Hawking, and in particular his 1988 book, A Brief History of Time, got me interested in cosmology as a teenager, and while I’m a landlubber in any hard science, the interest has never worn off. I know that Hawking was important to many others for similar reasons.
Hawking’s most important scientific contribution was the idea of Hawking radiation, or radiation that comes from black holes. To landlubbers that sounds crazy—the whole point of the black hole is that it’s black, and nothing comes out of it. But if “things fall apart, the center cannot hold,” or if, as a scientist would put it, the entropy in the world always increases, then the blackness of the black hole is troublesome, because matter, along with the entropy it contains, can be lost to the world when it falls in. Hawking imagined that the entropy wasn’t really lost: the black hole had it. And since anything with entropy has a temperature, and anything with a temperature can radiate its heat, a black hole can radiate! But what about the fearsome gravity that has destroyed so many starships in science fiction novels, and from which not even light is supposed to be able to escape? Hawking reasoned that at the border separating the black hole from the rest of the world, the rules of quantum mechanics tell us that pairs of particles were constantly flickering into and out of existence, and that in some cases one of the pair would be drawn in toward the black hole while the other would escape, the escaping particles being visible to us as radiation. This predicted radiation will keep astronomers and physicists busy for the foreseeable future. Can we observe it? What about its philosophical implications for the conservation of energy in the world? Does it help us understand how gravity, the calling card of the black hole, is to be harmonized with quantum phenomena? Most ideas, like the doomed particles at the threshold of the black hole, live for only a very short time and have no lasting consequences in our world, but some, like Hawking’s, radiate outward.
Hawking was to be admired not just for his results but for his courage in the face of ALS. He showed by his example that physical disability did not have to limit one’s ability to lead a meaningful life or to achieve great things in one’s profession.
Since Hawking was a man of ideas, I’m sure he wouldn’t take it amiss if I criticize one of his ideas. Hawking claimed that the problem of existence could be solved by reference to the laws of physics alone, i.e., without regard to metaphysics let alone (gasp!) theology. This kind of view is pretty common these days, and not just in physics. Biologists and computer scientists make similar claims about the traditional problem of consciousness. As I’ve said, I’m just a landlubber, but it seems to me that if you think that physical laws could explain, even in principle, the problem of existence or the problem of consciousness, then you haven’t understood the problems, or you’ve defined away the problematic aspects as meaningless (because not answerable by science). And you might wonder why landlubbers are to accept the authority of those who have studied and mastered the hard sciences on matters within their expertise when those scientists are not to accept or even take seriously the authority of those who have studied the great metaphysical problems. I do not say “studied and mastered,” since the result of that study is increasing wonder at the mystery rather than provable results.
To everyone in sympathy with this kind of scientism, I recommend a great non-technical polemic by the Orthodox (Christian) theologian, David Bentley Hart, The Experience of God: Being, Consciousness, Bliss (2013). But Hawking had a great mind, which is to say an open mind, and so if contrary to his expectation he finds himself in the afterlife of one religious tradition or another, I think he would give the same excuse that Bertrand Russell said he would give: “O Lord, why did you not provide more evidence?”
SomervilleTomsays
My own spirituality and theology is very closely aligned with Mr. Hawking. I do not see the dichotomy that you describe.
More strongly, when I find a conflict in myself between the demands of a spiritual or theological assertion and the consequences of hard science (or math), I generally view that conflict as evidence of at least fuzzy — if not simply incorrect — thinking on the theological side of my thinking.
I’ve found it helpful to keep in mind an Occam’s razor I associate with Richard Dawkins: Assertions about theology cannot be addressed by science, and vice-versa. Deep contemplation of Godel’s theorem and its consequences has been very helpful for me in this regard.
So the existence of an invisible and omnipotent agent is outside the domain of science. On the other hand, the assertion of human parthenogenesis (never mind the physical transformation of water into wine) is well within the domain of science. I agree that science has nothing to say about the existence of “god” or whatever deity or deities a person chooses to venerate. In my view, it is incorrect for a religion or spiritual tradition to make assertions about virgin birth (whether of a man or his mother), resurrection, or ascension.
For me, the concrete mathematics of how randomness — by any measure — emerges from the repeated application of a very simple function is among the great miracles of the universe, and has a great deal to do with questions such as the origin of life. With even the meager and newly-discovered tools of mathematics, genetics, and chemistry today (things like auto-catalytic sets, epigenetics, and so on), I can see at least fuzzy outlines of a continuous “pathway” from a formless void to the first breath of the newborn infant I’m holding in my arms as I cut his or her umbilical cord (I did that for each of my five children).
That first breath is a miracle. Invoking patriarchal delusions of a bronze-age culture obscures, rather than enhances, the reality of that miracle for me.
I find the actual concrete (and repeatable, today) demonstration of that miracle far more inspiring than grandiose words about “father” and “son” and left or right hands. For me, those theological assertions actively interfere with and blind me from the appreciation of the concrete science (and math) underneath them.
This, to me, is the truth of the ancient prohibition against false idols. It also has a great deal to do with the aversion of the ancient Hebrews to even naming the deity they worshiped.
I firmly believe that both domains are real and vital. I also firmly believe that there need be no dichotomy between them. Part of dissolving that false dichotomy is, in my view, to force the intellectual traditions of the spiritual domain to celebrate a constant process of updating our understanding as we learn and grow.
If the world of science insisted that every word of Archimedes or Plato was the inerrant and absolute perpetual “truth” about our universe, we would remain mired in the dark ages.
jconwaysays
I largely appreciated this comment for its depth and beauty, and partly because I have come to some, but not all, of the same conclusions. I think they answer fundamentally different questions and this is a cause for great misunderstanding. Whether it is the atheist scientist trying to disprove that which cannot be objectively proven or disproven or the fundamentalist trying to narrow science to fit an even narrower vision of the divine.
Hawking was an atheist, but like Carl Sagan, an atheist that helped me appreciate the beauty of the universe by helping me understand how vast and complex the cosmos truly is and how precious and precarious our civilization giving planet truly is in the vast scheme of things. In many ways, understanding both biological evolution and astrophysical evolution has only made me appreciate the Creator more.
To me, such a rich gift cannot be the result of random chance and our own lives are not merely exercises in material concerns. St. Francis, Thomas Merton, and Ignatius Loyola are Christian thinkers who wisely bring a pantheistic perspective to Christian spirituality. Understanding that God the Father is beyond all natural constraints and understanding that the Holy Spirit is all around us helps me appreciate the miracle of the Incarnation even more. How the essence of the universe could be contained in a mortal person willing to give his life for the sake of his creation. To me that’s how my theology comes full circle with my commitment to empiricism in matters of science, history, and policy.
SomervilleTomsays
As I get older, one of my burning spiritual passions is to jettison ALL the “God the Father…” language from my own “god package”.
My own father was absent, capricious, and opaque to me. He was never there when I needed him, and constantly interfered in areas where he had no business. I’ve spent a lifetime moving past him, both as a father myself (I had to learn how to be a father pretty much from scratch) and as a child breaking through the barriers of childhood emotional abuse.
The “god language” fills me with dread and pulls me back into trauma that I want no part of and that I’ve spent a lifetime breaking out of.
I have enormous awe, love, and admiration for the immensely rich universe — physical and spiritual, concrete and abstract — around me. The more I pursue it, the more it opens to reveal more.
The notion of “creator” (and, by implication, “creation”) freezes all that into a pale shadow of itself. It is the difference between the act and a videotape of the act.
I remind us that the phraseology of “the right hand of the father” reveals a bronze-age culture where right-handed was “good” and left-handed was “evil”.
My spiritual hunger and yearning is for something that fills the gap left behind by metaphors like “father”, “son”, and “holy ghost”. I want no part of a universe where a father’s fury is sated by the blood sacrifice of his son, and where acts of ritual cannibalism form the central tenet of “worship”.
I instead hunger and yearn for language to express the ineffable joy of offering the material and physical gifts of the universe back to the universe (using symbols of bread and water), noting the transformation of the gifts by the very act of offering them, feeding my own spiritual hunger for material and spiritual sustenance by receiving, eating and drinking those transformed gifts, and finally breaking the body of the collected community to go and offer those same material and physical gifts to the world around me.
Same rituals, very different metaphors. My own are, sadly, half baked and raw.
jconwaysays
For me, the communion ritual is not cannbalistic. I view it as the Orthodox do, as an act of complete physical and spiritual unity with the Creator. I view the sacrifice on the Cross as one of a brother or friend who would give his lift on behalf of another.
I think where I agree more and more with the Unitarians is the belief that the “something out there” is truly universal and transcends the narratives of a given faith tradition. The major encyclicals of Vatican II even give light to this truth. So of course “father”, “son”, and “spirit” are labels we mortals choose to apply to a being beyond any human comprehension. Whatever label works for you is fine with me.
SomervilleTomsays
I hear you, and frankly wish I didn’t hear the language of the Eucharist as I do:
“This my body …”
“This is my blood …”
I’ve decided that after more than four decades of failed attempts to tell myself that it is the way you describe and not the way I hear it, I’m just going to acknowledge my own interior self and keep seeking. I guess it’s just another of those mysteries that seem so plentiful around us.
I still attend Mass and take the Eucharist, BTW. Something in the ritual works for me, it just works at some level that transcends the words of the consecration prayers.
jconwaysays
I highly recommend David Bentley Hart as a theologian worth reading, even for the secular reader. I’ll second your recommendation for his apologetics against the New Atheists as well as his recent New Testament translation.
SomervilleTomsays
“O Lord, why did you not provide more evidence”
This reminds of the old joke about God sitting on his throne with Moses and Peter standing on each side as they all review His Word another time.
Suddenly, God slaps himself on the forehead and exclaims “Oh, SUGAR”.
“What is it?” cry an anguished Peter and Moses in unison.
God: “I forgot to tell them about the dinosaurs”.
scott12masssays
At one end of the spectrum in our human existence in the physical world to the other end of the spectrum in the metaphysical world.
jconwaysays
Two fun Hawking tidbits I read after his passing.
The first was his evangelical zeal for defending the NHS. Despite coming from a upper middle class home and eventually having the wealth that comes along with multiple bestsellers, he ultimately credited the NHS system with
saving his life on multiple occassions and providing security and peace of mind for his family. Up to his last year of life, he was publicly waging a campaign of speeches and even lawsuits to save the NHS from “American style” privatization.
The second was his zeal for living well. He always maintained a good sense of humor, a devotion to routine, and enjoyment of the finer things from the perfect cup of tea to single malts.
Indeed!
Hawking, and in particular his 1988 book, A Brief History of Time, got me interested in cosmology as a teenager, and while I’m a landlubber in any hard science, the interest has never worn off. I know that Hawking was important to many others for similar reasons.
Hawking’s most important scientific contribution was the idea of Hawking radiation, or radiation that comes from black holes. To landlubbers that sounds crazy—the whole point of the black hole is that it’s black, and nothing comes out of it. But if “things fall apart, the center cannot hold,” or if, as a scientist would put it, the entropy in the world always increases, then the blackness of the black hole is troublesome, because matter, along with the entropy it contains, can be lost to the world when it falls in. Hawking imagined that the entropy wasn’t really lost: the black hole had it. And since anything with entropy has a temperature, and anything with a temperature can radiate its heat, a black hole can radiate! But what about the fearsome gravity that has destroyed so many starships in science fiction novels, and from which not even light is supposed to be able to escape? Hawking reasoned that at the border separating the black hole from the rest of the world, the rules of quantum mechanics tell us that pairs of particles were constantly flickering into and out of existence, and that in some cases one of the pair would be drawn in toward the black hole while the other would escape, the escaping particles being visible to us as radiation. This predicted radiation will keep astronomers and physicists busy for the foreseeable future. Can we observe it? What about its philosophical implications for the conservation of energy in the world? Does it help us understand how gravity, the calling card of the black hole, is to be harmonized with quantum phenomena? Most ideas, like the doomed particles at the threshold of the black hole, live for only a very short time and have no lasting consequences in our world, but some, like Hawking’s, radiate outward.
Hawking was to be admired not just for his results but for his courage in the face of ALS. He showed by his example that physical disability did not have to limit one’s ability to lead a meaningful life or to achieve great things in one’s profession.
Since Hawking was a man of ideas, I’m sure he wouldn’t take it amiss if I criticize one of his ideas. Hawking claimed that the problem of existence could be solved by reference to the laws of physics alone, i.e., without regard to metaphysics let alone (gasp!) theology. This kind of view is pretty common these days, and not just in physics. Biologists and computer scientists make similar claims about the traditional problem of consciousness. As I’ve said, I’m just a landlubber, but it seems to me that if you think that physical laws could explain, even in principle, the problem of existence or the problem of consciousness, then you haven’t understood the problems, or you’ve defined away the problematic aspects as meaningless (because not answerable by science). And you might wonder why landlubbers are to accept the authority of those who have studied and mastered the hard sciences on matters within their expertise when those scientists are not to accept or even take seriously the authority of those who have studied the great metaphysical problems. I do not say “studied and mastered,” since the result of that study is increasing wonder at the mystery rather than provable results.
To everyone in sympathy with this kind of scientism, I recommend a great non-technical polemic by the Orthodox (Christian) theologian, David Bentley Hart, The Experience of God: Being, Consciousness, Bliss (2013). But Hawking had a great mind, which is to say an open mind, and so if contrary to his expectation he finds himself in the afterlife of one religious tradition or another, I think he would give the same excuse that Bertrand Russell said he would give: “O Lord, why did you not provide more evidence?”
My own spirituality and theology is very closely aligned with Mr. Hawking. I do not see the dichotomy that you describe.
More strongly, when I find a conflict in myself between the demands of a spiritual or theological assertion and the consequences of hard science (or math), I generally view that conflict as evidence of at least fuzzy — if not simply incorrect — thinking on the theological side of my thinking.
I’ve found it helpful to keep in mind an Occam’s razor I associate with Richard Dawkins: Assertions about theology cannot be addressed by science, and vice-versa. Deep contemplation of Godel’s theorem and its consequences has been very helpful for me in this regard.
So the existence of an invisible and omnipotent agent is outside the domain of science. On the other hand, the assertion of human parthenogenesis (never mind the physical transformation of water into wine) is well within the domain of science. I agree that science has nothing to say about the existence of “god” or whatever deity or deities a person chooses to venerate. In my view, it is incorrect for a religion or spiritual tradition to make assertions about virgin birth (whether of a man or his mother), resurrection, or ascension.
For me, the concrete mathematics of how randomness — by any measure — emerges from the repeated application of a very simple function is among the great miracles of the universe, and has a great deal to do with questions such as the origin of life. With even the meager and newly-discovered tools of mathematics, genetics, and chemistry today (things like auto-catalytic sets, epigenetics, and so on), I can see at least fuzzy outlines of a continuous “pathway” from a formless void to the first breath of the newborn infant I’m holding in my arms as I cut his or her umbilical cord (I did that for each of my five children).
That first breath is a miracle. Invoking patriarchal delusions of a bronze-age culture obscures, rather than enhances, the reality of that miracle for me.
I find the actual concrete (and repeatable, today) demonstration of that miracle far more inspiring than grandiose words about “father” and “son” and left or right hands. For me, those theological assertions actively interfere with and blind me from the appreciation of the concrete science (and math) underneath them.
This, to me, is the truth of the ancient prohibition against false idols. It also has a great deal to do with the aversion of the ancient Hebrews to even naming the deity they worshiped.
I firmly believe that both domains are real and vital. I also firmly believe that there need be no dichotomy between them. Part of dissolving that false dichotomy is, in my view, to force the intellectual traditions of the spiritual domain to celebrate a constant process of updating our understanding as we learn and grow.
If the world of science insisted that every word of Archimedes or Plato was the inerrant and absolute perpetual “truth” about our universe, we would remain mired in the dark ages.
I largely appreciated this comment for its depth and beauty, and partly because I have come to some, but not all, of the same conclusions. I think they answer fundamentally different questions and this is a cause for great misunderstanding. Whether it is the atheist scientist trying to disprove that which cannot be objectively proven or disproven or the fundamentalist trying to narrow science to fit an even narrower vision of the divine.
Hawking was an atheist, but like Carl Sagan, an atheist that helped me appreciate the beauty of the universe by helping me understand how vast and complex the cosmos truly is and how precious and precarious our civilization giving planet truly is in the vast scheme of things. In many ways, understanding both biological evolution and astrophysical evolution has only made me appreciate the Creator more.
To me, such a rich gift cannot be the result of random chance and our own lives are not merely exercises in material concerns. St. Francis, Thomas Merton, and Ignatius Loyola are Christian thinkers who wisely bring a pantheistic perspective to Christian spirituality. Understanding that God the Father is beyond all natural constraints and understanding that the Holy Spirit is all around us helps me appreciate the miracle of the Incarnation even more. How the essence of the universe could be contained in a mortal person willing to give his life for the sake of his creation. To me that’s how my theology comes full circle with my commitment to empiricism in matters of science, history, and policy.
As I get older, one of my burning spiritual passions is to jettison ALL the “God the Father…” language from my own “god package”.
My own father was absent, capricious, and opaque to me. He was never there when I needed him, and constantly interfered in areas where he had no business. I’ve spent a lifetime moving past him, both as a father myself (I had to learn how to be a father pretty much from scratch) and as a child breaking through the barriers of childhood emotional abuse.
The “god language” fills me with dread and pulls me back into trauma that I want no part of and that I’ve spent a lifetime breaking out of.
I have enormous awe, love, and admiration for the immensely rich universe — physical and spiritual, concrete and abstract — around me. The more I pursue it, the more it opens to reveal more.
The notion of “creator” (and, by implication, “creation”) freezes all that into a pale shadow of itself. It is the difference between the act and a videotape of the act.
I remind us that the phraseology of “the right hand of the father” reveals a bronze-age culture where right-handed was “good” and left-handed was “evil”.
My spiritual hunger and yearning is for something that fills the gap left behind by metaphors like “father”, “son”, and “holy ghost”. I want no part of a universe where a father’s fury is sated by the blood sacrifice of his son, and where acts of ritual cannibalism form the central tenet of “worship”.
I instead hunger and yearn for language to express the ineffable joy of offering the material and physical gifts of the universe back to the universe (using symbols of bread and water), noting the transformation of the gifts by the very act of offering them, feeding my own spiritual hunger for material and spiritual sustenance by receiving, eating and drinking those transformed gifts, and finally breaking the body of the collected community to go and offer those same material and physical gifts to the world around me.
Same rituals, very different metaphors. My own are, sadly, half baked and raw.
For me, the communion ritual is not cannbalistic. I view it as the Orthodox do, as an act of complete physical and spiritual unity with the Creator. I view the sacrifice on the Cross as one of a brother or friend who would give his lift on behalf of another.
I think where I agree more and more with the Unitarians is the belief that the “something out there” is truly universal and transcends the narratives of a given faith tradition. The major encyclicals of Vatican II even give light to this truth. So of course “father”, “son”, and “spirit” are labels we mortals choose to apply to a being beyond any human comprehension. Whatever label works for you is fine with me.
I hear you, and frankly wish I didn’t hear the language of the Eucharist as I do:
“This my body …”
“This is my blood …”
I’ve decided that after more than four decades of failed attempts to tell myself that it is the way you describe and not the way I hear it, I’m just going to acknowledge my own interior self and keep seeking. I guess it’s just another of those mysteries that seem so plentiful around us.
I still attend Mass and take the Eucharist, BTW. Something in the ritual works for me, it just works at some level that transcends the words of the consecration prayers.
I highly recommend David Bentley Hart as a theologian worth reading, even for the secular reader. I’ll second your recommendation for his apologetics against the New Atheists as well as his recent New Testament translation.
“O Lord, why did you not provide more evidence”
This reminds of the old joke about God sitting on his throne with Moses and Peter standing on each side as they all review His Word another time.
Suddenly, God slaps himself on the forehead and exclaims “Oh, SUGAR”.
“What is it?” cry an anguished Peter and Moses in unison.
God: “I forgot to tell them about the dinosaurs”.
At one end of the spectrum in our human existence in the physical world to the other end of the spectrum in the metaphysical world.
Two fun Hawking tidbits I read after his passing.
The first was his evangelical zeal for defending the NHS. Despite coming from a upper middle class home and eventually having the wealth that comes along with multiple bestsellers, he ultimately credited the NHS system with
saving his life on multiple occassions and providing security and peace of mind for his family. Up to his last year of life, he was publicly waging a campaign of speeches and even lawsuits to save the NHS from “American style” privatization.
The second was his zeal for living well. He always maintained a good sense of humor, a devotion to routine, and enjoyment of the finer things from the perfect cup of tea to single malts.