It was a clear and quiet evening as I walked home to my graduate student apartment.


Having just passed my comprehensive exams in astronomy, I looked up at the sky thinking, “I now know everything there is to know about the Universe.”  Of course, I didn’t mean everything.  But in terms of overall understanding, passing those exams showed that I knew as much about the Universe as did anyone else on Earth.  Then I looked again and thought, “So what?  What’s in it for me?”


One reason I took up the pursuit of astronomy was that I wanted to understand everything in the Universe.  And, in that case, I meant everything.  I said that being an astronomer gave me the license to study anything at all, since everything is encompassed within the Universe.  But is it?

The astronomer’s universe is a strictly physical one, mediated by the laws of physics and chemistry.  There is no place in it for things that cannot be examined through a telescope or in a laboratory.  It is an unimaginably vast and magnificent place, but it can also be an incredibly empty and lonely place.  That evening, it seemed to have nothing to do with me.

In recent centuries, the trend in Western thought has been towards separation and division.  We define academic disciplines and then split them into ever finer specialty areas.  This has not always been the case.  After all, we refer with envy to the Renaissance Man, the scholar who encompassed all of what we now call separately religion, science, philosophy, rhetoric, mathematics and so on.  When did they all become separate?  Was it, in fact, due to Copernicus?

There is an apocryphal story that goes like this.  Copernicus said that the Earth was no longer in in the center of the universe; the Sun was in the center.  Galileo, with his telescope, proved that this was true.  The Catholic Church, upset with the Earth no longer residing in the central, privileged place, condemned Galileo.  And thus the people of science and the people of faith began a fight that continues to this day.  You can find various versions of this story routinely recounted in introductory astronomy textbooks.  In my younger days, flush with the knowledge of all that there is to know about the Universe, I taught it too.

 

But since coming to Notre Dame, I have learned differently.  Galileo was a faithful and knowledgeable Catholic.  The Church leaders were not particularly concerned with the location of the Earth.  Galileo was unfortunately caught up in the struggles for Church authority in the Counter-Reformation era.

But, over the centuries, the idea that the Church was against science and science was against the Church arose and persisted.  As a young scientist, I had this ingrained into me along with the unwritten Culture of Modern Science:  Science is the only believable way to prove anything.  That which cannot be proven by science cannot be true.  Therefore, the idea of God and the doctrines of religion cannot be true.

Why does the Culture of Modern Science not see the flaws in its own arguments?  If Modern Science deals only with strictly physical phenomena, then how can it rule out the existence of things that are not strictly physical?  Would it not be more accurate to say that Modern Science is simply unable to determine the existence or non-existence of non-physical phenomena?

In defiance of the Culture of Modern Science, I began to explore the faith.  I wandered through various mainstream Protestant churches.  I had a modest conversion experience.  I fell into fellowship with the campus ministries clustered around the borders of my secular university.  I was troubled by the seeming contradiction of seeking Christ while acting as a scientist.

Then came Bob Russell.  Dr. Robert J. Russell, founder and director of CTNS—the Center for the Study of Theology and the Natural Sciences—holder of doctoral degrees in physics and theology, and ordained minister in the United Church of Christ.  He came to give a talk at one of the campus ministries.  I spent a long time talking with him.  His self-appointed mission was to reconcile faith and science at the highest levels of philosophy, theology and metaphysics. His then-nascent Center has since then become a world leader in faith and science dialogues among academicians and priests conducted, among other places, at the Vatican.

More important than any particular idea that Bob espoused was the mere fact that he was doing what he was doing.  He was declaring that there is no conflict between science and religion, he was betting his career on that declaration, and he understood at a very deep level what he was talking about.

I became a dues-paying member of CTNS.  I began to explore the literature on faith and science.  I encountered the Creationists who claimed that scripture, interpreted literally, proved that evolution was not true.  I learned that their arguments were based in flawed theology, flawed science and flawed logic.  I saw that their loud voices were, nevertheless, the basis of the prevailing public perception that science and religion were incompatible.  I saw that they were the foil that caused many scientists to rail equally loudly against the veracity of religion—any religion.

Then I learned another truth about scientists.  Interviewing for what would become my first faculty job, I listed CTNS on my résumé under professional memberships.  There it was, right after “American Astronomical Society,” and “Astronomical Society of the Pacific.”  I put it there, honestly, just to see what would happen.

The answer was . . . nothing.  Nothing, that is, until during a break between interview meetings, a senior physics professor waved me into his office, deliberately closed the door, and whispered, “what is this Center for the Study of Theology and the Natural Sciences you have on your résumé?”  It seems that he was a Christian, was very interested in how one might reconcile faith and science, and was absolutely not going to say so publicly.

This became a pattern.  Publicly, everyone studiously ignored that little entry in my résumé. Privately, those scientists who were believers were greatly intrigued.  That pattern persisted for the next two decades of my career.

During those two decades, I continued to explore aspects of the faith.  I was baptized into the United Church of Christ.  I sought salvation through good works among the homeless on the streets of Washington, DC.  I seemed to repeatedly move more deeply into the call of one or another Protestant church and then, for reasons I couldn’t explain, draw back.  Then, through a convergence of family and personal issues—and perhaps the hidden hand of God—I came to Notre Dame.

I began to learn about the depths of Catholicism, depths that are often hidden from public perception.  I came to see that most Catholic doctrines are about truth in a very fundamental way: absolute truths not swayed by public opinion.  I wanted to learn more.  I joined a Rite of Christian Initiation for Adults class at a local parish.  It was there that I learned the real truth:  the barriers to seeing truth were hidden within me.

How can I see the existence of God, let alone accept His presence, when I am held back by the evil that lies within?  For if I accept the existence of God, then I have to confront the existence of that evil.  But if I discover the true conversion that happens in the Sacraments of Reconciliation and the Eucharist, then perhaps I might allow the evil within to be replaced by the very presence of the living God.

With that conversion, my role as a scientist changed.  Instead of pridefully proclaiming that, as a scientist, I could discern the very nature of the universe, I said instead that my role as a scientist is to uncover that which we, as human beings, might humbly discern about the nature of God’s creation.

This brings us to the fundamental question raised in every introductory astronomy class:  Is this universe in which we live—and the fact that we, as human beings, are in it—a statistical happenstance of nature or a purposeful creative action?  Having come to grips with the existence of God, I could say that it is certainly a purposeful creative action, albeit carried out over billions of years.  But, still, what did that have to do with me?

Then came Lenny.  Leonard DeLorenzo, theologian and Director of ND Vision.  He wanted to use the Notre Dame Digital Visualization Theater—the DVT—to inspire a retreat on the theme “Your God is Too Small.”  After many trials and revisions we created a presentation that Lenny calls "Sacramental Creation."

The presentation is a simulated journey through the entire observable universe, created by using navigation software to explore the astrophysical data sets kept in the DVT’s computers.  I pilot the audience on this journey and serve as a scientific tour guide, explaining where we are and what we are seeing.  Lenny is the interpreter, offering prayers, meditations and readings that evoke the mystery of a God who can create this immense universe and yet care for each and every one of us.

The dialogue of our two voices, in a very visceral way, fills the scientist’s universe with the very presence of the God who is love.  Each time we present this dialogue to a new audience, I realize that in a very unique and unexpected way I have found the answer I was seeking.

This article originally appeared in the February 7 issue of the Irish Rover and is reprinted with the author's permission.