Author: Albert C. Knudson
[p. 125]
THE common reason has in modern times expressed itself most effectively and most authoritatively in the form of empirical science. The commanding position now occupied by science was formerly held by philosophy. It was Greek philosophy that in the early centuries of the church’s history was accepted as the secular standard and test of truth. Before its bar Christianity was forced to justify itself. It did so by reinterpreting its own sacred books, by appropriating the congenial elements in the philosophy of the day and by casting its own teaching in the molds of Greek thought. In this way it became the religion of the Greco-Roman world.
To-day it is empirical science that is in the saddle. It holds the whip-cord over the intellectual pursuits of men. Only those lines of study are admitted into good and regular standing which conform to the results and methods of the empirical sciences. Theology, consequently, if it is to maintain itself in the modern world, must somehow or other square itself with current science. This is its first apologetic task. For it to repudiate science would be to ostracize itself from intellectual circles and brand itself as false or mistaken.
[p. 126]
The term “science” is sometimes used in the sense of systematized knowledge, and in that sense theology and philosophy are themselves sciences. But present-day usage tends to limit the term to the empirical sciences, and it is in this sense that it will here be used.
From such works as the History of the Conflict between Religion and Science, by John W. Draper, and A History of the Warfare of Science With Theology, by Andrew D. White, it might be concluded that there is a necessary antagonism between theology and science, and that when the struggle is over, very little place will be left for theology. [1] It is recorded in these volumes how time and again theology resisted the advance of science, but was eventually forced to give way and beat an ignominious retreat. The globular shape of the earth, the idea of antipodes, the Copernican astronomy, the age of the earth, the antiquity of man, the origin of species, the descent of man, evolution, the uniformity of nature, miracles, demoniacal possession, the historicity of the Flood all of these have been the subject of strenuous debate between science and theology, and in virtually every case the scientific theory has triumphed over the traditional view endorsed by theology. The resistance of theology to science would thus seem to be entirely futile.
Nevertheless, in spite of these numerous reverses, theology still persists and religious belief is about as [p. 127] vigorous as ever. Indeed, most of the leading scientists have themselves been Christian believers. They have not been aware of any antithesis between their religion and their science; and if this has been so in their case, there would seem to be no reason why it should not be .so with others. Evidently, then, the long conflict between science and theology must have been due to some serious misunderstanding. Theology must in the past have trespassed upon the territory of science, and science at times upon the territory of theology. Thus a kind of intellectual Alsace-Lorraine was created which led to repeated strife. All this, it would seem, might have been avoided if only the province of theology and that of science had been properly denned. Between the two there is no necessary antagonism. Each has its own independent field, and there is no valid reason why one should encroach upon the province of the other. They ought, rather, to supplement each other and to co-operate one with the other. Such is the growing feeling of our day, and in principle it is entirely sound.
The situation, however, is more complex than this statement would indicate. Scholars are bv no means agreed as to the exact limits either of science or theology, nor are they agreed as to the relation of scientific and theological method to each other. Some argue that in its method theology ought to become an empirical science. If it should, great and extraordinary triumphs, we are told, would await it. [2] But before such a program could be carried out we would need to know just what is meant by an empirical [p. 128] science; and on this point agreement has by no means been reached.
We distinguish between the “natural” or “descriptive” sciences, on the one hand, and the “historical,” “cultural,” or “normative” sciences, on the other; and both groups are commonly classed as “empirical,” so that an empirical science might be either a natural or a cultural science. There are also two quite different conceptions of the limits of empirical science, one positivistic, the other metaphysical. Of these the first restricts science to the phenomenal realm, to the observation of facts and the determination of their relations to each other. Everything beyond this, all inquiry into causes and substances, it relegates to philosophy or banishes completely from the range of human investigation. The second interprets science in a realistic or materialistic sense. It regards the facts of our physical experience as metaphysically objective, as involving a direct knowledge of matter and force. And in a similar way it has been argued that our religious experience involves a direct knowledge of God. Furthermore, in addition to these different views of empirical science, there is a question as to whether theology can take an entirely neutral attitude toward the various sciences. Some hold that it may take such an attitude toward the science of nature, but deny that it can be indifferent to the conclusions reached by the science of history.
The relation of theology and science to each other is, therefore, not so simple a problem as some seem to think. Much confusion of thought still exists on the subject; and if a permanent modus vivendi is to [p. 129] be established between them, there must be a larger degree of agreement as to the nature and limits of each.
First, we need to decide between the positivistic and the metaphysical interpretations of science. [3] Modern science began in a naive realistic mood. ~Y It assumed that we know matter at first hand and know that it is a real and an extra-mental cause. The fact that science was empirical did not, therefore, limit it to the phenomenal realm. Experience itself was supposed to embrace the metaphysically real. This was implied in the distinction between primary and secondary qualities. The latter were subjective, but the former were regarded as objective. They were truly real; and it was with them that science was fundamentally concerned. It had to do with “reality” as well as “appearance.” Its function was “explanation” as well as “description.” In other words, it was itself a philosophy; indeed, it was called “natural philosophy.”
But with the keener and more thorough analysis of sense experience due to such men as Berkeley, Hume, and Kant it became evident that primary as well as secondary qualities are subjective and that we have no such immediate apprehension of metaphysical reality as was supposed. We know only phenomena. The cause or substance lying back of them completely eludes sense-perception. Science, therefore, insofar as it is empirical, has nothing to [p. 130] do with the causal ground of things. It is purely descriptive. Its task is simply to relate and correlate the facts of experience. This positivistic conception of science has for some time past been making steady headway, and is the view now commonly held in scientific circles. [4] It is the only view that is consistent with Humian and Kantian criticism, and the only view that makes possible a clear distinction between science and philosophy. Metaphysically interpreted, science becomes a realistic or materialistic philosophy, and as such subject to the devastating criticism to which these types of philosophy are exposed. Positivistically interpreted, it has to do only with the factual order, but there it reigns supreme. It leaves to philosophy the question as to the nature of the cause and purpose that lie back of the world of phenomena. [5] This division of labor between science and philosophy is the most satisfactory one yet devised. So we accept the positivistic interpretation of science, while rejecting philosophical positivism.
Having adopted the positivistic conception of science, [p. 131] our next question has to do with, the attempt that is being made in some quarters to transform systematic theology into an empirical science. Such a transformation, we are told, is not only possible; it could be effected in the very near future, and with most advantageous results. [6] The plan, it seems, is to have the theologian enter upon his work with the same naive realism that the average physicist or chemist does. As the latter assumes the reality of matter as given in sense-experience, so the theologian should assume the reality of God as given in religious experience. Then by a method of observation and experiment akin to that of the natural sciences he should study the facts of the religious life, reduce them to laws, generalize his conclusions, and in the light of his new discoveries revise or define more precisely his conception of God, just as the physicist does his conception of matter. In this way he would remove the rock of offense that scientists heretofore have found in theology and would make of theology itself a “genuinely scientific” discipline.
This theological program has its attractive features, but there are decisive reasons why it cannot be accepted. For one thing, it presupposes a substantialistic interpretation of science an interpretation which, as we have seen, is steadily being outgrown. Substance and cause are categories with [p. 132] which science is dispensing. It is itself philosophically neutral, consistent alike with idealism and with realism. Matter as a metaphysical entity is not given in sense-experience, and empirical science has nothing to do with it. [7] To interpret science realistically or metaphysically is to take a step backward, and yet it is this interpretation of it that is implied in the effort to make of theology an empirical science.
Another objection to this program is that it does not make adequate allowance for the marked difference that exists between sense-experience and religious experience. Whatever be our conception of experience, idealistic or realistic, it is still true that the objective content of sense-experience is quite different from that of religious experience and that the former is amenable to scientific treatment in a way that the latter is not. It is no accident that the strictly “scientific” method has flourished in the field of “natural philosophy,” while it has had comparatively limited application in the field of systematic theology. The difference of method in the two fields is inherent in the difference of subject matter. The object or objects of religious perception, if there be such, do not have the same independent and detached character that the objects of sense perception have. They do not force themselves upon our attention in the same way, they are more subjectively conditioned, they arise to a larger extent out of personal interest [p. 133] and anticipation. We do not know God in the same impersonal way that we know the things of sense, and the knowledge of him is not communicable and verifiable in the same objective way that scientific knowledge is supposed to be. Knowledge, that may properly be called scientific in the empirical as distinguished from the merely systematic sense of the term, must be based on observation and experiment, and it must also be capable of being verified and communicated to others. [8] But that we have a really empirical or perceptual knowledge of God is by no means certain. We believe in him; but whether we actually have a “consciousness” of Mm is at least open to question. The mystics claim to have such a consciousness, but in their case it is admittedly special in character; it is not capable of experimental verification and communication to others. The belief in God, implied in the more general religious experience of the average man, is no doubt at times vivified into what may be called a “consciousness” or awareness of the Divine. But the Divine, thus laid hold of, is too dimly apprehended to be made the foundation of a science; and if scientific terminology is applied to such a vague perception, it can only be in an accommodated sense. Strictly, theology cannot be an empirical science, even on the realistic basis. Its experiential data lack the necessary concrete objectivity.
The fact is that in the proposed “scientific” theology [p. 134] God is forced to function in a double capacity. He serves as the analogue both of the sense-objects and of their supposed material ground or cause. Natural science, it is held, involves both. But our knowledge of one is quite different from our knowledge of the other. We have an “empirical” knowledge of the sense-objects, but we have no such knowledge of “matter.” Of the latter we have either a speculative conception or a confused notion due to spontaneous thought or to an inherited prejudice. Yet God in the new “scientific” theology is supposed to take the place both of it and of the sense-objects. It is assumed that we know him in the same clear and direct way that we know the things of sense and also in the same vague and indirect way that we know their causal ground. This illustrates the confusion into which thought falls when it tries to reduce theology to an empirical science.
The correct view to take of science is the one we have called the positivistic, and from this standpoint theology could not in the nature of the case become an empirical science without surrendering its objectivity and becoming synonymous with the psychology of religion. If there were among the objects of religious experience an intermediate realm of reality akin to that of sense-objects, we might perhaps claim that theology as an empirical science would differ from the psychology of religion just as physics and chemistry do from the psychology of sense-experience, but no such middle realm exists for religious thought. Religious experience, if it has any objectivity at all, has God as its object; and this means that the purely [p. 135] “empirical” or positivistic plane has been transcended, for God is ultimate reality, a metaphysical Being, if he is anything. Empirical science, interpreted positivistically, excludes the idea of God and of metaphysical reality of any kind. We might from this point of view study the factual side of religious experience, but we could never advance beyond that and make any positive affirmation about the objective reality of its intellectual content; in a word, we could never be theologians. Theology, transformed into a positivistic empirical science, would be simply psychology of religion.
There is, then, no way by which theology can retain its integrity and yet become an empirical science. Nor can it ward off the attacks of scientists by claiming that it is itself a pure science. There are in it extraor superscientific factors which cannot be discarded. Theology has its own unique character, and necessarily stands apart to some extent from the scientific movement; it cannot be merged in it without losing its identity. Not by being metamorphosed into an empirical science will it be able to maintain itself in this modern age, but by so adjusting itself to the scientific movement that the truth of both its own standpoint and that of science will be recognized.
Two significant attempts at such adjustment have been made. One, which we owe to Ritschl, consists in distinguishing between existential judgments (Seinsurtheile) and judgments of value (Werthurtheile). Science, we are told, has to do with the former, [p. 136] and religion or theology with the latter. This does not mean that science and theology are concerned with different realms; it, rather, means that i they approach the world from different points of view. Science registers its existence, the mode of it, while j theology evaluates it. In this distinction there is considerable truth. It fits in with the distinction that I has in recent years been drawn between the natural sciences and the cultural or historical or normative sciences. [9] The former are “nomothetic,” they lay down laws, generalize, and are “wertfrei” have nothing to do with values. The cultural sciences, on the other hand, are “idiographic,” they are primarily concerned with the concrete, with individuals. They lay stress on values, are guided by the idea of an end, and frame laws that are purposive rather than causal. In these respects theology bears a certain resemblance to the cultural sciences such as sociology, ethics, and law. It studies religion from the normative point of view and thus transcends a pure psychology of religion. But it is not itself merely a normative science. It transcends all such sciences by affirming the metaphysical reality of its ideal.
Here, however, a certain ineptness in the phraseology manifests itself. “Judgments of value,” when contrasted with “judgments of being,” would seem to be subjective. For if not, why should the contrasted judgments be called “judgments of being”? The latter judgments by their very name would seem [p. 137] to include all judgments that have to do with reality. Other judgments such as those of value would, then, have to do with the ideal or the unreal. And some have insisted that this is the natural implication of the term. But a careful analysis; of value-judgments makes it evident that they imply an objective reference. Apart from, it they would be meaningless. “Were there no existence,” says W. E. Sorley, “there would be no value.” [10] Judgments of value are not, then, purely subjective. Indeed, in the Ritschlian theory of value-judgments the very reverse is implied. Here it is assumed that the key to ultimate reality is to be found in the value-judgments of religion rather than in the existential judgments of science. There is, therefore, no antithesis or even separation between reality and worth. Bather do the two belong together. But it is still true that the term “being” in the expression “judgments of being” is commonly interpreted as synonymous with “reality,” and hence the impression is left that there is, after all, a sharp divorce between reality and worth. To avoid this impression it ought to be explained that the term “being” applies only to phenomenal reality; but this is usually not done, and the result is confusion and misunderstanding. [11] A. much better way of defining and adjusting the [p. 138] relation of science and theology to each other is to distinguish with Borden P. Bowne between phenomenal and metaphysical reality and then assign the former realm to science and the latter to theology. This preserves the positivistic character of science and gives to it free rein in the space-time world. No limitations are imposed upon it so long as it confines itself to the phenomenal order. On this plane it may frame any theory it wishes, and theology will not be disturbed by it. For theology has to do with the power-world, the world of cause and purpose, in which the facts of experience find their ultimate explanation, but whose nature is not determined by any particular theory concerning the factual order itself. One might hold either the biblical or the scientific cosmogony, the Ptolemaic or the Copernican astronomy, the theory of creation or of evolution, and yet hold essentially the same view of the underlying power upon which the world is dependent. In deciding upon the nature of this power one may properly be influenced to a large extent by ethical considerations, and in that case one may retain the Ritschlian distinction between the predominantly factual character of science and the predominantly valuational character of theology. But the distinction between science and theology is better expressed by the terms “phenomenal” and “metaphysical” than by the terms “existential” and “valuational.” [12] For the [p. 139] nature of ultimate reality is by no means determined solely by the idea of value, and the term “existential” is, as we have seen, unfortunate in that it obscures rather than emphasizes the distinction between the phenomenal and the real. The “phenomenality” of the material world brings out its secondary and subordinate character, and thus makes it possible to avoid the dualism implicit in or at least suggested by the antithesis between the existential and the valuational. If the material world is phenomenal, there is nothing about it that is inconsistent with a fundamental monism; rather does its phenomenality point to the unity of ultimate reality.
In principle there is, therefore, no conflict between science, which has to do with the phenomenal, and theology, which has to do with the metaphysical. But while this is true of the scientific and theological world-views in general, there are two points at which a strained relation still exists and perhaps permanently will. One has to do with history and the other with the apparently naturalistic implications of modern science.
Christian theology is concerned not simply with a spiritual interpretation of the universe, but with the historicity of certain events, and it has had greater difficulty in maintaining the latter than the former. The distinction between phenomenal and metaphysical reality makes possible the maintenance of a spiritual view of the universe in the face of any conceivable [p. 140] scientific discoveries. But when it comes to specific historical events the situation is not so clear. Here Christianity invades the field of historical science, and it is a question whether the two can be completely adjusted to each other. That in the past Christianity made many historical affirmations that were unwarranted and nonessential to the Christian faith is now generally conceded. The science of biblical criticism has relegated much of what was supposed to be history to the realm of legend and untrustworthy tradition. This applies not only to the Old Testament, but to the New as well.
In this connection the question of miracle has figured prominently. It used to be argued, on one side, that miracle is impossible; and, on the other, it was maintained that miracle is essential to the Christian faith both as “authenticating” evidence of its truth and as proof of the Divine freedom. All of these contentions are now obsolete. No one knows enough about the nature of ultimate reality to be warranted in affirming the impossibility of miracle. This is at present generally conceded. And on the theistic basis the possibility of miracle is, of course, implied. On the other hand, it is equally evident that miracle cannot establish the truth of any proposition that does not commend itself to reason. As an Arabian writer once put it, “If a conjurer should say to me, ‘Three are more than ten, and in proof of it I will change this stick into a serpent,’ I might be surprised at his legerdemain, but I certainly should not admit his assertion.” [13] It is also clear that belief in the divine [p. 141] freedom does not hinge upon the fact of miracle. If it did, it would have a very insecure basis. The doctrine of the divine immanence has, to a large extent, deprived the appeal to miracle of its religious importance.
Yet the question of miracle does have a significant bearing upon the historical credibility of Scripture and upon our conception of the person of Christ. A man may admit the theoretical possibility of miracle and yet deny its actuality. This is the position which probably most scientific historians would at present take. They would regard the nature miracles of the Bible as mythical or as misunderstood natural events. Such miracles, if recorded in other sacred literatures, would be rejected by us all; and if so, why should we accept them because they are narrated in our Scriptures? We no longer hold to biblical infallibility. The middle wall of partition between the Bible and other sacred literatures is broken down. All history, we now see, is of one weave, and hence no special consideration can be accorded the biblical miracles. This position, if generally accepted, would not, it is true, destroy the historical trustworthiness of Scripture as a whole, but it would undermine it at points that have hitherto been regarded as of vital significance. There is, consequently, here still a tension between faith and historical science.
But more significant is the bearing of psychological and historical science upon the inner life of Jesus. Christianity might perhaps dispense with the physical miracles recorded in the New Testament, but when it comes to the person of Jesus, his consciousness, [p. 142] the situation is quite different. Here we have to do with the very citadel of the Christian faith. If we were to follow the lead of psychology and sociology in their efforts to reduce Jesus to the level of our normal or abnormal humanity and were to regard him as completely and unreservedly the child of his own time, it is evident that we would come into conflict with one of the profoundest and most tenacious convictions of the Christian Church. Psychology would, of course, be willing to allow that Jesus was a religious genius and perhaps the most exalted of all religious geniuses. But Christianity has never been contented with such a classification or differentiation of him. It has always set him apart in another and different sense, and so in modern times there has arisen the distinction between “the Christ of faith” and “the Jesus of history.” The tendency of historical and psychological science has been to suppress the former in the interest of the latter; but to prevent this, it would seem, is a matter of life and death with historical Christianity. Here, then, we have an acute tension between science and theology.
The second point of discord, above referred to, had to do with the naturalistic implications of the scientific world-view. These implications are due in part to the factual and nonideal character of science. For it things are what they seem, they have no deeper meaning or purpose; and hence all ideal values seem to be illusory. This seeming grows out of the selflimitation of science. But it is also due to the fact that the modern scientific world-view does not fit in so well with the Christian scheme of things as did [p. 143] the older world-view. Take, for instance, the Copernican astronomy and the Darwinian theory of man’s descent. Against them as a background read John 3. 16,. and it becomes evident at once that the two viewpoints are not completely geared into each other. The anthropocentric standpoint of Christianity seems more or less out of place in the world of modern astronomy and modern biology. That the God of a geocentric universe should fix his attention chiefly upon man and sacrifice himself for his redemption, is not altogether strange. Even in the presence of such a God the devout mind, it is true, as it contemplated the heavens, exclaimed, “What is man that thou art mindful of him?” Yet there was a certain congruity between the anthropocentric and geocentric points of view. Peter Lombard, for instance, said in his “Sentences”: “Just as man is made for the sake of God that is, that he may serve him so the universe is made for the sake of man that is, that it may serve him; therefore is man placed at the middle point of the universe, that he may both serve and be served.”
From the geocentric and creationist standpoint there was no particular difficulty in conceiving of man as the goal and climax of the universe. But with the introduction of the Copernican and Darwinian theories the situation was completely changed. Man now seems to be an accidental product of a blind evolutionary process, and so utterly insignificant a being that it would be preposterous to regard the universe as in any sense made for him. He seems so overwhelmed by the immensity of space and so closely [p. 144] linked to the lower forms of life that it would be absurd to attribute to him a high and unique destiny. He seems, rather, as someone has termed him, “cosmic scum.” And when this seeming is mistaken for reality and treated as an implication of science, as it easily is, there results necessarily a sharp conflict between science and religion. But even when the provisional and more or less illusory character of science is recognized, it is still true that the scientific picture of the world is not so transparent and effective a symbol or medium of Christian truth as was the older view. The scientific world-view is capable of a religious interpretation, but it has inherent in it a naturalistic prejudice, which it is not easy to overcome. Then, too, when purged of this prejudice, it does not lend itself so readily to a Christian interpretation as did the older geocentric and creationist view. We have here, consequently, a persistent source of difficulty between religion and science.
This difficulty, however, is psychological rather than logical. In principle there is no conflict between pure science and pure religion. One has to do with phenomenal reality and the other with ontological reality; one is concerned with facts, the other with their ultimate interpretation. Science permits a theistic interpretation of the world; and that is all that theology has a right to ask of it. When it comes to certain historical events, it may not always be easy to fix the limits of science, on the one hand, and the limits of theology, on the other. At this point there will probably continue to be more or less of conflict, and so there will also be more or less tension between [p. 145] the spirit of science and that of religion, often within the very same person. But in general and from the logical point of view there is no reason why theology and science should not live peaceably together. Each has in the main its own independent field, and each may well learn from the other.
For a more recent work covering the same field and considerably more sympathetic with the theological side of the conflict, see Landmarks in the Struggle Between Science and Religion, by James Y. Simpson. ↩︎
See Theology as an Empirical Science, by D. C. Macintosh. ↩︎
An excellent discussion of these two interpretations will be found in A Philosophy of Ideals, pp. 43-61, by Edgar S. Brightman. ↩︎
It was about the beginning of the last quarter of the nineteenth century that scientists began to adopt this view as “a definitely stated conception, corrective of misunderstandings.” Kirchhoff and Mach had not a little to do in giving it currency. See J. Arthur Thomson, The System of Animate Nature, p. 8. Note also the following statement by Karl Pearson in the preface to the third edition of The Grammar of Assent (1911): “Nobody believes now that science explains anything; we all look upon it as a shorthand description, as an economy of thought.” ↩︎
In John Wesley we find substantially this distinction between science and philosophy, but it is evident that he did not realize its full import, since he manifestly held to the realistic view of science. See Frank W. Collier, John Wesley Among the Scientists, pp. 65ff., 1481, 248f. ↩︎
D. C. Macintosh, Theology as an Empirical Science, pp. 3, 25. A somewhat similar theological program is advocated by H. N. Wieman in his Religious Experience and Scientific Method, Chap. I, but apparently with much less confidence in the possibility of its speedy realization. ↩︎
The methods of physical science, says A. S. Eddington, lead “not to a concrete reality, but to a shadow world of symbols, beneath which those methods are unadapted for penetrating” (Science and the Unseen Worlds -p. 73). See also his larger book, The Nature of the Physical World, chs. XIII-XV. ↩︎
For an analysis and definition of science see J. Arthur Thomson in The Outline of Science, IV, pp. 1165ff., and in Science and Religion, pp. 4ff. ↩︎
Heinrich Rickert, Kulturwissenschaft und Naturwissenschaft, and Die Grenzen der Naturwissenschaftlichen Begriffsbildung; and G. B. Foster, The Finality of the Christian Religion, pp. 309ff. ↩︎
Moral Values and the Idea of God, p. 109. ↩︎
In this connection it may also be noted that science as well as religion has a practical basis and that scientific facts are, as Professor R. T. Flewelling says, “meaningful and real largely from the standpoint of value.” One might even find, as he suggests, a ground of reconciliation between science and religion in the fact that “both must pass through the same little door of social and moral justification” (Creative Personality, pp. 220f). ↩︎
Canon Streeter, in his book Reality, uses the terms “quantitative” and “qualitative” to distinguish between scientific and religious knowledge, and since both are valid approaches to reality, he calls his theory “bi-representationism.” This theory is substantially the same as that held by Bowne, though the word “qualitative” suggests a leaning toward the Ritschlian viewpoint. ↩︎
J. W. Draper, Conflict Between Religion and Science, p. 66. ↩︎