(... I realize in retrospect that a sizable chunk of my readership are people over the age of forty who have little interest in Netflix adaptation of Marvel comic books, nor do they view comic books as a particularly mature medium, and while I could argue that point into the ground, I don't think it'd be a beneficial use of my time. All of that to say, you don't really have to watch that trailer if you don't want because it's not, like, spiritually important or anything at this point. It's just flipping awesome to me.)
Now, on to the actual post!
The theories that work best are the ones that hold when you push them to positive and negative infinity. I learned that in my first physics-major level class, in Mechanics. You push the theory to the boundaries and if it doesn't hold up, you need a better theory. Newtonian physics can't explain Mercury's orbit because it's outside the limits of the theory. You need Relativity. It's a useful test. It helps you point out your weaknesses in what you think is true.
What I'm saying is that if you're proposing to feed me truth, that truth has to work at the limits.
I ran into this problem on Sunday morning. The pastor had been preaching about humans being made in the image of God and we were talking after the service (four women, I might add, having an intellectual discussion about what the definition of Imago Dei really is) and discussion whether we liked the pastor's examples of what defines humans as being distinctly human, set apart from the rest of creation. I pushed an idea further than I should, saying that the idea of a chimp developing speech isn't too far-fetched and my friend pushed back, saying that I was taking a hypothetical too far. And that's when I came back with what is my perpetual trump card in an argument like this. "A theory has to work at the limits. That's how you know you have a strong theory."
And then we talked ourselves down and chatted about lunch and apologized for seeming combative or argumentative and moved on with our days. The thought that stuck with me, by the way, from the sermon, was how the pastor talked about humanity as a glorious ruin, a CS Lewis quote that I can't find, and as a masterpiece that could be restored. The idea that's still percolating in my head is how I could be restored.
That's the difference here, I think. The line between what it means to be made in the image of God or the discussions of how the universe came to be or whether there's a purpose to all of it, those are intellectual discussions, in some way. They're things that we can debate and contend and ponder and built academic arguments around. But when someone asks me if science and religion have to be enemies, I'm going to tell them no. Because at the heart of it, this is not what matters to you and me. You and me, we were always going to pick and choose anyway, to find profundity where we like, where we felt like it was, in the words we scribble in journals, in the things we get tattooed on our arms, the phrases we repeat in our hearts.
I'm not going to get "Test the limits of the hypothesis" inked onto my skin.
"Glorious ruin," on the other hand...
There's a beating heart that neither science and religion can get at, I think. There's an unconquerable life that refuses to be informed by the best of ideas. It knows how it feels, it knows what tugs at it, and institutions, no matter how well-intended or how well-informed, don't tug like that. I don't know how to formalize that. I don't know how to put that into theoretical terms and honestly, I kinda don't want to. I don't want to put this little flame of hope and beauty into any kind of box. I want to leave it as a light, floating out into the sky and the hills, wherever it wants to be.
But I also believe there's value in thinking about our place on earth, in the universe, our responsibilities. I think there's many a way to inform our view of the world, some more helpful than others.
I want to find the helpful ways.
I want to help us soar.
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