1.

It is no secret that science and religion, once allied in homage to divinely crafted harmonies, have long been growing apart. As the scientific worldview has become more authoritative and self-sufficient, it has loosed a cascade of appalling fears: that the human soul, insofar as it can be said to exist, may be a mortal and broadly comprehensible product of material forces; that the immanent, caring God of the Western monotheisms may never have been more than a fiction devised by members of a species that self-indulgently denies its continuity with the rest of nature; and that our universe may lack any discernible purpose, moral character, or special relation to ourselves. But as those intimations have spread, the retrenchment known as creationism has also gained in strength and has widened its appeal, acquiring recruits and sympathizers among intellectual sophisticates, hard-headed pragmatists, and even some scientists. And so formidable a political influence is this wave of resistance that some Darwinian thinkers who stand quite apart from it nevertheless feel obliged to placate it with tactful sophistries, lest the cause of evolutionism itself be swept away.

As everyone knows, it was the publication of The Origin of Species in 1859 that set off the counterrevolution that eventually congealed into creationism. It isn’t immediately obvious, however, why Darwin and not, say, Copernicus, Galileo, or Newton should have been judged the most menacing of would-be deicides. After all, the subsiding of faith might have been foreseeable as soon as the newly remapped sky left no plausible site for heaven. But people are good at living with contradictions, just so long as their self-importance isn’t directly insulted. That shock was delivered when Darwin dropped his hint that, as the natural selection of every other species gradually proves its cogency, “much light will be thrown on the origin of man and his history.”

By rendering force and motion deducible from laws of physics without reference to the exercise of will, leading scientists of the Renaissance and Enlightenment started to force the activist lord of the universe into early retirement. They did so, however, with reverence for his initial wisdom and benevolence as an engineer. Not so Darwin, who saw at close range the cruelty, the flawed designs, and the prodigal wastefulness of life, capped for him by the death of his daughter Annie. He decided that he would rather forsake his Christian faith than lay all that carnage at God’s door. That is why he could apply Charles Lyell’s geological uniformitarianism more consistently than did Lyell himself, who still wanted to reserve some scope for intervention from above. And it is also why he was quick to extrapolate fruitfully from Malthus’s theory of human population dynamics, for he was already determined to regard all species as subject to the same implacable laws. Indeed, one of his criteria for a sound hypothesis was that it must leave no room for the supernatural. As he wrote to Lyell in 1859, “I would give absolutely nothing for the theory of Natural Selection, if it requires miraculous additions at any one stage of descent.”

Darwin’s contemporaries saw at once what a heavy blow he was striking against piety. His theory entailed the inference that we are here today not because God reciprocates our love, forgives our sins, and attends to our entreaties but because each of our oceanic and terrestrial foremothers was lucky enough to elude its predators long enough to reproduce. The undignified emergence of humanity from primordial ooze and from a line of apes could hardly be reconciled with the unique creation of man, a fall from grace, and redemption by a person of the godhead dispatched to Earth for that end. If Darwin was right, revealed truth of every kind must be unsanctioned. “With me the horrid doubt always arises,” he confessed in a letter, “whether the convictions of man’s mind, which has been developed from the mind of the lower animals, are of any value or at all trustworthy. Would any one trust in the convictions of a monkey’s mind…?”

In a sentence that is often misconstrued and treated as a scandal, Richard Dawkins has asserted that “Darwin made it possible to be an intellec-tually fulfilled atheist.”1 What he meant was not that Darwinism requires us to disbelieve in God. Rather, if we are already inclined to apprehend the universe in strictly physical terms, the explanatory power of natural selection removes the last obstacle to our doing so. That obstacle was the seemingly irrefutable “argument from design” most famously embodied in William Paley’s Natural Theology of 1802. By showing in principle that order could arise without an artificer who is more complex than his artifacts, Darwin robbed Paley’s argument of its scientific inevitability.

With the subsequent and continually swelling flood of evidence favoring Darwin’s paradigm, evolutionism has acquired implications that Darwin himself anticipated but was reluctant to champion. Daniel C. Dennett has trenchantly shown that the Darwinian outlook is potentially a “universal acid” penetrating “all the way down” to the origin of life on Earth and “all the way up” to a satisfyingly materialistic reduction of mind and soul.2 True enough, natural selection can’t tell us how certain organic molecules first affixed themselves to templates for self-duplication and performed their momentous feat. But the theory’s success at every later stage has tipped the explanatory balance toward some naturalistic account of life’s beginning. So, too, competitive pressures now form a more plausible framework than divine action for guessing how the human brain could have acquired consciousness and facilitated cultural productions, not excepting religion itself. It is this march toward successfully explaining the higher by the lower that renders Darwinian science a threat to theological dogma of all but the blandest kind.

2.

That threat has been felt most keenly by Christian fundamentalists, whose insistence on biblical literalism guarantees them a head-on collision with science. They are the faction responsible for creationism as most people understand the term: the movement to exclude evolution from the public school curriculum and to put “creation science” in its place. The goal of such “young-Earthers” is to convince students that the Bible has been proven exactly right: our planet and its surrounding universe are just six thousand years old, every species was fashioned by God in six literal days, and a worldwide flood later drowned all creatures (even the swimmers) except one mating pair of each kind.

Creation science enjoyed some political success in the 1980s and 1990s, packing a number of school boards and state legislatures with loyalists who then passed anti-Darwinian measures. Clearly, though, the movement is headed nowhere. Its problem isn’t the absurdity of its claims but rather their patently question-begging character. “Findings” that derive from Scripture can never pass muster as genuine science, and once their sectarian intent is exposed, they inevitably run up against the constitutional ban on established religion.

But the ludicrous spectacle of young-Earth creation science masks the actual strength of creationism in less doctrinaire guises. According to a recent poll, only 44 percent of our fellow citizens agree with the proposition “Human beings, as we know them today, developed from earlier species of animals.” One of the dissenters may be our current president, who went on record, during the Kansas State Board of Education controversy of August 1999, as favoring a curricular balance between Darwinian and creationist ideas. His administration, moreover, is partial to charter schools, public funding of private academies, and a maximum degree of autonomy for local boards. If creationism were to shed its Dogpatch image and take a subtler tack, laying its emphasis not on the deity’s purposes and blueprints but simply on the unlikelihood that natural selection alone could have generated life in its present ingenious variety, it could multiply its influence many fold.

Precisely such a makeover has been in the works since 1990 or so. The new catchword is “intelligent design” (ID), whose chief propagators are Phillip E. Johnson, Michael J. Behe, Michael Denton, William A. Dembski, Jonathan Wells, Nancy Pearcey, and Stephen C. Meyer. Armed with Ph.D.’s in assorted fields, attuned to every quarrel within the Darwinian establishment, and pooling their efforts through the coordination of a well-funded organization, Seattle’s Discovery Institute, these are shrewd and media-savvy people. They are very busy turning out popular books, holding press conferences and briefings, working the Internet, wooing legislators, lecturing on secular as well as religious campuses, and even, in one instance, securing an on-campus institute all to themselves.3

The IDers intend to outflank Darwin by accepting his vision in key respects, thereby lending weight to their one key reservation. Yes, most of them concede, our planet has been in orbit for billions of years. No, Earth’s ten million species probably weren’t crammed into Eden together. And yes, the extinction of some 99 percent of those species through eons preceding our own tardy appearance is an undeniable fact. Even the development, through natural selection, of adaptive variation within a given species is a sacrificed pawn. The new creationists draw the line only at the descent of whole species from one another. If those major transitions can be made to look implausible as natural outcomes, they can be credited to the Judeo-Christian God, making it a little more thinkable that he could also, if he chose, fulfill prophecies, answer prayers, and raise the dead.

This is, on its face, a highly precarious strategy. According to the premises that intelligent design freely allows, speciation isn’t very hard to explain. If natural selection can produce variations without miraculous help, there is every reason to suppose that it can yield more fundamental types as well. Indeed, Darwin believed, and many contemporary biologists agree, that the very distinction between variation and speciation is vacuous. One species can be distinguished from its closest kin only retrospectively, when it is found that the two can no longer interbreed. The cause of that splitting can be something as mundane as a geographical barrier erected between two groupings of the same population, whose reproductive systems or routines then develop slight but fateful differences. And if one of those sets then goes extinct without leaving traces that come to the notice of paleontologists, the surviving set may not be considered a new species after all, since no discontinuity in breeding will have come to light. The whole business requires a bookkeeper, perhaps, but surely not a God.

In effect, then, the intelligent design team has handed argumentative victory to its opponents before the debate has even begun. As the movement’s acknowledged leader, the emeritus UC- Berkeley law professor Phillip Johnson, concedes in his latest book, The Wedge of Truth, “If nature is all there is, and matter had to do its own creating, then there is every reason to believe that the Darwinian model is the best model we will ever have of how the job might have been done.” Such a weak hand prompts Johnson and others to retreat to the Bible for “proof” that nature is subordinate to God. If scientists can’t perceive this all-important truth, it’s because their “methodological naturalism” partakes of a more sweeping “metaphysical naturalism”—that is, a built-in atheism. Once this blindness to spiritual factors becomes generally recognized, the persuasiveness of Darwinism will supposedly vanish.