Rocks of Ages (5 page)

Huxley then states his reasons for embracing science as his guide in factual questions. In the “standard quote” from this letter, the lines found in every
Bartlett’s
ever published, Huxley writes:

These statements might be—and usually have been—taken as a manifesto for the standard model of warfare between science and religion, and as a classical defense for science, even in the hour of greatest spiritual
need. But this wonderful letter, read
in extenso
, takes an opposite position, akin to Darwin’s at the death of Annie. Huxley does reject the soul’s immortality as a personal comfort in his grief—for all the reasons cited above. But he forcefully recognizes the major principle of NOMA in stating that such a religious idea cannot be subject to scientific proof: “I neither deny nor affirm the immortality of man. I see no reason for believing in it, but, on the other hand, I have no means of disproving it.” Then, in terms strikingly similar to Darwin’s metaphor about dogs and the mind of Newton (see
this page
), Huxley locates this subject beyond the magisterium of science, and in the domain of personal decision, because we cannot even imagine a rational test: “in attempting even to think of these questions, the human intellect flounders at once out of its depth.”

Then, in a concluding passage that still brings tears to my eyes, Huxley summarizes a personal case for NOMA by stating the three non-overlapping aspects of personal integrity—religion for morality, science for factuality, and love for sanctity—that have anchored his own life and given it meaning. He begins by quoting the philosophical work of his friend Thomas Carlyle
(Sartor Resartus
, or
The Tailor Reclothed)
, and ends with the celebrated line of Martin Luther at the Diet of Worms, stating why he will not renounce his religious convictions: “God help me, I cannot do otherwise.”
Has any “atheist” ever presented a better case for the role of true religion (as a ground for moral contemplation, rather than a set of dogmas accepted without questioning)?

As a coda to this chapter, a symbolic story about Darwin’s funeral, and Huxley’s role in switching the intended place of burial, serves as a fitting symbol and illustration of NOMA, the potential harmony through difference of science and religion, both properly conceived and limited. Darwin wished to be buried in the local churchyard of his adopted village in Downe, where he had done the requisite good deeds for a man of wealth and social standing—including service as a magistrate, proper donations to the local church to support programs for the poor, and establishment of his own charities, including a recreational hall with books and games for workingmen, but no alcohol. But a few of Darwin’s well-placed friends, spearheaded by Huxley, lobbied the proper ecclesiastical and parliamentary authorities to secure a public burial in Westminster Abbey, where Darwin lies today, literally at the feet of Isaac Newton.

As a perpetual publicist for the good name of science, Huxley must have relished the prospect that a freethinker who had so discombobulated the most hallowed traditions of Western thought could now lie
with kings and conquerors in the most sacred British spot of both political and ecclesiastical authority. But let us be a bit more charitable and grant—even to the combative Huxley, but certainly to the clerics and MPs who made the burial possible—a motivation prompted by a spirit of reconciliation, and by the strong and positive symbol represented by a revolutionary man of science, and at least an agnostic in personal belief, lying in the holiest of Christian holies because he had not feared to seek knowledge and understood that whatever he found could not confute a genuine sense of religion.

Mr. Bridge, the organist of Westminster, composed a funeral anthem for Darwin’s interment (a perfectly serviceable piece of music, which I have actively enjoyed under another hat as a choral singer). Bridge chose one of the great biblical wisdom texts, and I cannot imagine a more appropriate set of verses, both for Darwin’s ultimate celebration, and for NOMA’s theme that a full life—that is, a wise life—requires study and resolution within several magisteria of our complex lives and mentalities.

A fine statement indeed. I only wish that Mr. Bridge had added the very next line (Proverbs 3:18)—the even more famous wisdom text that also happens to serve as the standard metaphor for evolution as well!

2
T
HE
P
ROBLEM
R
ESOLVED IN
P
RINCIPLE

H
E COULD CERTAINLY AFFORD THE
fees, or simply command the performance by imperial decree, but has any student ever been so blessed in the quality of a private tutor than Alexander the Great, who got several years of undivided attention from Aristotle himself? Now Aristotle preached, as a centerpiece of his philosophy, the concept of a “golden mean,” or the resolution of most great issues at a resting point between extremes.

But I wonder how well Aristotle’s pupil learned his lessons when I contemplate the two radically different, indeed diametrically opposed, versions of his most famous anecdote. The usual story holds that Alexander, at the height of his military expansion, wept because he had no new worlds to conquer—the dilemma of boredom when “been there, done that” applies to all
potential projects. But Plutarch’s version, from the first century A.D. and therefore relatively close to the source, features a precisely opposite problem—the dilemma of impotence in a universe too vast to encompass, or even to dent. Plutarch’s account also becomes slightly more believable in expressing Aristotle’s own doctrine of the eternity of worlds: “Alexander wept when he heard … that there was an infinite number of worlds, [saying] ‘Do you not think it a matter worthy of lamentation that when there is such a vast multitude of them, we have not yet conquered one?’ ”

But maybe Alexander understood the golden mean after all, for if we add these extreme stories and divide by two, we may find an intermediate resting place of satisfaction for past achievements, combined with sufficient stimulation for further activity—and therefore no cause for any tears.

I am, of course, only jesting feebly about a symbol chosen to represent the general concept of resolution. Still, I wish to raise a serious point about our usual approach to complex problems, a theme well illustrated by these opposite versions of Alexander’s anecdote. Our minds tend to work by dichotomy—that is, by conceptualizing complex issues as “either/or” pairs, dictating a choice of one extreme or the other, with no middle ground (or golden mean) available for any alternative resolution. (I suspect that our apparently unavoidable
tendency to dichotomize represents some powerful baggage from an evolutionary past, when limited consciousness could not transcend “on or off,” “yes or no,” “fight or flee,” “move or rest”—and the neurology of simpler brains became wired in accordance with such exigencies. But we must leave this speculative subject for another time and place.)

Thus, when we must make sense of the relationship between two disparate subjects (science and religion in this case)—especially when both seem to raise similar questions at the core of our most vital concerns about life and meaning—we assume that one of two extreme solutions must apply: either science and religion must battle to the death, with one victorious and the other defeated; or else they must represent the same quest and can therefore be fully and smoothly integrated into one grand synthesis.

But both extreme scenarios work by elimination—either the destruction of one by another, or the merger of both into a large and pliant “whole ball of wax” without sharp edges or incisive points. Why not opt instead for a “golden mean” that grants dignity and distinction to
each
subject? We might borrow a paradoxical line from the English essayist G. K. Chesterton, who was not just indulging a national stereotype for dousing anything vibrant and spontaneous with the voice of stolid and restrictive “reason” (“no sex, please, we’re
British”), but who epitomized a profound insight about breaking impasses and gaining insight when he stated that “art is limitation; the essence of every picture is the frame.”

Consider any of the classically “big” and diffuse “core” questions that have troubled people since the dawn of consciousness: for example, how are humans related to other organisms, and what does this relationship mean? This question contains such richness that no single formulation, and no simple answer, can possibly provide full satisfaction. (All questions of such scope also embody a good deal of “slop” and loose construction, requiring clarification and agreement about intended definitions before any common ground can be sought.)

At this point we must invoke Chesterton’s notion of framing and this book’s central theme of NOMA, or non-overlapping magisteria. Think of any cliché or standard epigram about distinct items that don’t mix—the oil and water, or apples and oranges, of American usage; the chalk and cheese of the corresponding British motto; the two human traditions that cannot join (“and never the twain shall meet”) at least until divine power ends the present order of things in Kipling’s imperial world (“Till Earth and Sky stand presently at God’s great Judgment Seat”). Each domain of inquiry frames its own rules and admissible questions,
and sets its own criteria for judgment and resolution. These accepted standards, and the procedures developed for debating and resolving legitimate issues, define the magisterium—or teaching authority—of any given realm. No single magisterium can come close to encompassing all the troubling issues raised by any complex subject, especially one so rich as the meaning of our relationship with other forms of life. Instead of supposing that a single approach can satisfy our full set of concerns (“one size fits all”), we should prepare to visit a picture gallery, where we can commune with several different canvases, each circumscribed by a sturdy frame.