http://apologeticspress.org/APContent.aspx?category=12&article=1357
The Intelligent Design Movement [Part I]
| by |
Trevor Major, M.Sc., M.A. |
Over the last decade or so, a new way of framing the origins debate has
emerged. This approach puts the issue in terms of “Intelligent Design
versus Naturalism” rather than “Creation versus Evolution.” Scientists,
lawyers, philosophers, theologians, teachers, and other supporters of
this approach have banded together in a loose confederation known as the
“intelligent design movement.” Berkeley law professor Phillip E.
Johnson acts as a fatherly leader to the movement. Other key figures
include Michael Behe, David Berlinski, William Dembski, David K. DeWolf,
Stephen C. Meyer, Paul Nelson, Nancy Pearcey, Jay Wesley Richards, and
Jonathan Wells.
On first hearing, regular readers of
Reason & Revelation might become suspicious of the intelligent design (
ID)
approach. Why would anyone want to stop talking about creation? After
all, “creation” usually implies the existence of a Creator-God Who,
typically, is associated with the God of the Bible. Furthermore, why
would anyone want to take “evolution” out of the debate? Are these
people trying to sneak evolutionary theory past conservative Bible
believers?
These suspicions are not without merit. Ever since Darwin, Christians
have struggled with issues of science and faith. Some among them have
felt somewhat embarrassed by the Scopes Trial of the 1920s, the failed
litigation of the 1970s and ’80s, and the recent political controversies
in places like Kansas. An all-too-frequent response, even by believers
who express a commitment to the inspired biblical text, has been to cede
victory to Darwinian evolution. To uphold design without insisting on
the Creator-God of the Bible has the appearance of making still more
concessions.
However, the
ID movement makes a critical
departure by not getting into the biblical interpretation business, nor
taking any theological stance whatsoever. In attempting to make their
case,
ID advocates have focused on two critical
questions: (1) Is science, in principle, able to detect evidence of
design in nature?; and (2) Is there, in fact, any such evidence of
genuine design in nature (and in the biological world in particular)?
Someone who is intent on pressing these questions does not wish to be
distracted by arguments on radiometric dating, or how many animals could
fit into the ark. So, for the sake of argument, those in the
ID
movement want to set aside (temporarily) questions about, say, Genesis
and the age of the Earth. It is not that such questions are deemed as
being either irrelevant or unimportant; it is just that they are being
saved for another place and time.
At the same time, leaders of the
ID movement do
not attempt to hide their religious commitments. They see evidence of
design in nature, and believe that this is consistent with their belief
in a Creator-God. They would insist, however, that the evidence in any
particular case be weighed on its scientific merits. If the evidence
favors design over chance and natural law, then this conclusion should
be accepted, regardless of any religious implications. Experience has
shown, however, that doctrinaire evolutionists are loath to play this
game. They are more than willing to offer instances of alleged “poor
design” as evidence against the God of theism, but refuse to entertain
the possibility of genuine design on the grounds that it might open the
door to divine intervention in the natural world. That is to say, they
cannot seem to make up their minds as to whether God is the wrong
choice, or no choice at all.
Exposing such inconsistencies and creating a level playing field are critical first steps in the current
ID strategy. The same approach stiffens
ID
resolve against couching the debate in terms of “creation vs.
evolution” because, as we will see, these words are shrouded in a fog of
equivocations that hides the real issues. There is an emotional
component, too. For instance, when a science teacher presumes to speak
sympathetically about “creation,” the mainstream media ask us to
associate that concept with a view held by supposedly anti-intellectual,
anti-scientific, unthinking, bigoted, narrow-minded, uneducated
fundamentalists who still believe the world is flat and the Earth is at
the center of the Universe. Yet, when a science professor from the local
state university comes to the defense of “evolution,” we are encouraged
to think of a view endorsed by “all reputable scientists” and “thinking
people everywhere.” Indeed, newspaper stories frequently talk about
“creation
ism” versus “evolution” as if belief in a creation were exactly that—an “ism”—whereas evolution is an established fact. The
ID
movement can do nothing to prevent such abusive tactics. Indeed,
critics have come up with the term “intelligent design creationism”
(e.g., Pennock, 1999, pp. 28ff.), hoping that the media will portray
ID as nothing more than biblical literalism in disguise. Once again,
ID
advocates wish to expose such a rhetorical ploy and force the issue by
insisting on definitions. This marks a good starting point for us, as we
seek to understand some of the chief concerns of the intelligent design
movement.
DEFINITIONS
“Evolution”
One of the problems in talking about the origins issue is that
evolutionists of both religious and nonreligious stripes play a shell
game with the word “evolution.” For those of you who never have seen a
magic show, a shell game is an ancient trick in which a conjurer lays
out three containers on a table. Traditionally, the containers have been
shells (hence the name of the game). Under one of the shells the
conjurer places a small object like a pea, and then shuffles the shells
around. Your job is to pick the shell with the pea underneath. This
seems simple enough, and therein lies the trap, for the conjurer can use
sleight of hand to make the pea appear under any shell, or no shell at
all.
I am not trying to suggest that most evolutionists practice this sort
of deception deliberately, but the result is confusion nonetheless. In
their version of the game, “evolution” starts under one of the following
shells: a shell for change of any kind; a shell for small-scale change
in living organisms (microevolution); or a shell for a naturalistic
origin of anything that ever lived (macroevolution). No matter where it
starts, it always ends up under the third shell. Here are some ways in
which the game might be played:
Game #1. “ ‘Evolution’ simply means ‘change.’ And we know that
things do change. After all, haven’t you changed since you were a baby?
Isn’t an eight-week-old fetus different from an eight-week-old baby? So,
there you go, evolution is a fact.”
Game #2. “Don’t you know that mosquitoes have evolved resistance to
DDT,
and that bacteria have become resistant to antibiotics? And look at
sickle cell anemia: nature has selected a mutation that helps people in
malaria-ridden regions of the world to survive. So, of course, evolution
is a fact.”
Game #3. “How else do you explain the morphological and genetic
similarities of life on Earth? Clearly, similarity implies common
descent. Besides, saying ‘God just did it’ is not very helpful,
scientifically speaking.”
Of the three games, the last variant is the only one that pulls no
punches—at least, not with the term “evolution.” We watched the pea
carefully, and it stayed under the shell for macroevolution the whole
time. Here we all know what we are dealing with, but you will not see
this game very often. The pros consider it a little bold and brassy for
school textbooks and the mainstream media. An evolutionist often does
not want to come right out and say, “Look, evolution is a fact. There is
no God or, if there is, we don’t need Him. Deal with it!”
What about the other variants? In the first game, “evolution” was put
under the shell for simple change, but by the end of the game it
appeared under the shell for macroevolution. It might seem incredible
that evolutionists would try to pull such a crude stunt, but it really
happens. Indeed, a guidebook published in 1998 by the National Academy
of Sciences (
NAS) makes the argument that kids
need to learn evolution because they need to appreciate change (1998, p.
6). Do kids really need to learn that sparrows evolved from dinosaurs,
or that humans evolved from ape-like creatures, in order to appreciate
the fact that things change? The
NAS thinks so.
The second game is a favorite because it is so hard for the average
observer to diagnose. The pea goes under the shell for microevolution
but, once again, ends up under the shell for macroevolution. Here we are
asked to believe something quite well understood and credible—that a
population, or even a whole species, can undergo change on a small
scale. We have become accustomed to hearing about kids with ear
infections that no longer respond to standard antibiotics, or insects
that have become resistant to common insecticides. By extrapolation,
then, we are asked to believe that small changes could become big
changes over time.
This was a move pioneered by Charles Darwin, although he started with
changes wrought by selective breeding of domesticated plants and
animals. He wrote in the
Origin: “Slow though the process of
selection may be, if feeble man can do much by his powers of artificial
selection, I can see no limit to the amount of change...which may be
effected in the long course of time by nature’s power of selection”
(1859, p. 109). Thus, Darwin draws us in with the concept of
tried-and-true, goal-directed selective breeding, but then turns and
asks us to accept a controversial theory that credits unlimited change
to the blind forces of natural selection.
The tactic has not changed much in the last century and a half. In the
NAS teacher’s guidebook mentioned earlier, the authors list the following as examples of evolution in action (1998, pp. 17-18):
-
resistance of sexually transmitted diseases to antibiotics
-
resistance of rats to the pesticide warfarin
-
resistance of insects to insecticides and genetically engineered plant defenses
-
tolerance of plants to toxic metals
-
the recent split between two “genetically and morphologically very similar” species of lacewings
-
changes in the beak size of Darwin’s finches as a result of drought conditions (p. 19, sidebar)
The first thing you are likely to notice about this list is that every item represents a good example of
microevolution.
Yet the guide barely misses a beat as it segues into an extended
discussion of how a hoofed, four-legged land animal changed into a
whale-like creature. But how do you get from one to the other? When we
ask for proof that these creatures are related, we are told to look for
similarities. When we wonder why similarities should imply common
descent, we are told to consider the sort of mechanisms that produce
changes in finches’ beaks. When we ask for proof that finch-beak
evolution can produce large-scale change, we are asked once again to
look at the similarities among several extinct creatures. Only by
jumping off this merry-go-round can we see the philosophical
commitment—the assumption—to which evolutionists are so strongly wedded.
This, then, brings us to our next definition.
“Naturalism”
In the words of the
NAS guidebook, “The
statements of science must invoke only natural things and processes” (p.
42). The authors go on to quote the following from distinguished
zoologist, Ernst Mayr: “The demarcation between science and theology is
perhaps easiest, because scientists do not invoke the supernatural to
explain how the natural world works, and they do not rely on divine
revelation to understand it” (p. 43).
What, exactly, is meant by the term “natural?” Most writers find it easier to say what the word does
not
mean. It excludes the artificial. It is set against the nonnatural. It
is everything but the supernatural. In a broader sense, the term is
synonymous with “material,” and thus precludes spirits, minds, and
intelligences (see Aune, 1995, p. 350).
Still, these common definitions leave open the possibility that God could intervene in the natural course of events. The
effects of these miracles might be open to scientific study, but the
Cause,
being supernatural, would lie beyond the immediate grasp of empirical
science—the sort of workaday activity that scientists take themselves to
be doing whenever they enter their laboratories and don their white
coats. Take, for example, the feeding of the five thousand (Mark
7:38-44). The loaves and fish could undergo a battery of scientific
tests, but the process by which they appeared would resist scrutiny. So
to invoke the supernatural on this occasion is to admit that an effect
involving entirely natural things (i.e., loaves and fish) defies
understanding in terms of natural causes. It is only by detecting
regularities between natural causes and their effects that scientists
can formulate natural laws. Yet if God is able to intervene at will,
then ripened apples can float from a tree, and steam engines can run
forever without refueling. In effect, scientists imagine the collapse of
their entire enterprise.
Worse still, some scientists fear a pervasive God-of-the-gaps
mentality—a disposition to call forth the supernatural whenever we fail
to understand something in nature. If an aspiring researcher is willing
to invoke God at the drop of a hat, they feel, then he should look for a
career as a shaman or witch doctor, not a practitioner of modern
science. Invoking the supernatural is plain “bad form.”
Making the Rules
The outcome of all these concerns is to insist that questions posed of nature must return
natural
answers. It cannot matter that some natural thing has the appearance of
a nonnatural origin; the explanation for that natural thing must be,
well...natural. With this condition in place, the term “natural” takes
on the meaning of that which is “recognized” or “accessible to
investigation” by the natural sciences (Schmitt, 1995, p. 343; Lacey,
1995, p. 603). God, being nonnatural, is ruled out of bounds a priori
(i.e., prior to any consideration of the facts).
In the
ID literature and elsewhere, this view is known as
methodological naturalism.
The point in using this jaw-breaker is to highlight the constraints
that most scientists have placed on their methodology. It also serves to
distinguish between a way of doing science and a belief that nature is
all there is, which is
metaphysical naturalism
(“metaphysics” being a study of what exists). Conceivably, a theist
could subscribe to the first view, but not the second. On Sunday she
believes that God exists and raised a Man from the dead; on Monday she
returns to work, confident that, over the weekend, God has not messed
with the bacterial colonies growing in her petri dishes.
However, there is room to quibble with this terminology. It could be
argued that, for all practical purposes, methodological naturalism
is
the way that scientists do their work on a daily basis, regardless of
whether or not they are willing to admit that nature shows evidence of
intelligent design. Testing new alloys, for instance, might not provide
the most obvious place to look for design in nature, even if the
scientist praises God for the ultimate origins of his subject matter.
Also, the idea of excluding intelligent causes, and divine agency in
particular, has worked its way well beyond science into numerous other
disciplines. For instance, modern theologians might seek to explain the
resurrection of Jesus as something other than a direct intervention of
God. For these reasons, Phillip Johnson recently has switched to another
jaw-breaker: epistemological naturalism (“epistemology” being the study
of knowledge). The shift in terminology acknowledges the extent to
which naturalistic thinking has strayed beyond the methods of science to
become the only acceptable way of knowing in many fields of study. An
alternative, more manageable version of the term is
epistemic naturalism, which is the form I will employ from here on.
Defending the Rules
The important point to keep in mind is that epistemic naturalism is not
a result of natural science, but an assumption imported into science.
Now, on the face of it, there is nothing wrong with scientists making
assumptions. For instance, scientists assume that the world is
comprehensible—that we, as intelligent beings, are able to make sense of
the world around us. Scientists assume that the laws of nature are
uniform—that the laws of gravity work just as well here on Earth as they
do on the Moon, or that they work just as well today as they did in the
time of Aristotle.
The real question is this:
Do we need to have epistemic naturalism for science to work properly? Is
the assumption justified? As we have seen, defenders of scientific
orthodoxy fear intrusion from God, either directly into nature itself
via miracles, or into the equations and research journals of frustrated
scientists who decide to invoke God when nature is less than
forthcoming. So, with not a little irony, it turns out that the prime
objections leveled against God as a possible explanation actually have
theological roots—but roots in
bad theology.
First, theists do not hold that God is a capricious meddler in the
affairs of man. As C.S. Lewis has noted in his usual eloquent way, “God
does not shake miracles into Nature at random as if from a
pepper-caster” (1947, p. 174). For theists, miracles constitute signs
from God, and as such they have meaning only in context. Stated more
formally: An extraordinary event qualifies as a miracle only when it has
a clear, divine purpose that is consistent with God’s character, and
when it is set in a proper theological context. These specific
conditions will have to be met before a nonnatural answer, like “God did
it,” is warranted. Theistic scientists through the ages have had no
problem figuring out where to draw the line. They may have believed that
Moses parted the Red Sea, yet had no problem doggedly pursuing a
problem in chemistry or physics because, in effect, they could recognize
a miracle when they saw one.
And second, God is not a God of the gaps in our
knowledge, but a God of the gaps in
purely natural explanations. It is not that all natural explanations in a given case have been tried and found wanting, but that all explanations of that
kind appear inadequate. Divine activity in nature does not become the
de facto
answer to ignorance, but rather an answer demanded by the evidence at
hand (see Reynolds, 1998). If the evidence points toward intelligent
design, say, then that is a conclusion that a scientist should be
willing to accept (and to reject at a later time, were the evidence to
demand it).
In addition to theological justifications, the defenders of epistemic
naturalism offer a pragmatic justification: science works best with this
assumption in place. So, in one sense, it might be true that epistemic
naturalism is assumed
a priori. But, in another sense, they believe epistemic naturalism is justified
a posteriori
(after the facts). The “facts” in this case are drawn from 300-400
years of the history of science, or more accurately (as we will see), a
certain
reading of that history.
Two common arguments emerge. First, there is the claim that science has
outmaneuvered the old world view, and who can argue with success? We
see this kind of thinking in the
NAS guide where
the authors rehearse the Galileo controversy and the paradigm shift from
geocentrism to heliocentrism (1998, pp. 27-30). We are supposed to
praise “science,” with its assumption of epistemic naturalism, for our
correct belief that the Earth orbits the Sun, not the other way around.
We reached this truth, the authors would argue along with Mayr, only
when we removed our dependence on superstition, divine revelation, and
theology. Reason triumphed over religion; science won over faith.
The problem here is that, as usual, the victors get to write the
history books. Characters at the end of the Victorian age, such as
Andrew Dickson White, recast the story of Galileo to show science’s
“rightful” place as the sole arbiter of truth. A hundred years later,
White’s telling of the story still dominates the popular imagination,
just as the
Inherit the Wind movie dominates our impression of
the Scopes Trial. Fortunately, professional historians of science have
peeled back some of the accumulated dust and dirt and, not surprisingly,
have uncovered a more complicated picture. For a start, there was more
to this seventeenth-century controversy than merely “science versus the
church” (the Roman Catholic Church, in this case). No one can say,
examining the facts, that Galileo had an overwhelming scientific case
(or that he presented it in the best way possible). As it happens, the
most workable solution at the time came from Ptolemy, an Alexandrian
astronomer of the second century
A.D. who was operating within a cosmology laid out by Aristotle, a Greek philosopher of the fourth century
B.C.
Neither of these men was a theist. Certainly, geocentrism was
consistent with one way of reading selected biblical passages (the same
understanding could be applied to modern almanacs with their references
to “sunrise” and “sunset”), but Scripture alone did not provide the
basis for rejecting Galileo’s claims. To overturn the entire package of
Greek philosophy, ancient astronomy, medieval theology, and Vatican
politics in favor of the Copernican view required a compelling case—a
case that Galileo could not, and did not, make. The Church’s treatment
of Galileo is a different matter. Even then, he was not exiled because
of his search for “the Truth,” but rather for his offenses against papal
power of his day.
Another way to express the naturalistic read on history is to say that
science has not produced any successful explanations that appeal to the
supernatural. Every nonnatural answer has been trumped by a natural
answer. A classic example would be the replacement of special creation
with Darwin’s theory of evolution as the dominant way of explaining the
history of life. However, Darwin chose at the outset to operate under
the rules of epistemic naturalism, and sought an answer that excluded
supernatural intervention. Under these rules, “success” amounts to
giving a purely naturalistic answer, which begs the question entirely.
Once creation is eliminated
a priori, the subsequent history of science will not, and cannot, produce a “successful” solution that appeals to the nonnatural.
A closely related claim is that nonnaturalistic views, such as
creation, obviously are not successful because they fail to appear in
refereed science journals. However, if epistemic naturalism is the key,
then opponents cannot get past the editors and reviewers who stand watch
at the gates of orthodoxy.
ID theorists, such as
biochemist Michael Behe, face this challenge every day. Not only is it
difficult for them to publish original contributions in science
journals, but the same journals frequently will not allow a response to
criticisms of
ID proposals. In frustration, Dr.
Behe has resorted to publishing on the Internet some of the
correspondence he has received. Here is an excerpt from one letter:
This reviewer is no authority on the blood clotting cascade, but if a
plausible model for its evolutionary development, compatible with all
known facts, has indeed not been generated so far, the remaining
question marks are not a threat to science—on the contrary, they are a
challenge added to thousands of other challenges that science met and
meets. In this instance, too, science will be successful (Behe, 2000).
By now the reader should recognize that here, “science” is being
defined as “that which produces a naturalistic answer.” Not only did the
reviewer beg off any scientific analysis of Behe’s argument (admitting
that he was “no authority”), but he also mistook Behe to be making an
old-fashioned God-of-the-gaps argument. In fact, Behe was arguing for
much more—i.e., that naturalistic arguments, as a species of argument,
fail to meet the sort of challenge presented by the blood clotting
cascade (cf. Behe, 1996, pp. 77-97).
A second appeal to history charges that the greatest advances in modern
science have come, not from theists, but from unbelievers. The
willingness of theists to invoke the supernatural, and subsume science
to revelation, takes them out of mainstream science.
This allegation merely echoes the gross theological naïveté discussed
earlier. Armed with a misunderstanding of why God works, and how God
works, epistemic naturalists wrongly take faith to be a liability in
science. Moreover, the historical facts are not on their side. Before
Darwin, most of the leading naturalists, mathematicians, and
experimenters were theists. It was only later on, with the efforts of
people like Thomas H. Huxley (who referred to himself as “Darwin’s
bulldog”) that science was wrested from the control of religious
institutions and self-taught, financially independent naturalists.
What we face today is a kind of self-fulfilling prophecy. The climate
of academia, since the time of Huxley, has become increasingly hostile
to theism. It has nothing to do with the tools or the actual techniques
employed. Given the prevailing orthodoxy, it should come as no surprise
that theists have avoided science or, perhaps, have had their careers
stymied by the disapproval of senior scientists and academics. According
to a survey of the National Academy of Sciences—yes, the very same
institution that published the guidebook I mentioned earlier—only 7% of
its members professed a “personal belief ” in God; 20.8% were doubtful
or agnostic, and nearly 72.2% expressed a “personal disbelief ” in God
(Larson and Witham, 1998). When broken down by discipline, the survey
showed that biologists—those who work in the branch of science that
arguably is vested most heavily in evolutionary theory—had the lowest
rate of belief in God (5.5%). This put lie to the claim of
NAS
president Bruce Alberts, quoted in this same report, that “there are
many very outstanding members of this academy who are very religious
people, people who believe in evolution, many of them biologists.” By
comparison, Gallup polls show consistently that nine out of every ten
Americans express an affiliation with one religious group or another.
Ideas Have Consequences
One final point of emphasis: many theists believe epistemic naturalism
presents no problems for their faith. But such a commitment cannot be
made without consequences. In particular, if a believing scientist must
assume that God is absent from the causal history of nature, then his
God becomes the God of deism, not the God of revealed theism.
The God of deism is an Absentee Landlord Who created the Universe and
left it running. Such a God has had no interaction with mankind. He has
not revealed Himself to us in signs or wonders, nor in the Incarnation
of Christ. He did not reveal His will on Mount Sinai, nor through
prophecies, visions, dreams, and direct communication with inspired men.
Still, the Enlightenment deists made an exception: we could detect,
they admitted, the signs of a Creator in the purpose and order of His
creation.
Even this much is too much for dyed-in-the-wool Darwinists. No one has
expressed this view with more clarity than Richard Dawkins. He will
agree that living things exhibit the tell-tale signs of design and
planning, but he then will insist that this is nothing more than an
illusion (Dawkins, 1986, pp. 1,21). Being the true disciple of Darwin
that he is, Dawkins credits all the work of creation to a blind,
purposeless process called natural selection. It will do no good to say
that God nudged the process along, creating an organ here, a mutation
there, because that makes natural selection appear inadequate. As long
as God is involved, there is some form of divine creation, which is what
Darwin was (and Dawkins is) trying to avoid.
It likewise will do no good to push God farther back and allow Him to
set the initial starting conditions—with natural selection bringing
about His ends—because natural selection has no goal or purpose. In such
a scenario, it would be impossible to know whether God was
responsible—which is the whole point of epistemic naturalism.
If a scientist claims to be a theist, and clings to the orthodoxy promoted by Mayr and the
NAS,
then he cannot find a place for God in the historical events of this
world. Not only has God failed to reveal Himself directly, but He also
has left no indirect signs of His work that can be distinguished from
the operations of nature. Without such signs, we can know nothing of His
benevolence, His knowledge, or His power (cf. Romans 1:20). We are left
with something even less than deism which, on the spectrum of beliefs,
basically amounts to outright atheism. Princeton theologian Charles
Hodge recognized this fact over a hundred years ago:
The conclusion of the whole matter is that the denial of design in
nature is virtually the denial of God. Mr. Darwin’s theory does deny all
design in nature; therefore, his theory is virtually atheistical—his
theory, not himself. He believes in a Creator. But when that Creator,
millions on millions of years ago, did something—called matter and a
living germ into existence—and then abandoned the universe to itself to
be controlled by chance and necessity, without any purpose on his part
as to the result, or any intervention or guidance, then He is virtually
consigned, so far as we are concerned, to nonexistence (1874, p. 155).
Logically, epistemic naturalism implies the absence of God from this world. For all
practical
purposes, it implies the absence of God from all reality. The step from
epistemic naturalism to metaphysical naturalism is a very short one
indeed. Now let us look at the other half of the debate.
“Creation”
To believe in creation is to believe that the entire cosmos owes its
existence to a purposeful, intelligent Creator. You can see how
difficult it is to fit naturalistic evolution into this definition. Of
course, just like “evolution,” the word is used in other ways.
In its broadest sense, “creation” refers to something’s coming into
being. Sometimes you will hear about scientists’ “creation” of life in
the laboratory, or even evolution’s “creating” new species. It is
important that we consider the context, and not think that the
materialist is “giving away the store” every time he uses the word
creation.
In a narrower sense, the term “creation” is used by theists to mean divine creation or, as it is known in theological circles,
creatio ex nihilo
(“creation from nothing”). Typically it is linked to the doctrine of
creation that is derived from the first verse of Genesis: “In the
beginning, God created the heavens and the earth.”
Opinions diverge, unfortunately, on how to understand the subsequent
verses (see, for example, Thompson, 2000). Liberal scholarship tends to
dismiss the Creation account as allegorical or mythological. However,
the same scholars quite often are committed to epistemic naturalism, and
would not insist on a supernatural origin for the Universe and life in
any case.
Many believers accept the reality of a divine creation, but are of the
opinion that the timing and method must be accommodated to the claims of
orthodox science. In other words, the classic amoeba-to-man story of
evolution is correct in its overall picture, but God intervened at one
or more points. Someone who holds this view may wish to take Genesis
seriously (albeit not at face value), yet propose some sort of
concordance theory to bring the biblical text in line with the
evolutionary picture just mentioned. They might suggest, for instance,
that God really did create light on the first day, but the word “day”
means something other than a 24-hour period. Another popular view
imagines an initial creation represented by verse 1, followed by an
undocumented period of geological time, and a divinely wrought make-over
in the remainder of the chapter.
Despite these concessions, none satisfies the requirement of
evolutionary naturalism, namely, that all natural things should have
naturalistic explanations. This would apply to
any supernatural intervention, whether it came in one grand, creative moment, or was spread over time.
By far the most common use of “creation” ties the word to the modern
creation science movement. Other labels include young-Earth creation
and, as it normally is tagged by the media and other opponents,
creationism. This position takes the traditional, historical view of the
Genesis text as detailing the creation of all the Universe in six
literal days.
Given that “creation” encompasses a diversity of views within theism,
it might seem to present a broad-based resistance to materialistic
evolution. In reality, because many theists believe they can keep their
cake and eat it too (by appearing to affirm a Creator-God while adhering
to the principle of epistemic naturalism), young-Earth creationists
typically are singled out for opposition. This is not so much because
they have rejected naturalism, but because they have rejected the
overall evolutionary picture while maintaining that Holy Scripture
provides an interpretive check on answers coming out of science.
Darwinists have been willing to allow theists on their side only so long
as they were willing to acknowledge that evolution, broadly speaking,
was a correct description of the history of life on Earth. Confessions
of faith or discussions of biblical texts might be accepted in this
context, but only to assure naturalists that theistic religion could
accommodate any theory they had to offer.
“Creation versus evolution,” therefore, does not divide along the lines
that the two key words, taken at face value, might seem to imply. In
the public arena, young-Earth creationists must take on the whole gamut
of naturalists, from outright atheists to anyone who would carve out a
space for God in an otherwise unbroken series of natural causes and
events. On one front, young-Earth creationists must weather attacks from
fellow theists on the issue of biblical interpretation. On another
front, their strong commitment to the biblical text raises fears of
state/church conflicts, to say nothing of the perceived conflict between
reason and revelation expressed by Mayr. Unfortunately, epistemic
naturalism (a core concern of young-Earth creationists, and something
that should concern all theists) gets lost in the fray—hence the reason
for reframing the public debate in terms of intelligent design.
[to be continued]
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