism shows clear evidence of `design', as if it had been made specifically to carry out some purpose. Ants are just the right size for anteaters' tongues to lick up, anteaters have long tongues to get into ants' nests. Antirrhinums are exactly the shape to
[1] So called because it starts from the phenomenon of design and deduces the existence of a cosmic designer. be pollinated by visiting bees. And if we observe design, then surely a designer can't be far away.
Many people find this argument compelling, especially when it is developed at length and in detail, and `designer' is given a capital `D'. But Darwin's `dangerous idea', as Daniel Dennett characterised it in his book with that title, puts a very big spoke into the wheel of cosmic design. It provides an alternative, very plausible, and apparently simple process, in which there is no role for design and no need for a designer. Darwin called that process `natural selection'; nowadays we call it `evolution'.
There are many aspects of evolution that scientists don't yet understand. The details behind Darwin's theory are still up for grabs, and every year brings new shifts of opinion as scientists try to improve their understanding. Bible-Belters understand even less about evolution, and they typically distort it into a caricature: `blind chance'. They have no interest whatsoever in improving their understanding. But they do understand, far better than effete Europeans, that the theory of evolution constitutes a very dangerous attack on the psychology of religious belief. Not on its substance (because anything that science discovers can be attributed to the Deity and viewed as His mechanism for bringing the associated events about) but on its attitude. Once God is removed from the day-to-day running of the planet, and installed somewhere behind DNA biochemistry and the Second Law of Thermodynamics, it is no longer so obvious that He must be fundamental to people's daily lives. In particular, there is no special reason to believe that He affects those lives in any way, or would wish to, so the fundamentalist preachers could well be out of a job. Which is how Darwin's lack of a Nobel can become a debating point on American local radio. It is also the general line along which Darwin's own thinking evolved - he began his adult life as a theology student and ended it as a somewhat tormented agnostic. Seen from outside, and even more so from within, the process of scientific research is disorderly and confusing. It is tempting to deduce that scientists themselves are disorderly and confused. In a way, they are - that's what research involves. If you knew what you were doing it wouldn't be research. But that's just an apology, and there are better reasons for expecting, indeed, for valuing, that kind of confusion. The best reason is that it's an extremely effective way of understanding the world, and having a fair degree of confidence in that understanding.
In her book Defending Science - Reason the philosopher Susan Haack illuminates the messiness of science with a simple metaphor, the crossword puzzle. Enthusiasts know that solving a crossword puzzle is a messy business. You don't solve the clues in numerical order and write them in their proper place, converging in an orderly manner to a correct -solution, unless, perhaps, it's a quick crossword and you're an expert. Instead, you attack the clues rather randomly, guided only by a vague feeling of which ones look easiest to solve (some people find anagrams easy, others hate them). You cross-check proposed answers against others, to make sure everything fits. You detect mistakes, rub them out, write in corrections.
It may not sound like a rational process, but the end result is entirely rational, and the checks and balances - do the answers fit the clues, do the letters all fit together? - are stringent. A few mistakes may still survive, where alternative words fit both the clue and the words that intersect them, but such errors are rare (and arguably aren't really errors, just ambiguity on the part of the compiler).
The process of scientific research, says Haack, is rather like solving a crossword puzzle. Solutions to nature's riddles arrive erratically and piecemeal. When they are cross-checked against other solutions to other riddles, sometimes the answers don't fit, and then something has to be changed. Theories that were once thought to be correct turn out to be nonsense and are thrown out. A few years ago, the best explanation of the origin of stars had one small flaw: it implied that the stars were older than the universe that contained them. At any given time, some of science's answers appear to be very solid, some less so, some are dubious ... and some are missing entirely.
Again, it doesn't sound like a rational process, but it leads to a rational result. Indeed, all that cross-checking, backtracking, and revision increases our confidence in the result. Remembering, always, that nothing is proved to the hilt, nothing is final.
Critics often use this confused and confusing process of discovery as a reason to discredit science. Those stupid scientists can't even agree among themselves, they keep changing their minds, everything they say is provisional - why should anyone else believe such a muddle? They thereby misrepresent one of science's greatest strengths by portraying it as a weakness. A rational thinker must always be prepared to change his or her mind if the evidence requires it. In science, there is no place for dogma. Of course, many individual scientists fall short of this ideal; they are only human. Entire schools of scientific thought can get trapped in an intellectual blind alley and go into denial. On the whole, though, the errors are eventually exposed - by other scientists.
Science is not the only area of human thought to develop in this flexible way. The humanities do similar things, in their own manner. But science imposes this kind of discipline upon itself more strongly, more systematically, and more effectively, than virtually any other style of thinking. And it uses experiments as a reality check.
Religions, cults, and pseudoscientific movements do not behave like that. It is extremely rare for religious leaders to change their minds about anything that is already in their Holy Book. If your beliefs are held to be revealed truth, direct from the mouth of God, it's tricky to admit to errors. All the more credit to the Catholics, then, for admitting that in Galileo's day they got it wrong about the Earth being the centre of the universe, and until recently they got it wrong about evolution.
Religions, cults and pseudoscientific movements have a different agenda from science. Science, at its best, keeps lines of enquiry open. It is always seeking new ways to test old theories, even when they seem well established. It doesn't just look at the geology of the Grand Canyon and settle on the belief that the Earth is hundreds of millions of years old, or older. It cross-checks by taking new discoveries into account. After radioactivity was discovered, it became possible to obtain more accurate dates for geological events, and to compare those with the apparent record of sedimentation in the rocks. Many dates were then revised. When continental drift came in from left field, entirely new ways to find those dates arrived, and were quickly used. More dates were revised.
Scientists - collectively - want to find their mistakes, so that they can get rid of them.
Religions, cults, and pseudoscientific movements want to close down lines of enquiry. They want their followers to stop asking questions and accept the belief system. The difference is glaring. Suppose, for instance, that scientists became convinced that there was something worth taking seriously in the theories of Erich von Daniken, that ancient ruins and structures must have been the work of visiting aliens. They would then start asking questions. Where did the aliens come from? What sort of spaceships did they have? Why did they come here? Do ancient inscriptions suggest one kind of alien or many? What is the pattern to the visitations? Whereas believers in von Daniken's theories are satisfied with generic aliens, and ask no more. Aliens explain the ruins and structures - that's cracked it, problem solved.