The Fall and the inspiration for science
A review of The Fall of Man and the Foundations of Science by Peter
Harrison
Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, 2007
reviewed by Lael Weinberger
For too long, the history of science and religion has languished, either dominated
by caricatures or else ignored completely. Peter Harrison, historian of science
at Oxford University, is a leader in reanalyzing the neglected contributions of
religion—and especially, the Reformation—to science. Harrison’s
earlier work, The Bible, Protestantism, and the Rise of Natural Science
(Cambridge 1998) advanced the arresting thesis that the straightforward reading
of the Bible promoted by the Reformation legitimized the study of nature and was
thus essential to the emergence of modern science.1
Now, in The Fall of Man and the Foundations of Science, Harrison’s
thesis is that the way people viewed the Fall impacted the way they viewed science.
More specifically, he argues that the Augustinian emphasis on the depraved and fallen
nature of man, revived by the Protestant Reformation, was instrumental in spurring
on the scientific revolution.
Augustine versus Aquinas
Harrison starts by reviewing the various interpretations of the Fall and its effects
that were offered from the Patristic era through the Middle Ages. There were essentially
two major schools of thought that emerged, positions that came to be associated
with Augustine and Aquinas, respectively. On the one hand, Augustine represented
a strong view of the Fall’s effects. He believed that the Fall and the curse
of God corrupted all aspects of the world. Man was spiritually fallen and lost fellowship
with God. Man was mentally fallen and did not have the clearness of mind that God
gave in the ‘very good’ creation. Man was physically fallen and subject
to degeneration in a way that was not present before the Fall. Finally, the natural
world itself was fallen and subject to degeneration in contrast to its good order
and condition before the Fall. As a result, Harrison explains, “Adam’s
offspring” was entirely dependent on “divine grace, not merely for their
salvation (healing), but also for knowledge (illumination)” (p. 39). Augustinian
epistemology thus emphasized the dependence of man on God for all knowledge.
The Reformation’s critical analysis of human intellectual capacity did not
stymie science, but rather stimulated it.
On the other hand, Aquinas offered a more minimal estimate of the Fall’s effects.
Aquinas believed that the Fall corrupted man’s spiritual and moral faculties,
but left his reason intact. Aquinas distinguished between ‘natural gifts’
and ‘supernatural gifts’. The supernatural gifts were lost at the fall,
the natural gifts were unaffected. Reason was the most important of the ‘natural
gifts’. As a result, man was still capable of exercising right reason to discover
truth about nature, apart from divine revelation. Aquinas naturalized epistemology,
at least as to knowledge of the natural world.
Even in his own time, there were those who questioned Aquinas’s epistemology—based
on Aristotle—for failing to reckon properly with the Fall. But on the whole,
Aquinas and his Aristotelian conception of science carried the day to become orthodoxy
in the Roman Catholic Church. Not surprisingly, it became a significant object of
attack by leaders of the sixteenth-century Reformation.
Augustine Redivivus
Wikipedia.org
Augustine viewed the effects of man’s Fall as comprehensive, corrupting
all aspects of man, including his reason. In The Fall of Man and the Foundations
of Science, Oxford historian Peter Harrison argues that a revival of Augustine’s
doctrines in the 16th century played a crucial role in creating the impetus
for natural science. Painted by Sandro Botticelli: Wikipedia.org
The sixteenth century saw a revival of Augustinian anthropology. “Augustine’s
assertions about the depravity of the human condition and of the necessity and sufficiency
of divine grace was [sic] revived and elaborated by the Protestant reformers and,
to a lesser extent, by the seventeenth-century Jansenists” (p. 40).
Luther and Calvin both argued that Aquinas’s epistemology embraced an unchristian
anthropology. Aquinas had artificially and incorrectly separated his theory of knowledge
from the biblical account of man. For a corrected interpretation, Luther and Calvin
revived the Augustinian position on the Fall and the depravity of man. But in reviving
Augustine’s anthropology, the Reformers also attempted to correct a difficulty
with Augustine: a dualistic separation of the natural and spiritual. This Platonist
dualism deprecated the temporal to elevate the spiritual. In contrast to this position,
Luther emphasized the “priesthood of all believers” in every vocation,
meaning that there was no sacred-secular dichotomy and that all endeavors could
and should be done for the glory of God and in His service.
Calvin was even more practically ‘this-worldly’ than Luther in his attitudes,
interested in many aspects of social life and Christian society. Harrison also finds
it significant that, in his writings, Calvin (more than Luther) allowed that non-Christian
philosophers like Aristotle possessed some measure of skill and ability in examining
temporal things. Later Calvinists would call this “common grace”—the
doctrine that God’s grace demonstrated to all men is what prevents us from
experiencing the full loss of ability that would naturally result from our depravity.
The bottom line from all this was that the pessimistic Augustinian view of human
nature did not lead to utter skepticism about the capacity of man to still discover
some limited truth about the temporal world, even though doing so would be hampered
and always imperfect, due to depravity.
The revival of Augustinian anthropology was originally a largely Protestant doing,
but there was a minority Catholic school of thought that also sought to dethrone
the dominant Thomist–Aristotelian paradigm and replace it with an Augustinian
one. This movement came to be called ‘Jansenism’ after one of its notable
advocates, Cornelius Jansen. Jansen wrote a massive three-volume work, Augustinus,
published posthumously in 1640, to promote the doctrines of Augustine. This movement
was actually precipitated well before Jansen’s time. In the late sixteenth
century, Baius, a young professor from Louvain who attended the Council of Trent,
began to teach the doctrines of Augustine as against those of Aquinas. A small but
influential group of thinkers followed, Blaise Pascal among them.
This revival of Augustine and his view of the Fall, both in Protestantism and in
Catholic sources, helped give new impetus to find more sure means of pursuing knowledge,
including the scientific method, as Harrison shows. But first, Harrison turns to
consider the role of the so-called ‘skeptical philosophers’ of the Reformation
era.
Origins of science: Augustine versus the skeptics
The 13th century theologian Thomas Aquinas departed from Augustine’s
position on the Fall, arguing that human reason remained uncorrupted. Aquinas is
here depicted by Italian artist Benozzo Gozzoli seated between Aristotle and Plato.
Painted by Benozzo Gozzoli from www.wikipedia.org
The skeptical perspective on the nature of man and the ability of the human mind
to access truth has received much of the credit from recent historians for inaugurating
modern philosophical ideas about human knowledge. The skeptics, many recent scholars
have thought, prompted the search for new foundations for human knowledge and thus
inaugurated modern epistemological exploration and stimulated scientific thinking.2 Harrison challenges this common
reading of the history, and suggests that, compared to the importance of the Augustinian
revival, the skeptics were peripheral to the main story of science’s foundations.
The philosophers of skepticism believed in the fallibility of human reason in much
the same way as the Augustinians did. But the skeptics lacked elements of belief
that were important for science: they believed that the imperfect state of man was
the natural state of man.
The Augustinian perspective by contrast taught that man was originally created by
God in perfection. Of course, man lost this when he fell, but regeneration was possible
through the grace of God. Not only was spiritual regeneration promised, but ultimately
there would be a physical restoration of creation. This gave hope that even in this
fallen world, by God’s grace man might be able to recover at least some of
the original knowledge. As Harrison explains, “for Jansenists and Protestant
reformers alike there lay the prospect of an amelioration of human ignorance through
an analysis of exactly what mental faculties had been disrupted by the Fall. This
was to be followed by the devising of strategies that might help to overcome these
inherited infirmities. The historical figure of Adam played an important role here”,
showing that man had once been able to have much better knowledge by natural gifts,
and thus “it was not unreasonable to hope for the partial restoration …
Such reasoning lay at the core of the Baconian programme” for natural science,
“important elements of which were later adopted by the Royal Society”
(p. 81). Thus, contrary to what one might expect based on ‘first impressions’,
Harrison writes, the Reformation’s critical analysis of human intellectual
capacity did not stymie science, but rather stimulated it (pp. 87–88).
Recovering Adam’s knowledge
When viewed in this light, Harrison writes, “It is hardly surprising then,
that the latter half of the sixteenth century witnessed a remarkable diversity of
attempts to establish new foundations for human learning” (p. 93). Many of
these attempts would not be classed as scientific, or as doctrinally orthodox. Yet
the confluence of ideas created the milieu in which ‘modern science’
arose. Harrison examines several of these projects, with proposed foundations in
three different areas: reason, scripture, and personal inspiration.
In the first group (‘reason’) were those who found certainty in mathematics.
Harrison suggests that there was a Lutheran tradition of viewing mathematics as
an uncorrupted vestige of pre-fall reason. Melanchthon promoted this idea, and Kepler
seems to have imbibed this view, as did Lutheran universities more widely, as they
made forward strides in mathematics and astronomy (pp. 93–107).
In the second group (‘revelation’) were advocates of a ‘Mosaic
philosophy’. The samples from this school that Harrison explores adhered to
the rather radical denigration of experimentation and observation in favor of a
search for comprehensive revelation. (That is, this kind of ‘revelation-based’
knowledge was not simply adopting Scripture as the starting point for science; it
was trying to use Scripture as a comprehensive foundation for natural knowledge.)
Because Scripture is not comprehensive (though it is sufficient),3 these writers either had to admit serious limits
on their ability to gain knowledge, or else turn towards extra-biblical sources,
as a surprising number did. It was widely believed that God had revealed to Adam
a more or less comprehensive true philosophy, and that this was lost at the Fall.
Some writers then turned to ancient sources and mythology to try to discern elements
that may remain from Adam’s true philosophy. These cabbalistic investigations
were zealously prosecuted by the occultists on the ‘left wing’ of the
Reformation. But somewhat surprisingly, a number of the more empirical natural philosophers,
including Francis Bacon, were willing to give credence to moderate versions of these
theories.
In the third group that Harrison considers were those who attempted to ground knowledge
in personal inspiration, a ‘divine spark’ within. This position was
most associated with the Quaker movements, but it managed to find its way into “more
conventional medical writings” as well, as some early authors attributed medical
success to the presence of this “spark” (p. 128). Even more important
in its implications for science, Harrison suggests that the experientialism inherent
in those claiming access to an ‘inner light’ worked to promote an experiential
(experimental) approach to science as well. In this same context, Harrison also
notes that a great many scientists (including notables such as Galileo and Boyle)
attributed their successes to the blessing, guidance, inspiration, or providence
of God. (Harrison does not note that from a theological perspective, the unorthodox
ideas about the ‘divine spark’ would be sharply distinguished from many
of these more orthodox acknowledgments of God’s guidance.)
How the Fall inspired science
Harrison goes on to argue the heart of his case that Augustinian views of the depravity
of man were central to the motives for the scientific enterprise. Harrison makes
the case by drawing on the writings of a vast array of the early scientists (broadly
defined, including both the experimentalists and the natural philosophers like Bacon).
In order to get a sufficient level of detail, Harrison focuses primarily on the
development of science in England.
The picture he presents is compelling. These early advocates and practitioners of
science frequently dilated upon the wonders of God’s very good creation and
the amazing perfections of reason, understanding, and physical abilities that Adam
was presumed to have been endowed with. They were also very conscious of the effects
of the Fall in upsetting the paradise that God created and destroying the perfections
of Adam’s abilities. Yet these scientists also generally believed that the
work God gave to Adam, to tend creation, classify, and exercise dominion, was still
in effect post-Fall. By careful study of the effects of the Fall, and hard, diligent
work, they hoped that they could fulfill this mandate and ameliorate the consequences
of the Fall. Many of the programs proposed for this purpose partook of theology,
moral philosophy, and moral psychology. Yet others proposed novel attempts to recover
the original language of Adam, which it was assumed would be a superior means for
communicating philosophical and scientific knowledge. Most importantly, for Harrison’s
purposes, the scientific experimental enterprise was itself advanced as meeting
precisely this purpose. Examining Francis Bacon and others in the seventeenth-century
English scientific community, Harrison shows that the program of experimentation
was a self-conscious attempt to restore Adamic knowledge.
The scientific enterprise was an attempt to restore the mind of man through methodological
constraints (unnecessary to Adam) made necessary by our fallen estate. Further,
there was an inspiration for restoring nature itself:
“While the mind of man clearly stood in need of restoration, the earth itself,
which in St Paul’s evocative words had been ‘subjected to vanity’
(Rom. 8:20), was to be redeemed also. The seventeenth-century
quest to re-establish human dominion over the natural world—often associated
with that exploitative stance thought to typify the modern West’s attitude
towards nature— was thus originally conceived as a restorative project designed
to return the world to its prelapsarian perfection” (p. 183).
The ability to work towards restoration was hopeful and forward-looking. But there
remained a pessimistic, skeptical side to the scientists’ thinking on the
Fall. Man’s mind would never be able to arrive at certainty and exhaustive
knowledge in its postlapsarian state. Indeed, none other than Robert Boyle suggested
that Adam’s capacities were often overestimated by his contemporaries. Adam
was still limited and finite, and only in the resurrection, as Harrison recounts
Boyle’s argument, would man “come into possession of true science”
(p. 219). Other fellows of the Royal Society agreed that all human science is limited
by our finite, fallen world.
Conclusion
Harrison’s book is a masterpiece of historical scholarship. The argument Harrison
presents has great implications for our perspective on the history of science and
religion. It should be high on the reading list of anyone serious about understanding
the relationship between science and Christianity. It also has great lessons for
modern Christian thinking on nature, science, and Scripture. The old arguments between
the adherents of Augustine and of Aquinas are, in a very real sense, still with
us today. Can the mind of man reach truth by use of reason alone? Is reason corrupted
by the Fall? Can we arrive at true conclusions if we ignore the history presented
in Scripture? These questions, alas, are too infrequently asked by Christians in
the sciences. Yet until we are conscious of the questions, we cannot be self-conscious
of how we are answering them—and conscious of whether our answers give due
credit and honor to the authority of the Scriptures and the God we profess to adhere
to.
Philosopher Alvin Plantinga has explained well the need for serious Christians to
develop an Augustinian approach to scholarship, using the truth that we know from
Scripture in every area of academic endeavour.4
This is not just a necessity to have a well-thought-out Christian philosophy of
science. This is an obligation we are charged with in Scripture itself, to take
thoughts captive (2 Corinthians 10). That should be our goal, and for serious
Christian students of philosophy and science, this book by Peter Harrison should
be a stimulating read.
Related articles
References
- See also my review: Weinberger, L., Reading the Bible
and understanding nature, Journal of Creation 23(3):21–25,
2009. Return to text.
- Historian of philosophy Richard Popkin was the most influential
promoter of this theory. Return to text.
- The biblical doctrine recognized by historic Protestantism
was the sufficiency of Scripture, not the comprehensiveness of
Scripture. Scripture is sufficient for salvation and morality, is true on every
area it touches, and guides our thinking on every area, although it does not (and
could not) provide comprehensive and exhaustive information. Return
to text.
- See, for example, Plantinga, A., Augustinian Christian Philosophy,
Monist 75:291, 1992; www.calvin.edu/academic/philosophy/virtual_library/articles/plantinga_alvin/augustinian_christian_philosophy.pdf,
24 December 2009. Return to text.
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