Rocks of Ages (2 page)

Magisterium
is, admittedly, a four-bit word, but I find the term so beautifully appropriate for the central concept of this book that I venture to impose this novelty upon the vocabulary of many readers. This request for your indulgence and effort also includes a proviso: Please do not mistake this word for several near homonyms of very different meaning—
majesty, majestic
, etc. (a common confusion because Catholic life also features activity in this different domain). These other words derive from the different root (and route) of
majestas
, or majesty (ultimately from
magnus
, or great), and do imply domination and unquestioning obedience. A magisterium, on the other hand, is a domain where one form of teaching holds the appropriate tools for meaningful discourse and resolution. In other words,
we debate and hold dialogue under a magisterium; we fall into silent awe or imposed obedience before a majesty.

To summarize, with a tad of repetition, the net, or magisterium, of science covers the empirical realm: what is the universe made of (fact) and why does it work this way (theory). The magisterium of religion extends over questions of ultimate meaning and moral value. These two magisteria do not overlap, nor do they encompass all inquiry (consider, for example, the magisterium of art and the meaning of beauty). To cite the old clichés, science gets the age of rocks, and religion the rock of ages; science studies how the heavens go, religion how to go to heaven.

I will examine this NOMA principle as a solution to the false conflict between science and religion in four chapters: the first, an introduction based on two stories and contrasts; the second, a characterization and illustration of NOMA as developed and supported by both institutions of science and religion; the third, an outline of historical reasons for the existence of conflict, where none should exist; and the fourth, a summary of psychological reasons for the same false conflict, with a closing suggestion for the path of best interaction.

I deplore the current penchant for literary confession, spawned by our culture’s conflation of two radically different concepts: celebrity and stature. Nonetheless, I accept
that intellectual subjects of such personal salience impose some duty for authorial revelation—while the essay, as a literary genre, has been defined as discussion of general ideas in personal contexts ever since Montaigne coined the name in the sixteenth century. Let me, then, briefly state a perspective born of my own accidental ontogeny.

I grew up in an environment that seemed entirely conventional and uninteresting to me—in a New York Jewish family following the standard pattern of generational rise: immigrant grandparents who started in the sweatshops, parents who reached the lower ranks of the middle classes but had no advanced schooling, and my third generation, headed for a college education and a professional life to fulfill the postponed destiny. (I remember my incredulity when the spouse of an English colleague of “good breeding” found this background both exotic and fascinating. I also remember two incidents that emphasize the extreme parochiality of my apparent sophistication as a child on the streets of New York: First, when my father told me that Protestantism was the most common religion in America, and I didn’t believe him because just about everyone in my neighborhood was either Catholic or Jewish—the composition of New York’s rising Irish, Italian, and Eastern European working classes, the only world I knew. Second, when my one Protestant friend from Kansas City introduced me to his grandparents, and I didn’t believe
him—because they spoke unaccented English, and my concept of “grandparent” had never extended beyond European immigrants.) I had dreamed of becoming a scientist in general, and a paleontologist in particular, ever since the
Tyrannosaurus
skeleton awed and scared me at New York’s Museum of Natural History when I was five years old. I had the great good fortune to achieve these goals and to love the work with fully sustained joy to this day, and without a moment of doubt or any extended boredom.

I shared the enormous benefit of a respect for learning that pervades Jewish culture, even at the poorest economic levels. But I had no formal religious education—I did not even have a bar mitzvah—because my parents had rebelled against a previously unquestioned family background. (In my current judgment, they rebelled too far, but opinions on such questions tend to swing on a pendulum from one generation to the next, perhaps eventually coming to rest at a wise center.) But my parents retained pride in Jewish history and heritage, while abandoning all theology and religious belief. (The Holocaust claimed most of both sides of my family—nothing directly personal, for I knew none of these relatives—so denial and forgetfulness could not have been an option for my parents.)

I am not a believer. I am an agnostic in the wise sense of T. H. Huxley, who coined the word in identifying
such open-minded skepticism as the only rational position because, truly, one cannot know. Nonetheless, in my own departure from parental views (and free, in my own upbringing, from the sources of their rebellion), I have great respect for religion. The subject has always fascinated me, beyond almost all others (with a few exceptions, like evolution, paleontology, and baseball). Much of this fascination lies in the stunning historical paradox that organized religion has fostered, throughout Western history, both the most unspeakable horrors and the most heartrending examples of human goodness in the face of personal danger. (The evil, I believe, lies in the frequent confluence of religion with secular power. Christianity has sponsored its share of horrors, from inquisitions to liquidations—but only because this institution held great secular power during so much of Western history. When my folks held such sway, more briefly and in Old Testament time, we committed similar atrocities with the same rationales.)

I believe, with all my heart, in a respectful, even loving, concordat between the magisteria of science and religion—the NOMA concept. NOMA represents a principled position on moral and intellectual grounds, not a merely diplomatic solution. NOMA also cuts both ways. If religion can no longer dictate the nature of factual conclusions residing properly within the magisterium of science, then scientists cannot claim higher
insight into moral truth from any superior knowledge of the world’s empirical constitution. This mutual humility leads to important practical consequences in a world of such diverse passions. We would do well to embrace the principle and enjoy the consequences.

T
HE DISCIPLE THOMAS MAKES THREE
prominent appearances in the Gospel of John, each to embody an important moral or theological principle. Nonetheless, these three episodes cohere in an interesting way that can help us to understand the different powers and procedures of science and religion. We first meet Thomas in chapter 11. Lazarus has died, and Jesus wishes to return to Judaea in order to restore his dear friend to life. But the disciples hesitate, reminding Jesus of the violent hostility that had led to a stoning on his last visit. Jesus, in his customary manner, tells an ambiguous little parable, ending with the firm conclusion that he will and must go to Lazarus—and Thomas steps forth to break the deadlock and restore courage to the disciples: “Then said Thomas … unto his fellow-disciples, Let us also go, that we may die with him.”

In the second incident (chapter 14), Jesus, at the Last Supper, states that he will be betrayed, and must endure bodily death as a result. But he will go to a better place and will prepare the way for his disciples: “In my Father’s house are many mansions … I go to prepare a place for you.” Thomas, now confused, asks Jesus: “Lord, we know not whither thou goest; and how can we know the way?” Jesus responds in one of the most familiar Bible passages: “I am the way, and the truth, and the life: no one cometh unto the Father, but by me.”

According to legend, Thomas led a brave life after the death of Jesus, extending the gospel all the way to India. The first two biblical incidents, cited above, also display his admirable qualities of bravery and faithful inquiry. Yet we know him best by the third tale, and by an appended epithet of criticism—for he thus became the Doubting Thomas of our languages and traditions. In chapter 20, the resurrected Jesus appears first to Mary Magdalene, and then to all the disciples but the absent Thomas. The famous tale unfolds:

Jesus returns a week later to complete the moral tale of a brave and inquisitive man, led astray by doubt, but chastened and forgiven with a gentle but firm lesson for us all:

(This last passage assumes great importance in traditional exegesis as representing the first time that a disciple identifies Jesus as God. Trinitarians point to Thomas’s utterance as proof for the threefold nature of God as Father, Son, and Holy Ghost at the same time. Unitarians must work their way around the literal meaning, arguing, for example, that Thomas had merely uttered an oath of astonishment, not an identification.) In any case, Jesus’ gentle rebuke conveys the moral punch line, and captures the fundamental difference between faith and science:

Thomas, in other words, passes his test because he accepted the evidence of his observations and then repented his previous skepticism. But his doubt signifies weakness, for he should have known through faith and belief. The Gospel text emphasizes Thomas’s failings through his exaggerated need to see
both
sets of stigmata (hands and side), and use
two
senses (sight and touch) to assuage his doubts.

Mark Tansey, a contemporary artist who loves to represent the great moral and philosophical lessons of Western history with modern metaphors painted in hyperrealistic style, beautifully epitomized the overly wrought character of Thomas’s doubt. In 1986 he depicted a man who won’t accept continental drift in general, or even the reality of earthquakes in particular. An earthquake has fractured both a California road and the adjoining cliff, but the man still doubts. So he instructs his wife, at the wheel, to straddle the fault line with their car, while he gets out and thrusts his hand into the analogy of Christ’s pierced side—the crack in the road. Tansey titles this work
Doubting Thomas
.

I accept the moral of this tale for important principles under the magisterium of ethics and values. If you need to go through the basic argument, and to test the consequences, each time anger tempts you to murder, then your fealty to the Sixth Commandment is a fragile thing indeed. The steadfast, in such cases, are more blessed (and more to be trusted) than those who cavil and demand rationales each time. Blessed are they that have no such need, yet know the way of justice and decency. In this sense, Thomas deserved his chastening—while Jesus, through the firm gentleness of his rebuke, becomes a great teacher.

Doubting Thomas
by Mark Tansey (courtesy of the Curt Marcus Gallery)

But I cannot think of a statement more foreign to the norms of science—indeed more unethical under this magisterium—than Jesus’ celebrated chastisement of Thomas: “blessed are they that have
not
seen, and yet have believed.” A skeptical attitude toward appeals based only on authority, combined with a demand for direct evidence (especially to support unusual claims), represents the first commandment of proper scientific procedure.