On fairy tales

“About once every hundred years some wiseacre gets up and tries to banish the fairy tale,” C.S. Lewis wrote in 1952. The wiseacre of our time seems to be Richard Dawkins who, two years ago, told the world that fairy tales could be harmful because they “inculcate a view of the world which includes supernaturalism” (he had said similar things in 2008). In a later clarification, he added that fairy tales could “be wonderful” and that they “are part of childhood, they are stretching the imagination of children” – provided some helpful adult emphasises that “Do frogs turn into princes? No they don’t.”

But many scientists grew up with, and were inspired by, fantasy literature. For example, Jane Goodall tells of growing up with the novel The Story of Doctor Dolittle (as I did!). In fact, many science students and professional scientists avidly read fantasy literature even as adults (as they should). The booksthatmakeyoudumb website lists, among the top 10 novels read at CalTech and MIT, Harry Potter, Dune, and The Lord of the Rings. And Alice in Wonderland was written by a mathematician.

This is a science blog, so I have a strong emphasis on scientific truth, which tells us many important ecological and physiological facts about, for example, frogs. Without science, we’d all still be struggling subsistence farmers. But there is actually more than scientific truth out there.

There is also mathematical truth. Are the links in this frog network all equivalent? Yes, they are – but that is decided by mathematical proof, not by scientific experiment. It is in fact a purely abstract mathematical question – the background picture of the frog is actually irrelevant.

And there is ethical truth. Is it OK to eat frog’s legs? Science does not give us the answer to this (although logic can help us decide if our answer is consistent with our other beliefs), but fantasy literature often helps us to explore such ethical questions. Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings is one superb example. Would you “snare an orc with a falsehood”? Would you attempt to take the One Ring and “go forth to victory”?

There is metaphorical truth. A frog may, in spite of what Dawkins says, be a handsome prince – there’s more to the universe than can be seen at first glance. Or, as Antoine de Saint-Exupéry put it, “What is essential is invisible to the eye.” Children often learn this important fact from fairy tales.

And there is even religious and philosophical truth. Does the frog-goddess Heqet exist, for example? Does the universe exist? Is there a spoon? The methods of philosophy are different from the methods of science, and some amateur philosophers simply state their beliefs without actually justifying them, but philosophy is actually very important. Science itself is based on certain philosophical beliefs about reality.


God’s Philosophers: a book review


God’s Philosophers by James Hannam (2009)

I recently read James Hannam’s God’s Philosophers, which is the story of the Medieval ideas that led up to modern science, told largely through short biographies of major and minor figures (this relates to my previous two posts about when and why science began, as well as to my three posts about science and Dante).


Farming in the 15th Century

The early Middle Ages was, to a large extent, a struggle to build a more productive agricultural system (since Europe had lost access to the rich grain-fields of North Africa that had fed the Roman Empire). The later Middle Ages, however, saw an explosion of new ideas. Some of these ideas came from the Muslim world, but many were entirely original.


The Age of Cathedrals: Bourges (begun c. 1195, finished c. 1230)

Hannam briefly surveys Medieval mathematics, logic, medicine, astronomy, astrology, alchemy, and engineering. Roger Bacon (1214–1292) and Richard of Wallingford (1292–1336) are discussed in some detail. The former wrote on optics and the theory of science, while the latter did work in trigonometry and designed an elaborate astronomical clock. Clocks were to replace living things as metaphors for the operation of the Universe.


Richard of Wallingford using a pair of compasses

Hannam also has a chapter on the Merton CalculatorsThomas Bradwardine (c. 1290–1349), Richard Swineshead (fl. 1340–1355), and William Heytesbury (c. 1313–1373). As well as contributing to logic, these scholars anticipated Galileo’s application of mathematics to physics, proving the mean speed theorem. In France, Nicole Oresme (c. 1325–1382) developed an elegant graphical proof of this theorem, as well as doing work in astronomy and introducing the bar graph. Ironically, it was the later Humanists who, inspired by the glories of ancient Greece and Rome, discarded some of these advances (the same source of inspiration also led to a decline in women’s rights, as Régine Pernoud has pointed out).


Merton College, Oxford (Michael Angelo Rooker, 1771)

Hannam finishes his book with the stories of Kepler and Galileo. These are better known than those of the Medievals, but the myths surrounding Galileo seem to be as persistent as those about the so-called “Dark Ages.” Hannam’s treatment is necessarily simplistic and brief, but he does point out Galileo’s debt to Oresme and the Merton Calculators. For readers specifically interested in Galileo, the best introductory book is probably Galileo’s Daughter by Dava Sobel, with Finocchiaro for follow-up.


Although Galileo pitted the modern Copernicus against the ancient Ptolemy, Tycho Brahe had already suggested a hybrid system, which was only later proved wrong

Hannam concludes “It would be wrong to romanticise the period and we should be very grateful that we do not have to live in it. But the hard life that people had to bear only makes their progress in science and many other fields all the more impressive. We should not write them off as superstitious primitives. They deserve our gratitude.

See also this review in Nature of Hannam’s book (“God’s Philosophers condenses six hundred years of history and brings to life the key players who pushed forward philosophy and reason”), this review by a Christian blogger (“In God’s Philosophers James Hannam traces medieval natural philosophy—and some of the other disciplines we’ve come to think of as scientific, such as medicine—through the reign of Plato and Aristotle to the discoveries of Kepler and Galileo”), and this excellent review by an atheist historian (“… the myth that the Catholic Church caused the Dark Ages and the Medieval Period was a scientific wasteland is regularly wheeled, creaking, into the sunlight for another trundle around the arena. … Hannam sketches how polemicists like Thomas Huxley, John William Draper, and Andrew Dickson White, all with their own anti-Christian axes to grind, managed to shape the still current idea that the Middle Ages was devoid of science and reason.”). Hannam has also responded comprehensively to this negative review by Charles Freeman. I disagree with Freeman, and am giving Hannam’s well-researched and readable book four stars. My only real quibble is Hannam’s somewhat biased view of the Protestant Reformation.

* * * *
God’s Philosophers by James Hannam: 4 stars

The Universe: four philosophical views

View 1. The Universe does not exist

This first philosophical view is familiar through the slogan “there is no spoon.” The only true reality, it says, is spiritual. Nothing physical actually exists. This view has been taught by some (though not all) schools of Hinduism. In Europe, it is associated with George Berkeley. The difficulty with this perspective is that the laws of science must, in some sense, be emergent from the spiritual reality. But how?

View 2a. The Universe exists, but has not always existed

This view implies a time t0 at which the Universe “began” – in the sense that nothing (not even time) existed before then. The immediate response is: why? Some kind of explanation for the existence of the Universe seems necessary (although Stephen Hawking argues not). Given that there could be no event before t0, a purely scientific explanation seems impossible, leaving religion or philosophy to supply one. The traditional explanation – from Plato, Christianity, and other religions – is some form of divine creation. Such an explanation is not everybody’s cup of tea, of course.

View 2b(i). The Universe has always existed, with a finite number of states

Alternatively, the Universe has always existed. If the number of possible states in the Universe is finite, this means that the present state of the Universe must have occurred infinitely often in the past (down to the position of every atom), and must occur infinitely often in the future. Previous analogues of me have blogged this comment infinitely often in the past, and infinitely many future analogues will do so again. This is true whether the Universe is deterministic or random. The Stoics were one group who believed in such a (rather depressing) cyclic Universe, but it seems difficult to swallow.

View 2b(ii). The Universe has always existed, with an infinite number of states

The prospect of “eternal recurrence” can be eliminated if the Universe has an infinite number of states, but this seems to require some kind of eternal expansion. The Steady State model was once proposed as a way of achieving this. A modern alternate suggestion is that new sub-Universes are constantly “popping into existence” as a result of quantum fluctuations in older sub-Universes, thus forming an infinite branching tree.

It is not quite clear how this branching would work, however, and Paul Davies points out that there are philosophical problems too: “For a start, how is the existence of the other universes to be tested? To be sure, all cosmologists accept that there are some regions of the universe that lie beyond the reach of our telescopes, but somewhere on the slippery slope between that and the idea that there are an infinite number of universes, credibility reaches a limit. As one slips down that slope, more and more must be accepted on faith, and less and less is open to scientific verification. Extreme multiverse explanations are therefore reminiscent of theological discussions. Indeed, invoking an infinity of unseen universes to explain the unusual features of the one we do see is just as ad hoc as invoking an unseen Creator. The multiverse theory may be dressed up in scientific language, but in essence it requires the same leap of faith.

So there you have it. Four views, some of which have been around for millennia, and all of which have adherents and opponents. View 2a is the most commonly accepted. Which one do you think is correct?

Evolution as a Religion: a book review


Evolution as a Religion: Strange Hopes and Stranger Fears by Mary Midgley (1985, revised edition 2002)

I recently read the classic Evolution as a Religion: Strange Hopes and Stranger Fears by English philosopher Mary Midgley. In the introduction to the revised (2002) edition, Midgley explains the motivation for the book as follows: “I had been struck for some time by certain remarkable prophetic and metaphysical passages that appeared suddenly in scientific books about evolution, often in their last chapters. Though these passages were detached from the official reasoning of the books, they seemed still to be presented as science. But they made startling suggestions about vast themes such as immortality, human destiny and the meaning of life.” (p. viii). As an example, she quotes the molecular biologist William Day: “He [man] will splinter into types of humans with differing mental faculties that will lead to diversification and separate species. From among these types, a new species, Omega man, will emerge … as much beyond our imagination as our world was to the emerging eucaryotes.” (p. 36).


Mary Midgley

Such “prophetic and metaphysical passages” are also familiar from the fictional works of Olaf Stapledon and H. G. Wells. Midgley argues that they represent bad science, twisted to have characteristics of a religion, such as assigning meaning to life (pp. 15, 71). The myth of the “Evolutionary Escalator,” extrapolated to some glorious imaginary future, is one example. Nothing in evolutionary science justifies this view, comforting though it may seem (p. 38). Furthermore, past attempts to accelerate the process by breeding an “Übermensch” have not ended at all well (p. 9), and more recent proposals are also disturbing (pp. 48–49).


The “Evolutionary Escalator” or “March of Progress”

Midgley claims that prophecies based on the “Evolutionary Escalator” myth “are quite simply exaltations of particular ideals within human life at their own epoch, projected on to the screen of a vague and vast ‘future’ – a term which, since Nietzsche and Wells, is not a name for what is particularly likely to happen, but for a fantasy realm devoted to the staging of visionary dramas. In their content, these dramas plainly depend on the moral convictions of their author and of his age, not on scientific theories of any kind.” (pp. 81–82).

In contrast, Midgley quotes a more pessimistic perspective from the physicist Steven Weinberg: “The more the universe seems comprehensible, the more it also seems pointless. But if there is no solace in the fruits of our research, there is at least some consolation in the research itself. Men and women are not content to comfort themselves with tales of gods and giants, or to confine their thoughts to the daily affairs of life; they also build telescopes and satellites and accelerators, and sit at their desk for endless hours working out the meaning of the data they gather. The effort to understand the universe is one of the very few things that lifts human life a little above the level of farce, and gives it some of the grace of tragedy.” (pp. 86–87). This perspective is very different from that of the evolutionary optimists, but it does share a certain scientist-centric bias.

Tho’ Nature, red in tooth and claw
With ravin, shriek’d against his creed, –

Are God and Nature then at strife,
That Nature lends such evil dreams?
So careful of the type she seems,
So careless of the single life;

‘So careful of the type?’ but no.
From scarped cliff and quarried stone
She cries, ‘A thousand types are gone:
I care for nothing, all shall go.’

(from Alfred, Lord Tennyson, In Memoriam A.H.H., LIV and LV)

Midgley is particularly negative about the “red in tooth and claw” view of evolution, which emphasises competition as against cooperation. She sees the “selfish gene” concept popularised by Richard Dawkins as an example of this. In a 2007 interview with The Independent, she claimed “The ideology Dawkins is selling is the worship of competition. It is projecting a Thatcherite take on economics on to evolution. It’s not an impartial scientific view; it’s a political drama.


Honeybees are great cooperators (photo: Todd Huffman), and symbiosis is common in nature

Indeed, when an organism succeeds by occupying a new ecological niche (as, for example, urban coyotes do), there need not be any competition at all (at least, not initially).


A coyote in an urban niche (photo: Dru Bloomfield)

Extreme forms of sociobiology comes in for particular criticism from Midgley. They produce, she claims, bad science: “Environmental causes are neglected without any justification being given, and so are causes which flow from an individual itself during its lifetime … In human affairs, both these areas are of course of the first importance, since they cover the whole range of culture and individual action.” (p. 151). She is far from being the only scholar to make such criticisms.

Less common is the way in which she blames the growth of creationism on the rhetoric of sociobiologists themselves: “The project of treating the time scale of the Genesis story literally, as a piece of history, is an amazing one, which serious biblical scholars at least as far back as Origen (AD 200) have seen to be unworkable and unnecessary. The reason why people turn to it now seems to be that the only obvious alternative story – evolution – has become linked with a view of human psychology which they rightly think both false and immoral.” (p. 172).

See also this talk by Midgley, related to a more recent book on a similar topic:

In essence, Mary Midgley strongly supports scientists when they do science, but does not always accept the results of scientists doing philosophy (and especially moral philosophy). This little book sounds a helpful note of caution for those scientists who have become interested in philosophical speculation.

* * * *
Evolution as a Religion, by Mary Midgley: 4 stars

Observational vs Historical Science?

The debate last February between creationist Ken Ham and science educator Bill Nye has been widely discussed (see also the video). Both sides were rather an embarrassment, but one interesting aspect was Ham’s distinction between “observational science” and “historical science.” This has been called an “inane and baseless fallacy” – but is it?

In fact, all watchers of the CSI franchise know that there is a clear distinction between (on the one hand) applying known science to the past – in order to decide who did what – and (on the other hand) developing new knowledge of scientific principles. There is, of course, an interplay between the two. For example, forensic entomology draws on experimental work in a specific aspect of insect ecology. Experimental work in ballistics (popularised by the MythBusters) is used to decide what conclusions can be drawn from bullets and bullet wounds.

Observational science tends to be restricted to the here-and-now, where confounding factors can be dealt with. NASA and ESA justifiably spend a lot of money sending probes around the solar system (e.g. the probe above) so that the reach of observational science can be extended to objects which humans cannot visit. Events which are outside the solar system, or are distant in time, are outside the scope of direct observation altogether, which means that some degree of inference is inevitable.

Of course, this does not mean that scientists throw up their hands in despair, and say “we’ll never know.” Astronomers routinely investigate the same phenomenon at multiple wavelengths (e.g. radio waves and visible light), in order to get a clearer picture of what’s been going on. The supernova of last April (see image below) is one example, having been investigated at gamma-ray and optical wavelengths.

Carbon dating involves several assumptions about the past – but from the very beginning those assumptions were cross-checked using other dating techniques, such as tree rings and historical methods (the diagram below is redrawn from the Arnold & Libby paper of 1949). In practice, carbon dating is adjusted for multiple confounding factors, and provides a moderately accurate dating method for carbon-containing objects with ages up to tens of thousands of years.

In summary, then, a distinction can indeed be drawn between “observational science” and “historical science.” The latter draws on the scientific principles established by the former. Scientists tackle the problem of not being able to directly observe the past by using multiple independent methods to infer what happened, and this can allow very solid conclusions to be drawn. That’s precisely what makes books, films, and television shows about forensic science so compelling.

Update: see also this 2008 post from the National Center for Science Education on the topic.

Science and Religion: a book review


Science and Religion: Are They Compatible? by Daniel C. Dennett and Alvin C. Plantinga

I recently read Science and Religion: Are They Compatible?, a brief (77 page) record and extension of a 2009 debate between atheist philosopher Daniel Dennett and Christian philosopher Alvin Plantinga. Many books of this kind exist, but this one is better than most, since both participants think and write quite clearly on the topic.


Daniel Dennett (left, photo: David Orban) & Alvin Plantinga (right, photo: “Jonathunder”)

In a sense, the compatibility between Science and Religion is an obvious empirical truth. Science began in the Age of Cathedrals. The philosopher Alfred North Whitehead suggested that “the greatest contribution of medievalism to the formation of the scientific movement … must come from the medieval insistence on the rationality of God” (Science and the Modern World, p. 15). Even today, a significant number of scientists in the West are Christian (about 30%, according to this study). Globally, there are also very substantial numbers of Muslims and Hindus.

There may, of course, be conflicts between specific scientific theories and specific interpretations of religious writings. In Galileo’s time, the Ptolemaic astronomical system and the Tychonian astronomical system were seen by many Catholic theologians as compatible with their interpretation of Joshua 10:13, while the Copernican astronomical system was seen as incompatible. The Tychonian and Copernican systems were both roughly consistent with empirical data (the Tychonian system was less elegant, but the Copernican system predicted stellar parallax, which was not observed until the 19thcentury). The Copernican system won out, though the Jesuits taught the Tychonian system for some time. Today, both the anti-Copernican interpretation of Joshua 10:13 and the concept of an absolutely stationary “centre” of the universe have been abandoned, and so conflict no longer exists in that field.


The Tychonian astronomical system

In this book, Plantinga (p. 2) re-focuses the question on the compatibility between, on the one hand, generic Christianity (as defined in, for example, C.S. Lewis’ Mere Christianity) and, on the other hand, evolutionary theory (the “hot topic” of recent centuries). Even here, the existence of believers in theistic evolution seems to make the compatibility an empirical truth. C.S. Lewis once wroteI believe that Christianity can still be believed, even if Evolution is true.” A recent poll in the US found the following beliefs among college graduates and postgrads (N = 269):

Plantinga argues (p. 4) that the only evolutionary concept incompatible with Christianity is the idea that mutations are “unplanned and unintended” (theistic evolution, of course, takes mutations to be divinely guided), but that truly random mutations are not actually essential to the theory. In support of this, Plantinga (p. 6) quotes Ernst Mayr: “When it is said that mutation or variation is random, the statement simply means that there is no correlation between the production of new genotypes and the adaptational needs of an organism in the given environment” (Toward a New Philosophy of Biology, p. 99). Dennett agrees (p. 26) with the compatibility between evolution and theistic belief (though himself denying theism for other reasons), and also agrees (p. 29) that evolution does not require mutations to be truly random. As evidence of this (p. 30), Dennett points at computer simulations of evolution, where things evolve in spite of the use of pseudorandom number generators which are, in fact, completely deterministic.

Having so quickly come to agreement on the main topic, much of the book is concerned with naturalism in Science and with the rationality of religious belief in general. Plantinga attempts (p. 19) an interesting argument suggesting that atheistic evolution gives no foundation for Science, in that we have no reason to believe that the beliefs in our brains are true (merely that they are adaptive). Dennett disagrees strongly here (p. 35) arguing that evolution has made our brains “highly reliable truth trackers.” It’s not at all obvious to me that this is true (we may well have evolved, for example, to have false but beneficial beliefs about other people), and Dennett provides little real argument for his position here (referring primarily to his other books on the topic).

Dennett goes on to argue (p. 31) that “naturalism is tacitly assumed … throughout scientific investigation.” He uses what is in my view a somewhat shaky courtroom analogy (courts will acquit a murder suspect if accidental death is a viable alternative, but do not “tacitly assume” that accidental death is the only option). If Dennett means metaphysical naturalism (as Plantinga does), his point is clearly empirically false, given the large number of religious scientists, and Plantinga points that out (p. 42, p. 63). If Dennett means methodological naturalism, it’s probably true, but not particularly relevant to the point being argued. Dennett’s response to Plantinga (p. 48) doesn’t really clarify the issue.

Towards the end of the book are arguments for and against the ideas of Michael Behe which I found less interesting (it might perhaps have been more interesting had Behe himself been involved, but there is probably little new to say about his ideas). The surprising thing about this book was discovering the extent of agreement on the main topic. On theism generally, Plantinga and Dennett were always going to have radically different perspectives, for reasons outside the scope of this book, and rehashing those perspectives provides few new insights. To quote Teilhard de Chardin, “after close on two centuries of passionate struggle, neither science nor faith has succeeded in discrediting its adversary.”

Plantinga’s final conclusion is that “there isn’t any conflict between Christian belief and science in the area we’ve been investigating. Christian belief and evolutionary science are entirely compatible. Perpetuating the myth that there is conflict, furthermore, is harmful both to religion and to science.” Dennett accepts this compatibility but denies that Plantinga has proved the stronger claim that “Science depends on theism to underwrite its epistemic self-confidence.” Neither author follows up on the question of how the myth of conflict might be harmful.

See also plurilogue.com, skepticfreethought.com, thinkingfaith.org, and The American Scientific Affiliation for other reviews of this book.


Science and Religion by Daniel C. Dennett and Alvin C. Plantinga: 3½ stars

Why did Science begin?

Following on from my previous post about the origin of science in the 12th century, one might ask why the influx of ideas from the Muslim world led to such a scientific explosion in Europe (I’ve been having some Facebook discussions on this). The philosopher Alfred North Whitehead (1861–1947), in his Science and the Modern World (1926, pp 15–16), suggested (perhaps surprisingly) that the credit lay with medieval theology:

I do not think, however, that I have even yet brought out the greatest contribution of medievalism to the formation of the scientific movement. I mean the inexpugnable belief that every detailed occurrence can be correlated with its antecedents in a perfectly definite manner, exemplifying general principles. Without this belief the incredible labours of scientists would be without hope. It is this instinctive conviction, vividly poised before the imagination, which is the motive power of research:—that there is a secret, a secret which can be unveiled. How has this conviction been so vividly implanted on the European mind?

When we compare this tone of thought in Europe with the attitude of other civilisations when left to themselves, there seems but one source for its origin. It must come from the medieval insistence on the rationality of God, conceived as with the personal energy of Jehovah and with the rationality of a Greek philosopher. Every detail was supervised and ordered: the search into nature could only result in the vindication of the faith in rationality. Remember that I am not talking of the explicit beliefs of a few individuals. What I mean is the impress on the European mind arising from the unquestioned faith of centuries. By this I mean the instinctive tone of thought and not a mere creed of words.

In Asia, the conceptions of God were of a being who was either too arbitrary or too impersonal for such ideas to have much effect on instinctive habits of mind. Any definite occurrence might be due to the fiat of an irrational despot, or might issue from some impersonal, inscrutable origin of things. There was not the same confidence as in the intelligible rationality of a personal being. I am not arguing that the European trust in the scrutability of nature was logically justified even by its own theology. My only point is to understand how it arose. My explanation is that the faith in the possibility of science, generated antecedently to the development of modern scientific theory, is an unconscious derivative from medieval theology.

There are perhaps three relevant theological ideas in the medieval theology to which Whitehead refers. The first is the idea of the Universe as rational, because it is created by a rational God. Such an idea is implicit in, for example, the Timaeus of Plato, which suggests that eternally existing Platonic solids were used by the Creator as the shapes for the different kinds of atom:

The belief in rationality also prompted some good medieval work in the field of logic. However, Whitehead suggests that medieval theology also incorporated “the personal energy of Jehovah.” In particular, the “scrutability of nature” – the idea that Nature is knowable – is implicit in the medieval idea of Nature as a written book, intended to be read. Galileo famously quoted Tertullian (c. 160–225) on this point:

God is known first through Nature, and then again, more particularly, by doctrine – by Nature in His works, and by doctrine in His revealed Word.” (Tertullian, Against Marcion, I:18; Galileo, Letter to the Grand Duchess Christina of Tuscany, 1615)

Galileo later expanded on the mathematical language in which he thought the “book” of Nature was written:

La filosofia è scritta in questo grandissimo libro che continuamente ci sta aperto innanzi a gli occhi (io dico l’universo), ma non si può intendere se prima non s’impara a intender la lingua, e conoscer i carattere, ne’ quali è scritto. Egli è scritto in lingua matematica, e i caratteri son triangoli, cerchi, ed altre figure geometriche, senza i quali mezi è impossibile a intenderne umanamente parola; senza questi è un aggirarsi vanamente per un oscuro laberinto.

[Science] is written in this grand book – I mean the universe – which stands continually open to our gaze, but it cannot be understood unless one first learns to comprehend the language and interpret the characters in which it is written. It is written in the language of mathematics, and its characters are triangles, circles, and other geometrical figures, without which it is humanly impossible to understand a single word of it; without these, one is wandering around in a dark labyrinth.” (Galileo, Il Saggiatore, 1623, tr. Stillman Drake)

[This passage has often been quoted, although today we would instead speak of equations and other mathematical constructs.]

Finally, there is the idea that the studying the Universe has value. Whitehead refers to belief systems which considered the world to be unintelligible. There were also other belief systems which devalued even the attempt to understand the world. The Neo-Platonists, for example, focussed their attention on mystical appreciation of the divine things “above,” which left little room for detailed study of the mundane and physical down here “below” (although it did encourage the Neo-Platonists to do mathematical work). The medievals flirted with Christian forms of Neo-Platonism, but the belief that God had created the Universe always gave the mundane and physical its own inherent value, as far as they were concerned.

The Stoics, on the other hand, believed in a cyclic Universe which was periodically destroyed, only for history to repeat itself in exact detail, like a serpent eating its own tail. There is a degree of pointlessness in such a viewpoint which perhaps discourages scientific investigation. Certainly, neither the Neo-Platonists nor the Stoics built the kind of scientific structure that Europeans began to construct in the 12th century.

Today, of course, the rationality and knowability of the Universe are largely taken for granted (except, perhaps, by Postmodernists), and more people are involved in the scientific enterprise than ever before. The spectacular success of science has made the rationality and knowability of the Universe so obvious, in fact, that it is difficult to comprehend a time, thousands of years ago, when most people thought that unpredictable chaos was all there was.

See also “When Did Modern Science Begin?” by Edward Grant [American Scholar, 66 (1), Winter 1997, 105–113].