The Evolution of Christian Science

In May and June of this year, I took a journey out to California, and saw and filmed many natural wonders. I am posting several essays about this trip on my evolution blog. I have chosen a few of them for this blog also, because of their relationship to religion and science and human experience.

On June 9, I had the privilege of participating in a Victorian garden party in Pasadena, dressed as Charles Darwin. It was a fundraiser for Opera a la Carte, the opera company with which my college friend Carol has been working for many years.

Carol has other jobs as well. One of them is to be a singer for a Christian Science church in the Los Angeles metropolitan area, a job she has had for years even though she is not a member of that religious persuasion. I can never get enough of hearing Carol’s beautiful voice, even if it means sitting through a Christian Science service. But, the ever alert naturalist, I listened to and analyzed what the Christian Scientists were saying.

Christian Science began with the visions—most of us say delusions, her followers would say revelations—of Mary Baker Eddy in nineteenth century America. By chance, I also happened to be reading a book about the history and current controversies of the Mormon church, which began about the same time. The United States was a frontier country. America had been founded by breaking with European tradition of loyalty to monarchs and to state-supported churches. Many new religions, led by self-styled prophets, began at this time. They appealed to direct experience, and to divine revelation (indistinguishable from delusion by our mere human brains). They were like weeds growing in a field after a fire. Most of them, like most of the plants of the field, died out. But the legacies of Joseph Smith and Mary Baker Eddy live on. Mormonism has become a major political force, devoted as unswervingly to the political right as it is to God, while Christian Science has not fulfilled Mark Twain’s fear that it would become the religion that conquered American thought and action.

Today, Christian Science is known mainly for its opposition to conventional medical practice. Church services consist mainly of singing and of readings (without sermon comment) from the Bible and from the Mary Baker Eddy scriptures. On a previous visit to this church in 2006, the Eddy reading was something like (in my imperfect memory), “Do you have a carbuncle? Well, you don’t really have a carbuncle. The carbuncle is just an illusion.” Most of us think, how could these people be so delusional? But consider this. At the time that Mary Baker Eddy started Christian Science, conventional medical science was a bunch of snake-oil hokum. Eddy wrote against the scientific idea of a life force—an idea that has been long abandoned. Strange as it may seem, Eddy was appealing to reason and experience. Since its inception, Christian Science has ossified into a belief system that is impervious to new discoveries, and today is a carbuncle afloat on a sea of scientific evidence but which absorbs none of it. The Mormon Church has at least incorporated a little bit of new evidence—it now rejects polygamy and admits black men into its priesthood of believers. But it, too, has largely become an impervious bubble of ignorance. There is simply no archaeological evidence of the great battle between the fair children of God and the swarthy Native American children of evil which even mainstream Mormons continue to commemorate at their Hill Cumorah site.

Still, I left with a little more respect for Christian Science. At its inception, it was perhaps a viable alternative view, even testable by scientific hypotheses. Mary Baker Eddy was even open to the insights of Charles Darwin. But that was a long time ago.

A version of this essay also appeared on my evolution blog recently.

A World of Empathy, Part Three: Graham Greene and Miracles

To a fundamentalist, a miracle is something that must violate the patterns of nature. Therefore if medicine heals a sick person, they must deny that it was the medicine; they must believe that God did it in some spiritual way, if only that God “guided the hands of the doctor” as if the doctor had become some kind of automaton who watched his hands being moved by a mysterious force invocable by fundamentalists. Even mainstream Christians, such as Catholics, believe this: Jesus’ conception could not have been a sperm finding an egg, but had to be immaculate, that is, through some kind of miraculous creation of a sperm nucleus already inside of Mary’s ovum.

But to many religious people, there is no clear distinction between natural events and miracles. God works through natural laws (including evolution). To those of us who are skeptical, this means that the religious explanation might as well not even be there. But to some religious people, such as those of whom the novelist Graham Greene wrote, it might be us skeptics who are taking the wrong interpretation.

Here is a passage from The Power and the Glory, presenting this idea. The communist atheist captor told the priest, “I can’t think how a man like you can believe those things. The Indians, yes. Why, the first time they see an electric light, they think it’s a miracle.”

“And I dare say the first time you saw a man raised from the dead you might think so too,” [the priest said.] “It’s funny, isn’t it? Oh, it isn’t a case of miracles not happening—it’s just a case of people calling them something else. Can’t you see the doctors round the dead man? He isn’t breathing any more, his pulse has stopped, his heart’s not beating: he’s dead. Then somebody gives him back his life and they all—what’s the expression?—reserve their opinion. They won’t say it’s a miracle, because that’s a word they don’t like. Then it happens again and again perhaps—because God’s about on Earth—and they say: There aren’t miracles, it is simply that we have enlarged our conception of what life is. Now we know you can be alive without pulse, breath, heart-beats. And they invent a new word to describe that state of life, and they say that science has again disproved a miracle.”

Even if we succeed in showing that everything that happens is due only to physical causation, we should be careful not to dismiss them. To a person with religious sensitivities, such as a Christian agnostic, even ordinary events are “everyday miracles” for which we can feel deep gratitude.

A World of Empathy, Part Two: Graham Greene’s The Power and the Glory

I introduced Graham Greene in a previous blog entry. The Power and the Glory takes place in a bit of Mexican history that I had known nothing about. Apparently there were Marxists revolutions in some Mexican states in the mid-twentieth century, in which churches were shut down and priests, except those who renounced their work, were executed.

The protagonist (Padre José) was a priest who knew his own inadequacy, which included a weakness for alcohol. But he knew that he was a priest, and couldn’t ever quit being a priest, a fact to which his own unworthiness was irrelevant. He had a burden of love, of pity, for all of the Catholics-in-hiding in the Marxist state. Every time that he had a chance to escape, he gave it up in order to administer last rites.

As with the protagonists in other Greene novels, the priest finds out that his empathy for people entraps him in conflicting feelings. Other priests have given into the revolutionaries, and he wonders if his refusal to also renounce his faith was just pride. And he also discovered that he could simply not stop being a priest even if he wanted to. When he was in prison, he was hearing the confessions of the other prisoners, even though they did not know he was a priest (since he was in disguise). The Catholics in hiding knew who he was but would not point him out to the revolutionary authorities. He knew that the man who was following him, a sallow ugly man with fangs, recognized him as the fugitive priest and planned to turn him in for a reward, but he could not help but give the man a ride on his mule when the man was sick. He could not avoid helping his Judas. Perhaps the worst conflict in the priest’s heart was the fact that the revolutionaries had shot hostages who refused to identify him: his military captor told him, “’I’ve shot three hostages because of you.’” If people had died for him, they deserved a saint, not a drunkard.

The priest was always thinking about his own sinfulness, and that of the world, even when he looked at the stars. “The glittering worlds lay there in space like a promise—the world was not the universe. Somewhere Christ might not have died. He could not believe that to a watcher there this world could shine with such brilliance: it would roll heavily in space under its fog like a burning and abandoned ship.” But he could not not be a priest: “But then he remembered the gift he had been given which nobody could take away. That was what made him worthy of damnation—the power he still had of turning the wafer into the flesh and blood of God. He was a sacrilege. Wherever he went, whatever he did, he defiled God.”

And like most Greene protagonist, the priest knew that suffering was an unavoidable flip side to joy. He told his secret parishioners, “One of the fathers has told us that joy always depends on pain. Pain is a part of joy…Pray that you will suffer more and more and more. Never get tired of suffering. The police watching you, the soldiers gathering taxes, the beating you always get from the jefe because you are too poor to pay, smallpox and fever, hunger…that is all a part of heaven…” From this he concludes that heaven is right here on Earth. And here was the pitiful (pity-filled) love that the priest could not avoid: “When you visualized a man or a woman carefully, you could always begin to feel pity…that was a quality God’s image carried with it…when you saw the lines at the corners of the eyes, the shape of the mouth, how the hair grew, it was impossible to hate. Hate was just a failure of the imagination.”

To the priest, God’s love was even frightening in its intensity. “God is love. I don’t say the heart doesn’t feel a taste of it, but what a taste. The smallest glass of love mixed with a pint-pot of ditch water. We wouldn’t even recognize that love. It might even look like hate. It would be enough to scare us—God’s love. It set fire to a bush in the desert, didn’t it, and smashed open graves and set the dead to walking in the dark? Oh, a man like me would run a mile to get away if he felt that love around.”

The central point of the novel is in this quote. Upon hearing yet another confession about sexual sin, the priest thought: “Man was so limited: he hadn’t even the ingenuity to invent a new vice: the animals knew as much. It was for this world that Christ had died: the more evil you saw and heard about you, the greater glory lay around the death; it was too easy to die for what was good or beautiful, for home or children or for a civilization—it needed a God to die for the half-hearted and the corrupt.” This important thought is something that would never have gone through the mind of a Protestant or Catholic fundamentalist.

It was pity that brought the priest to his death, and he knew this would happen the moment he chose to show pity. He had escaped to a state where religion was not prohibited, but the ugly fanged man found him, and told him that he was needed to offer last rites to someone back in the state he had left. The priest knew it was a trap, but he knew it was his responsibility to go. Of course, he was arrested and executed. Greene brought all the plot lines together at the end of the novel: at the end, the dentist who had met the priest at the beginning of the novel now watched his execution from his office window. The dentist’s patient, writhing in pain, was the military leader who had ordered the execution.

Greene’s point was that the priest, despite his own sins and doubts, was in fact a saint, because he loved people unto death. This is the kind of religion that an agnostic can comprehend and admire.