Broca's Brain: The Romance of Science

CHAPTER 23

THESE DAYS, I often find myself giving scientific talks to popular audiences. Sometimes I am asked to discuss planetary exploration and the nature of the other planets; sometimes, the origin of life or intelligence on Earth; sometimes, the search for life elsewhere; and sometimes, the grand cosmological perspective. Since I have, more or less, heard these talks before, the question period holds my greatest interest. It reveals the attitudes and concerns of people. The most common questions asked are on unidentified flying objects and ancient astronauts-what I believe are thinly disguised religious queries. Almost as common-particularly after a lecture in which I discuss the evolution of life or intelligence-is: “Do you believe in God?” Because the word “God” means many things to many people, I frequently reply by asking what the questioner means by “God.” To my surprise, this response is often considered puzzling or unexpected: “Oh, you know, God. Everyone knows who God is.” Or “Well, kind of a force that is stronger than we are and that exists everywhere in the universe.” There are a number of such forces. One of them is called gravity, but it is not often identified with God. And not everyone does know what is meant by “God.” The concept covers a wide range of ideas. Some people think of God as an outsized, lightskinned male with a long white beard, sitting on a throne somewhere up there in the sky, busily tallying the fall of every sparrow. Others-for example, Baruch Spinoza and Albert Einstein-considered God to be essentially the sum total of the physical laws which describe the universe. I do not know of any compelling evidence for anthropomorphic patriarchs controlling human destiny from some hidden celestial vantage point, but it would be madness to deny the existence of physical laws. Whether we believe in God depends very much on what we mean by God.

In the history of the world there have been, probably, tens of thousands of different religions. There is a well-intentioned pious belief that they are all fundamentally identical. In terms of an underlying psychological resonance, there may indeed be important similarities at the cores of many religions, but in the details of ritual and doctrine, and the apologias considered to be authenticating, the diversity of organized religions is striking. Human religions are mutually exclusive on such fundamental issues as one god versus many; the origin of evil; reincarnation; idolatry; magic and witchcraft; the role of women; dietary proscriptions; rites of passage; ritual sacrifice; direct or mediated access to deities; slavery; intolerance of other religions; and the community of beings to whom special ethical considerations are due. We do no service to religion in general or to any doctrine in particular if we paper over these differences. Instead, I believe we should understand the world views from which differing religions derive and seek to understand what human needs are fulfilled by those differences.

Bertrand Russell once told of being arrested because he peacefully protested Britain’s entry into World War I. The jailer asked-then a routine question for new arrivals-Russell’s religion. Russell replied, “Agnostic,” which he was asked to spell. The jailer smiled benignly, shook his head and said, “There’s many different religions, but I suppose we all worship the same God.” Russell commented that the remark cheered him for weeks. And there may not have been much else to cheer him in that prison, although he did manage to write the entire Introduction to Mathematical Philosophy and started reading for his work The Analysis of Mind within its confines.

Many of the people who ask whether I believe in God are requesting reassurance that their particular belief system, whatever it is, is consistent with modern scientific knowledge. Religion has been scarred in its confrontation with science, and many people-but by no means all-are reluctant to accept a body of theological belief that is too obviously in conflict with what else we know. Apollo 8 accomplished the first manned lunar circumnavigation. In a more or less spontaneous gesture, the Apollo 8 astronauts read from the first verse of the Book of Genesis, in part, I believe, to reassure the taxpayers back in the United States that there were no real inconsistencies between conventional religious outlooks and a manned flight to the Moon. Orthodox Muslims, on the other hand, were outraged after Apollo 11 astronauts accomplished the first manned lunar landing, because the Moon has a special and sacred significance in Islam. In a different religious context, after Yuri Gagarin’s first orbital flight, Nikita Khrushchev, the chairman of the Council of Ministers of the USSR, noted that Gagarin had stumbled on no gods or angels up there-that is, Khrushchev reassured his audience that manned orbital flight was not inconsistent with its beliefs.

In the 1950s a Soviet technical journal called Voprosy Filosofü (Problems in Philosophy) published an article that argued-very unconvincingly, it seemed to me-that dialectical materialism required there to be life on every planet. Some time later an agonized official rebuttal appeared, decoupling dialectical materialism from exobiology. A clear prediction in an area undergoing vigorous study permits doctrines to be subject to disproof. The last posture a bureaucratic religion wishes to find itself in is vulnerability to disproof, where an experiment can be performed on which the religion stands or falls. And so the fact that life has not been found on the Moon has left the foundations of dialectical materialism unshaken. Doctrines that make no predictions are less compelling than those which make correct predictions; they are in turn more successful than doctrines that make false predictions.

But not always. One prominent American religion confidently predicted that the world would end in 1914. Well, 1914 has come and gone, and-while the events of that year were certainly of some importance-the world does not, at least so far as I can see, seem to have ended. There are at least three responses that an organized religion can make in the face of such a failed and fundamental prophecy. They could have said, “Oh, did we say ‘1914’? So sorry, we meant ‘2014.’ A slight error in calculation. Hope you weren’t inconvenienced in any way.” But they did not. They could have said, “Well the world would have ended, except we prayed very hard and interceded with God so He spared the Earth.” But they did not. Instead, they did something much more ingenious. They announced that the world had in fact ended in 1914, and if the rest of us hadn’t noticed, that was our lookout. It is astonishing in the face of such transparent evasions that this religion has any adherents at all. But religions are tough. Either they make no contentions which are subject to disproof or they quickly redesign doctrine after disproof. The fact that religions can be so shamelessly dishonest, so contemptuous of the intelligence of their adherents, and still flourish does not speak very well for the tough-mindedness of the believers. But it does indicate, if a demonstration were needed, that near the core of the religious experience is something remarkably resistant to rational inquiry.

Andrew Dickson White was the intellectual guiding light, founder and first president of Cornell University. He was also the author of an extraordinary book called The Warfare of Science with Theology in Christendom, considered so scandalous at the time it was published that his co-author requested his name omitted. White was a man of substantial religious feeling. [17] But he outlined the long and painful history of erroneous claims which religions had made about the nature of the world, and how, when people directly investigated the nature of the world and discovered it to be different from doctrinal contentions, such people were persecuted and their ideas suppressed. The aged Galileo was threatened by the Catholic hierarchy with torture because he proclaimed the Earth to move. Spinoza was excommunicated by the Jewish hierarchy, and there is hardly an organized religion with a firm body of doctrine which has not at one time or another persecuted people for the crime of open inquiry. Cornell’s own devotion to free and non-sectarian inquiry was considered so objectionable in the last quarter of the nineteenth century that ministers advised high school graduates that it was better to receive no college education than to attend so impious an institution. Indeed, this Sage Chapel was constructed in part to placate the pious-although, I am glad to say, it has from time to time made serious efforts at open-minded ecumenicism.

Many of the controversies which White describes are about origins. It used to be believed that every event in the world-the opening of a morning glory, let us say-was due to direct microintervention by the Deity. The flower was unable to open by itself. God had to say, “Hey, flower, open.” The application of this idea to human affairs has often had desultory social consequences. For one thing it seems to imply that we are not responsible for our actions. If the play of the world is produced and directed by an omnipotent and omniscient God, does it not follow that every evil that is perpetrated is God’s doing? I know this idea is an embarrassment in the West, and attempts to avoid it include the contention that what seems to be evil is really part of the Divine Plan, too complex for us to fathom; or that God chose to cloud his own vision about the causality skein when he set out to make the world. There is nothing utterly impossible about these philosophical rescue attempts, but they do seem to have very much the character of propping up a teetering ontological structure. [18] In addition, the idea of microintervention in the affairs of the world has been used to support the established social, political and economic conventions. There was, for example, the idea of a “Divine Right of Kings,” seriously argued by philosophers such as Thomas Hobbes. If you had revolutionary thoughts directed, let us say, toward George III, you were guilty of blasphemy and impiety, religious crimes, as well as such more commonplace political crimes as treason.

There are many legitimate scientific issues relating to origins and ends: What is the origin of the human species? Where did plants and animals come from? How did life arise? the Earth, the planets, the Sun, the stars? Does the universe have an origin, and if so, what? And finally, a still more fundamental and exotic question, which many scientists would say is essentially untestable and therefore meaningless: Why are the laws of nature the way they are? The idea that a God or gods is necessary to effect one or more of these origins has been under repeated attack over the last few thousand years. Because we know something about phototropism and plant hormones, we can understand the opening of the morning glory independent of divine microintervention. It is the same for the entire skein of causality back to the origin of the universe. As we learn more and more about the universe, there seems less and less for God to do. Aristotle’s view was of God as an unmoved prime mover, a roi fainéant, a do-nothing king who establishes the universe in the first place and then sits back and watches the intricate, intertwined chains of causality course down through the ages. But this seems abstract and removed from everyday experience. It is a little unsettling and pricks at human conceits.

Humans seem to have a natural abhorrence of an infinite regression of causes, and this distaste is at the root of the most famous and most effective demonstrations of the existence of God by Aristotle and Thomas Aquinas. But these thinkers lived before the infinite series was a mathematical commonplace. If the differential and integral calculus or transfinite arithmetic had been invented in Greece in the fifth century B.C., and not subsequently suppressed, the history of religion in the West might have been very different-or at any rate we would have seen less of the pretension that theological doctrine can be convincingly demonstrated by rational argument to those who reject alleged divine revelation, as Aquinas attempted in the Summa Contra Gentiles.

When Newton explained the motion of the planets by the universal theory of gravitation, it no longer was necessary for angels to push and pummel the planets about. When Pierre Simon, the Marquis de Laplace, proposed to explain the origin of the solar system-although not the origin of matter-in terms of physical laws as well, even the necessity for a god involved in the origins of things seemed profoundly challenged. Laplace is said to have presented an edition of his seminal mathematical work Mécanique céleste to Napoleon aboard ship in the Mediterranean during the Napoleonic expedition to Egypt, 1798 to 1799. A few days later, so the story goes, Napoleon complained to Laplace that he had found no mention of God in the text. [19] Laplace’s response has been recorded: “Sire, I have no need of that hypothesis.” The idea of God as a hypothesis rather than as an obvious truth is by and large a modern idea in the West-although it was certainly discussed seriously and wryly by the Ionian philosophers of 2,400 years ago.

It is often considered that at least the origin of the universe requires a God-indeed, an Aristotelian idea. [20] This is a point worth looking at in a little more detail. First of all, it is perfectly possible that the universe is infinitely old and therefore requires no Creator. This is consistent with existing knowledge of cosmology, which permits an oscillating universe in which the events since the Big Bang are merely the latest incarnation in an infinite series of creations and destructions of the universe. But secondly, let us consider the idea of a universe created somehow from nothing by God. The question naturally arises-and many ten-year-olds spontaneously think of it before being discouraged by their elders-where does God come from? If we answer that God is infinitely old or present simultaneously in all epochs, we have solved nothing, except perhaps verbally. We have merely postponed by one step coming to grips with the problem. A universe that is infinitely old and a God that is infinitely old are, I think, equally deep mysteries. It is not readily apparent why one should be considered more reliably established than the other. Spinoza might have said that the two possibilities are not really different ideas at all.

I think it is wise, when coming face to face with such profound mysteries, to feel a little humility. The idea that scientists or theologians, with our present still puny understanding of this vast and awesome cosmos, can comprehend the origins of the universe is only a little less silly than the idea that Mesopotamian astronomers of 3,000 years ago-from whom the ancient Hebrews borrowed, during the Babylonian captivity, the cosmological accounts in the first chapter of Genesis-could have understood the origins of the universe. We simply do not know. The Hindu holy book, the Rig Veda (X:129), has a much more realistic view of the matter:

Who knows for certain? Who shall here declare it?

Whence was it born, whence came creation?

The gods are later than this world’s formation;

Who then can know the origins of the world?

None knows whence creation arose;

And whether he has or has not made it;

He who surveys it from the lofty skies,

Only he knows-or pernaps he knows not.

But the times we live in are very interesting ones. Questions of origins, including some questions relating to the origin of the universe, may in the next few decades be amenable to experimental inquiry. There is no conceivable answer to the grand cosmological questions which will not resonate with the religious sensibilities of human beings. But there is a chance that the answers will discomfit a great many bureaucratic and doctrinal religions. The idea of religion as a body of belief, immune to criticism, fixed forever by some founder is, I think, a prescription for the long-term decay of the religion, especially lately. In questions of origins and ends, the religious and the scientific sensibilities have much the same objectives. Human beings are built in such a way that we passionately wish to answer these questions-perhaps because of the mystery of our own individual origins. But our contemporary scientific insights, while limited, are much deeper than those of our Babylonian predecessors of 1,000 B.C. Religions unwilling to accommodate to change, both scientific and social, are, I believe, doomed. A body of belief cannot be alive and relevant, vibrant and growing, unless it is responsive to the most serious criticism that can be mustered against it.

The First Amendment to the United States Constitution encourages a diversity of religions but does not prohibit criticism of religion. In fact it protects and encourages criticism of religion. Religions ought to be subject to at least the same degree of skepticism as, for example, contentions about UFO visitations or Velikovskian catastrophism. I think it is healthy for the religions themselves to foster skepticism about the fundamental underpinnings of their evidential bases. There is no question that religion provides a solace and support, a bulwark in time of emotional need, and can serve extremely useful social roles. But it by no means follows that religion should be immune from testing, from critical scrutiny, from skepticism. It is striking how little skeptical discussion of religion there is in the nation that Tom Paine, the author of The Age of Reason, helped to found. I hold that belief systems that cannot survive scrutiny are probably not worth having. Those that do survive scrutiny probably have at least important kernels of truth within them.

Religion used to provide a generally accepted understanding of our place in the universe. That surely has been one of the major objectives of myth and legend, philosophy and religion, as long as there have been human beings. But the mutual confrontation of differing religions and of religion with science has eroded those traditional views, at least in the minds of many. [21] The way to find out about our place in the universe is by examining the universe and by examining ourselves-without preconceptions, with as unbiased a mind as we can muster. We cannot begin with an entirely clean slate, since we arrive at this problem with predispositions of hereditary and environmental origin; but, after understanding such built-in biases, is it not possible to pry insights from nature?

Proponents of doctrinal religions-ones in which a particular body of belief is prized and infidels scorned-will be threatened by the courageous pursuit of knowledge. We hear from such people that it may be dangerous to probe too deeply. Many people have inherited their religion like their eye color: they consider it not a thing to think very deeply about, and in any case beyond our control. But those with a set of beliefs they profess to feel deeply about, which they have selected without an unbiased sifting through the facts and the alternatives, will feel uncomfortably challenged by searching questions. Anger at queries about our beliefs is the body’s warning signal: here lies unexamined and probably dangerous doctrinal baggage.

Christianus Huygens wrote a remarkable book around 1670 in which bold and prescient speculations were made about the nature of the other planets in the solar system. Huygens was well aware that there were those who held such speculations and his astronomical observations objectionable: “But perhaps they’ll say,” Huygens mused, “it does not become us to be so curious and inquisitive in these Things which the Supreme Creator seems to have kept for his own Knowledge: For since he has not been pleased to make any farther Discovery or Revelation of them, it seems little better than presumption to make any inquiry into that which he has thought fit to hide. But these Gentlemen must be told,” Huygens then thundered, “that they take too much upon themselves when they pretend to appoint how far and no farther Men shall go in their Searches, and to set bounds to other Mens Industry; as if they knew the Marks that God has placed to Knowledge: or as if Men were able to pass those Marks. If our Forefathers had been at this rate scrupulous, we might have been ignorant still of the Magnitude and Figure of the Earth, or that there was such a place as America.”

If we look at the universe in the large, we find something astonishing. First of all, we find a universe that is exceptionally beautiful, intricately and subtly constructed. Whether our appreciation of the universe is because we are a part of that universe-whether, no matter how the universe were put together, we would have found it beautiful-is a proposition to which I do not pretend to have an answer. But there is no question that the elegance of the universe is one of its most remarkable properties. At the same time, there is no question that there are cataclysms and catastrophes occurring regularly in the universe and on the most awesome scale. There are, for example, quasar explosions which probably decimate the nuclei of galaxies. It seems likely that every time a quasar explodes, more than a million worlds are obliterated and countless forms of life, some of them intelligent, are utterly destroyed. This is not the traditional benign universe of conventional religiosity in the West, constructed for the benefit of living and especially of human beings. Indeed, the very scale of the universe-more than a hundred billion galaxies, each containing more than a hundred billion stars-speaks to us of the inconsequentiality of human events in the cosmic context. We see a universe simultaneously very beautiful and very violent. We see a universe that does not exclude a traditional Western or Eastern god, but that does not require one either.

My deeply held belief is that if a god of anything like the traditional sort exists, our curiosity and intelligence are provided by such a god. We would be unappreciative of those gifts (as well as unable to take such a course of action) if we suppressed our passion to explore the universe and ourselves. On the other hand, if such a traditional god does not exist, our curiosity and our intelligence are the essential tools for managing our survival. In either case, the enterprise of knowledge is consistent with both science and religion, and is essential for the welfare of the human species.

CHAPTER 24

IN THE EARLIEST myths and legends of our species, there is a common and understandable view of the cosmos: it is anthropocentric. There were gods, to be sure. But the gods had feelings and weaknesses and were very human. Their behavior was seen as capricious. They could be propitiated by sacrifice and prayer. They intervened regularly in human affairs. Various factions of gods supported opposing sides in human warfare. The Odyssey expresses a generally held view that it is wise to be kind to strangers: they may be gods in disguise. Gods mate with humans, and the offspring are generally indistinguishable, at least in appearance, from people. The gods live on mountains or in the sky, or in some subterranean or submarine realm-at any rate, far off. It was difficult unambiguously to come upon a god, and so it was hard to check a story told about the gods. Sometimes their actions were controlled by more powerful beings yet, as the Fates controlled the Olympian gods. The nature of the universe as a whole, its origin and fate, were not considered well understood. In the Vedic myths, doubt is raised not only about whether the gods created the world but even about whether the gods know who did create it. Hesiod in his “Cosmogony” says that the universe was created from (or maybe by) Chaos-perhaps only a metaphor for the difficulty of the problem.

Some ancient Asian cosmological views are close to the idea of an infinite regression of causes, as exemplified in the following apocryphal story: A Western traveler encountering an Oriental philosopher asks him to describe the nature of the world:

“It is a great ball resting on the flat back of the world turtle.”

“Ah yes, but what does the world turtle stand on?”

“On the back of a still larger turtle.”

“Yes, but what does he stand on?”

“A very perceptive question. But it’s no use, mister; it’s turtles all the way down.”

We now know that we live on a tiny dust mote in an immense and humbling universe. The gods, if they exist, no longer intervene daily in human affairs. We do not live in an anthropocentric universe. And the nature, origin and fate of the cosmos seem to be mysteries far more profound than they were perceived to be by our remote ancestors.

But the situation is once again changing. Cosmology, the study of the universe as a whole, is becoming an experimental science. Information obtained by optical and radio telescopes on the ground, by ultraviolet and X-ray telescopes in Earth orbit, by the measurement of nuclear reactions in laboratories, and by determinations of the abundance of chemical elements in meteorites, is shrinking the arena of permissible cosmological hypotheses; and it is not too much to expect that we will soon have firm observational answers to questions once considered the exclusive preserve of philosophical and theological speculation.

This observational revolution began from an unlikely source. In the second decade of this century there was-as there still is-in Flagstaff, Arizona, an astronomical facility called the Lowell Observatory, established by none other than Percival Lowell, for whom the search for life on other planets was a consuming passion. It was he who popularized and promoted the idea that Mars was crisscrossed with canals, which he believed to be the artifacts of a race of beings enamoured of hydraulic engineering. We now know that the canals do not exist at all. They apparently were the product of wishful thinking and the limitations of observing through the Earth’s murky atmosphere.

Among his other interests, Lowell was concerned with the spiral nebulae-exquisite pinwheel-shaped luminous objects in the sky, which we now know to be distant collections of hundreds of billions of individual stars, like the Milky Way Galaxy of which our Sun is a part. But at that time there was no way to determine the distance to these nebulae, and Lowell was interested in an alternative hypothesis-that the spiral nebulae were not enormous, distant, multistellar entities, but rather smaller, closer objects which were the early stages of the condensation of an individual star out of the interstellar gas and dust. As such gas clouds contract under their self-gravitation, the conservation of angular momentum requires that they speed up to rapid rotation and shrink to a thin disc. Rapid rotation can be detected astronomically by spectroscopy, letting light from a distant object pass consecutively through a telescope, a narrow slit and a glass prism or other device which spreads white light out into a rainbow of colors. The spectrum of starlight contains bright and dark lines here and there in the rainbow, images of the slit of the spectrometer. An example is the bright yellow lines emitted by sodium, apparent as we throw a small piece of sodium into a flame. Material made of many different chemical elements will show many different spectral lines. The displacement of these spectral lines from their usual wavelengths when the light source is at rest gives us information on the velocity of the source toward and away from us-a phenomenon called the Doppler effect and familiar to us, in the physics of sound, as the increase or decrease in the pitch of an automobile horn as the car rapidly approaches or recedes.

Lowell is thought to have asked a young assistant, V. M. Slipher, to check the larger spiral nebulae to determine whether one side showed spectral lines shifted toward the red and the other toward the blue, from which it would be possible to deduce the speed of rotation of the nebula. Slipher investigated the spectra of the nearby spiral nebulae but found to his amazement that almost all of them showed a red shift, with virtually no sign of blue shifts anywhere in them. He had found not rotation, but recession. It was as if all the spiral nebulae were retreating from us.

A much more extensive set of observations was obtained in the 1920s at the Mount Wilson Observatory by Edwin Hubbell and Milton Humason. Hubbell and Humason developed a method of determining the distance to the spiral nebulae; it became apparent that they were not condensing gas clouds relatively nearby in the Milky Way Galaxy, but themselves great galaxies millions or more light-years away. To their amazement, they also found that the more distant the galaxy, the faster it was receding from us. Since it is unlikely that there is anything special about our position in the cosmos, this is best understood in terms of a general expansion of the universe; all galaxies recede from all others so that an astronomer on any galaxy would observe all other galaxies apparently retreating.

If we extrapolate such a mutual recession back into the past, we find that there was a time-perhaps 15 billion or 20 billion years ago-when all of the galaxies must have been “touching”; that is, confined to an extremely small volume of space. Matter in its present form could not survive such astonishing compressions. The very earliest stages of that expanding universe must have been dominated by radiation rather than matter. It is now conventional to talk of this time as the Big Bang.

Three kinds of explanation have been offered for this expansion of the universe: the Steady State, Big Bang and Oscillating Universe cosmologies. In the Steady State hypothesis, the galaxies recede from one another, the more distant galaxies moving with very high apparent velocities, their light shifted by the Doppler effect to longer and longer wavelengths. There will be a distance at which a galaxy will be moving so fast that it passes over what is called its event horizon and, from our vantage point, disappears. There is a distance so great that, in an expanding universe, there is no chance of getting information from beyond it. As time goes on, if nothing else intervenes, more and more galaxies will disappear over the edge. But in the Steady State cosmology, the matter lost over the edge is exactly compensated for by new matter continuously created everywhere, matter that eventually condenses into new galaxies. With the rate of disappearance of galaxies over the event horizon just balanced by the creation of new galaxies, the universe looks more or less identical from every place and in every epoch. In the Steady State cosmology there is no Big Bang; one hundred billion years ago the universe would have looked just the same, and one hundred billion years from now, likewise. But where does the new matter come from? How can matter be created from nothing? Proponents of the Steady State cosmology answer that it comes from whatever place proponents of the Big Bang get their Bang from. If we can imagine all the matter in the universe discontinuously created from nothing 15 billion to 20 billion years ago, why are we unable to imagine it being created in a tenuous trickle everywhere, continuously and forever? If the Steady State hypothesis is true, there was never a time when the galaxies were much closer. The universe in its largest structures is then unchanging and infinitely old.

But as placid and, in a strange way, as satisfying as the Steady State cosmology is, there is strong evidence against it. Whenever a sensitive radio telescope is pointed anywhere in the sky, the constant chatter of a kind of cosmic static can be detected. The characteristics of this radio noise match almost exactly what we would expect if the early universe was hot and filled with radiation in addition to matter. The cosmic blackbody radiation is very nearly the same everywhere in the sky and looks very much to be the distant rumblings of the Big Bang, cooled and enfeebled by the expansion of the universe but coursing still down the corridors of time. The primeval fireball, the explosive event that initiated the expanding universe, can be observed. Supporters of the Steady State cosmology must now be reduced to positing a large number of special sources of radiation which together somehow mimic exactly the cooled primeval fireball, or proposing that the universe far beyond the event horizon is steady state but, by a peculiar accident, we live in a kind of expanding bubble, a violent pimple in a much vaster but more placid universe. This idea has the advantage or flaw, depending on your point of view, of being impossible to disprove by any conceivable experiment, and virtually all cosmologists have abandoned the Steady State hypothesis.

If the universe is not in a steady state, then it is changing, and such changing universes are described by evolutionary cosmologies. They begin in one state, and they end in another. What are the possible fates of the universe in evolutionary cosmologies? If the universe continues to expand at its present rate and galaxies continue to disappear over the event horizon, there will eventually be less and less matter in the visible universe. The distances between galaxies will increase, and there will be fewer and fewer of the spiral nebulae for the successors of Slipher, Hubbell and Humason to view. Eventually the distance from our Galaxy to the nearest galaxy will exceed the distance to the event horizon, and astronomers will no longer be able to see even the nearest galaxy except in (very) old books and photographs. Because of the gravity that holds the stars in our Galaxy together, the expanding universe will not dissipate our Galaxy, but even here a strange and desolate fate awaits us. For one thing, the stars are evolving, and in tens or hundreds of billions of years most present stars will have become small and dark dwarf stars. The remainder will have collapsed to neutron stars or black holes. No new matter will be available for a vigorous younger generation of stars. The Sun, the stars, the entire Milky Way Galaxy, will slowly turn off. The lights in the night sky will go out.

But in such a universe there is a further evolution still. We are used to the idea of radioactive elements, certain kinds of atoms that spontaneously decay or fall to pieces. Ordinary uranium is one example. But we are less familiar with the idea that every atom except iron is radioactive, given a long enough period of time. Even the most stable atoms will radioactively decay, emit alpha and other particles, and fall to pieces, leaving only iron, if we wait long enough. How long? The American physicist Freeman Dyson of the Institute for Advanced Study calculates that the half-life of iron is about 10⁵⁰⁰ years, a one followed by five hundred zeros-a number so large that it would take a dedicated numerologist the better part of ten minutes just to write it down. So if we wait just a little longer-10⁶⁰⁰ years would do just fine-not only would the stars have gone out, but all the matter in the universe not in neutron stars or black holes would have decayed into the ultimate nuclear dust. Eventually, galaxies will have vanished altogether. Suns will have blackened, matter disintegrated, and no conceivable possibility will remain for the survival of life or intelligence or civilizations-a cold and dark and desolate death of the universe.

But need the universe expand forever? If I stand on a small asteroid and throw a rock up, it will leave the asteroid, there being on such a worldlet not enough gravity to drag the rock back. If I throw the same rock at the same speed from the surface of the Earth, it will of course turn around and fall down because of the substantial gravity of our planet. But the same sort of physics applies to the universe as a whole. If there is less than a certain amount of matter, each galaxy will feel an insufficient tug from the gravitational attraction of the others to be slowed down appreciably, and the expansion of the universe will continue forever. On the other hand, if there is more than a certain critical mass, the expansion will eventually slow, and we will be saved from the desolation teleology of a universe that expands forever.

What, then, would be the fate of the universe? Why, then an observer would see expansion eventually replaced by contraction, the galaxies slowly and then at an ever-increasing pace approaching one another, a careening, devastating smashing together of galaxies, worlds, life, civilizations and matter until every structure in the universe is utterly destroyed and all the matter in the cosmos converted into energy: instead of a universe ending in cold and tenuous desolation, a universe finishing in a hot and dense fireball. It is very likely that such a fireball would rebound, leading to a new expansion of the universe and, if the laws of nature remain the same, a new incarnation of matter, a new set of condensations of galaxies and stars and planets, a new evolution of life and intelligence. But information from our universe would not trickle into that next one and, from our vantage point, such an oscillating cosmology is as definitive and depressing an end as the expansion that never stops.

The distinction between a Big Bang with expansion forever and an Oscillating Universe clearly turns on the amount of matter there is. If the critical amount of matter is exceeded, we live in an Oscillating Universe. Otherwise we live in one that expands forever. The expansion times-measured in tens of billions of years-are so long that these cosmological issues do not affect any immediate human concerns. But they are of the most profound import for our view of the nature and fate of the universe and-only a little more remotely-of ourselves.

In a remarkable scientific paper published in the December 15, 1974 issue of the Astrophysical Journal, a wide range of observational evidence is brought to bear on the question of whether the universe will continue to expand forever (an “open” universe) or whether it will gradually slow down and recontract (a “closed” universe), perhaps as part of an infinite series of oscillations. The work is by J. Richard Gott III and James E. Gunn, then both of the California Institute of Technology, and David N. Schramm and Beatrice M. Tinsely, then of the University of Texas. In one of their arguments they review calculations of the amount of mass in and between galaxies in “nearby” well-observed regions of space and extrapolate to the rest of the universe: they find that there is not enough matter to slow the expansion down.

Ordinary hydrogen has a nucleus comprising a single proton. Heavy hydrogen, called deuterium, has a nucleus comprising one proton and one neutron. An astronomical telescope in Earth orbit called “Copernicus” has measured, for the first time, the amount of deuterium between the stars. Deuterium must have been made in the Big Bang in an amount that depends on the early density of the universe. The early density of the universe is connected with the present density of the universe. The amount of deuterium found by “Copernicus” implies a value to the early density of the universe and suggests that the present density is insufficient to prevent the universe from expanding forever. [22] And what is said to be the best value of the Hubbell constant-which specifies how much faster more distant galaxies are receding from us than nearby ones-is consistent with this whole story.

Gott and his colleagues stressed that there may be loopholes in their argument, that it may be possible to hide intergalactic matter in ways which we could not then detect. Evidence for such missing mass has now begun to emerge. The High Energy Astronomical Observatories (HEAO) are a set of satellites orbiting the Earth and scanning the universe for particles and radiation that we cannot detect down here, under our thick blanket of air. Satellites of this sort have detected intense emission of X-rays from clusters of galaxies, from intergalactic spaces where there was hitherto no hint of any matter. Extremely hot gas between the galaxies would be invisible to other experimental methods and therefore missed in the inventory of cosmic matter made by Gott and his colleagues. What is more, ground-based radio astronomical studies with the Arecibo Observatory in Puerto Rico have shown that the matter in galaxies extends far beyond the optical light from the apparent edges of galaxies. When we look at a photograph of a galaxy, we see an edge or periphery beyond which there is no apparent luminous matter. But the Arecibo radio telescope has found that the matter fades off extremely slowly and that there is substantial dark matter in the peripheries and exteriors of galaxies, which had been missed by previous surveys.

The amount of missing matter required to make the universe ultimately collapse is substantial. It is thirty times the matter in standard inventories such as Gott’s. But it may be that the dark gas and dust in the galactic outskirts, and the astonishingly hot gas glowing in X-rays between the galaxies, together constitute just enough matter to close the universe, prevent an expansion forever-but condemn us to an irrevocable end in a cosmic fireball 50 billion or 100 billion years hence. The issue is still teetering. The deuterium evidence points the other way. Our inventories of mass are still far from complete. But as new observational techniques develop we will have the capability of detecting more and more of any missing mass, and so it would seem that the pendulum is swinging toward a closed universe.

It is a good idea not to make up our minds prematurely on this issue. It is probably best not to let our personal preferences influence the decision. Rather, in the long tradition of successful science, we should permit nature to reveal the truth to us. But the pace of discovery is quickening. The nature of the universe emerging from modern experimental cosmology is very different from that of the ancient Greeks who speculated on the universe and the gods. If we have avoided anthropocentrism, if we have truly and dispassionately considered all alternatives, it may be that in the next few decades we will, for the first time, rigorously determine the nature and fate of the universe. And then we shall see if Gott knows.

CHAPTER 25

WILLIAM WOLCOTT died and went to heaven. Or so it seemed. Before being wheeled to the operating table, he had been reminded that the surgical procedure would entail a certain risk. The operation was a success, but just as the anaesthesia was wearing off his heart went into fibrillation and he died. It seemed to him that he had somehow left his body and was able to look down upon it, withered and pathetic, covered only by a sheet, lying on a hard and unforgiving surface. He was only a little sad, regarded his body one last time-from a great height, it seemed-and continued a kind of upward journey. While his surroundings had been suffused by a strange permeating darkness, he realized that things were now getting brighter-looking up, you might say. And then he was being illuminated from a distance, flooded with light. He entered a kind of radiant kingdom and there, just ahead of him, he could make out in silhouette, magnificently lit from behind, a great godlike figure whom he was now effortlessly approaching. Wolcott strained to make out His face…

And then awoke. In the hospital operating room where the defibrillation machine had been rushed to him, he had been resuscitated at the last possible moment. Actually, his heart had stopped, and by some definitions of this poorly understood process, he had died. Wolcott was certain that he had died, that he had been vouchsafed a glimpse of life after death and a confirmation of Judaeo-Christian theology.

Similar experiences, now widely documented by physicians and others, have occurred all over the world. These perithanatic, or near-death, epiphanies have been experienced not only by people of conventional Western religiosity but also by Hindus and Buddhists and skeptics. It seems plausible that many of our conventional ideas about heaven are derived from such near-death experiences, which must have been related regularly over the millennia. No news could have been more interesting or more hopeful than that of the traveler returned, the report that there is a voyage and a life after death, that there is a God who awaits us, and that upon death we feel grateful and uplifted, awed and overwhelmed.

For all I know, these experiences may be just what they seem and a vindication of the pious faith that has taken such a pummeling from science in the past few centuries. Personally, I would be delighted if there were a life after death-especially if it permitted me to continue to learn about this world and others, if it gave me a chance to discover how history turns out. But I am also a scientist, so I think about what other explanations are possible. How could it be that people of all ages, cultures and eschatological predispositions have the same sort of near-death experience?

We know that similar experiences can be induced with fair regularity, cross-culturally, by psychedelic drugs. [23] Out-of-body experiences are induced by dissociative anaesthetics such as the ketamines (2-[o-chlorophenyl]-2-[methylamino] cyclohexanones.) The illusion of flying is induced by atropine and other belladonna alkaloids, and these molecules, obtained, for example, from mandrake or jimson weed, have been used regularly by European witches and North American curanderos (“healers”) to experience, in the midst of religious ecstasy, soaring and glorious flight. MDA (2,4-methylenedioxyamphetamine) tends to induce age regression, an accessing of experiences from youth and infancy which we had thought entirely forgotten. DMT (N,N-dimethyltryptamine) induces micropsia and macropsia, the sense of the world shrinking or expanding, respectively-a little like what happens to Alice after she obeys instructions on small containers reading “Eat me” or “Drink me.” LSD (lysergic acid diethylamide) induces a sense of union with the universe, as in the identification of Brahman with Atman in Hindu religious belief.

Can it really be that the Hindu mystical experience is pre-wired into us, requiring only 200 micrograms of LSD to be made manifest? If something like ketamine is released in times of mortal danger or near-death, and people returning from such an experience always provide the same account of heaven and God, then must there not be a sense in which Western as well as Eastern religions are hard-wired in the neuronal architecture of our brains?

It is difficult to see why evolution should have selected brains that are predisposed to such experiences, since no one seems to die or fail to reproduce from a want of mystic fervor. Might these drug-inducible experiences as well as the near-death epiphany be due merely to some evolutionarily neutral wiring defect in the brain which, by accident, occasionally brings forth altered perceptions of the world? That possibility, it seems to me, is extremely implausible, and perhaps no more than a desperate rationalist attempt to avoid a serious encounter with the mystical.

The only alternative, so far as I can see, is that every human being, without exception, has already shared an experience like that of those travelers who return from the land of death: the sensation of flight; the emergence from darkness into light; an experience in which, at least sometimes, a heroic figure can be dimly perceived, bathed in radiance and glory. There is only one common experience that matches this description. It is called birth.

HIS NAME IS STANISLAV GROF. In some pronunciations his first and last names rhyme. He is a physician and a psychiatrist who has, for more than twenty years, employed LSD and other psychedelic drugs in psychotherapy. His work long antedates the American drug culture, having begun in Prague, Czechoslovakia, in 1956 and continuing in recent years in the slightly different cultural setting of Baltimore, Maryland. Grof probably has more continuing scientific experience on the effects of psychedelic drugs on patients than anyone else. [24] He stresses that whereas LSD can be used for recreational and aesthetic purposes, it can have other and more profound effects, one of which is the accurate recollection of perinatal experiences. “Perinatal” is a neologism for “around birth,” and is intended to apply not just to the time immediately after birth but to the time before as well. (It is a parallel construction to “perithanatic,” near-death.) He reports a large number of patients who, after a suitable number of sessions, actually re-experience rather than merely recollect profound experiences, long gone and considered intractable to our imperfect memories, from perinatal times. This is, in fact, a fairly common LSD experience, by no means limited to Grof’s patients.

Grof distinguishes four perinatal stages recovered under psychedelic therapy. Stage 1 is the blissful complacency of the child in the womb, free of all anxiety, the center of a small, dark, warm universe-a cosmos in an amniotic sac. In its intrauterine state the fetus seems to experience something very close to the oceanic ecstasy described by Freud as a fount of the religious sensibility. The fetus is, of course, moving. Just before birth it is probably as alert, perhaps even more alert, than just after birth. It does not seem impossible that we may occasionally and imperfectly remember this Edenic, golden age, when every need-for food, oxygen, warmth and waste disposal-was satisfied before it was sensed, provided automatically by a superbly designed life-support system; and, in dim recollection years later, describe it as “being one with the universe.”

In Stage 2, the uterine contractions begin. The walls to which the amniotic sac is anchored, the foundation of the stable intrauterine environment, become traitorous. The fetus is dreadfully compressed. The universe seems to pulsate, a benign world suddenly converted into a cosmic torture chamber. The contractions may last intermittently for hours. As time goes on, they become more intense. No hope of surcease is offered. The fetus has done nothing to deserve such a fate, an innocent whose cosmos has turned upon it, administering seemingly endless agony. The severity of this experience is apparent to anyone who has seen a neonatal cranial distortion that is still evident days after birth. While I can understand a strong motivation to obliterate utterly any trace of this agony, might it not resurface under stress? Might not, Grof asks, the hazy and repressed memory of this experience prompt paranoid fantasies and explain our occasional human predilections for sadism and masochism, for an identification of assailant and victim, for that childlike zest for destruction in a world which, for all we know, may tomorrow become terrifyingly unpredictable and unreliable? Grof finds recollections in the next stage connected with images of tidal waves and earthquakes, the analogues in the physical world of the intrauterine betrayal.

Stage 3 is the end of the birth process, when the child’s head has penetrated the cervix and might, even if the eyes are closed, perceive a tunnel illuminated at one end and sense the brilliant radiance of the extrauterine world. The discovery of light for a creature that has lived its entire existence in darkness must be a profound and on some level an unforgettable experience. And there, dimly made out by the low resolution of the newborn’s eyes, is some godlike figure surrounded by a halo of light-the Midwife or the Obstetrician or the Father. At the end of a monstrous travail, the baby flies away from the uterine universe, and rises toward the lights and the gods.

Stage 4 is the time immediately after birth when the perinatal apnea has dissipated, when the child is blanketed or swaddled, hugged and given nourishment. If recollected accurately, the contrast between Stages 1 and 2 and 2 and 4, for an infant utterly without other experience, must be very deep and striking; and the importance of Stage 3 as the passage between agony and at least a tender simulacrum of the cosmic unity of Stage 1 must have a powerful influence on the child’s later view of the world.

There is, of course, room for skepticism in Grof’s account and in my expansion upon it. There are many questions to be answered. Do children born before labor by Caesarean section never recall the agonizing Stage 2? Under psychedelic therapy, do they report fewer images of catastrophic earthquakes and tidal waves than those born by normal deliveries? Conversely, are children born after the particularly severe uterine contractions induced in “elective labor” by the hormone oxytocin [25] more likely to acquire the psychological burdens of Stage 2? If the mother is given a strong sedative, will the baby upon maturity recall a very different transition from Stage 1 directly to Stage 4 and never report, in a perithanatic experience, a radiant epiphany? Can neonates resolve an image at the moment of birth or are they merely sensitive to light and darkness? Might the description, in the near-death experience, of a fuzzy and glowing god without hard edges be a perfect recollection of an imperfect neonatal image? Are Grof’s patients selected from the widest possible range of human beings or are these accounts restricted to an unrepresentative subset of the human community?

It is easy to understand that there might be more personal objections to these ideas, a resistance perhaps similar to the kind of chauvinism that can be detected in justifications of carnivorous eating habits: the lobsters have no central nervous system; they don’t mind being dropped alive into boiling water. Well, maybe. But the lobster-eaters have a vested interest in this particular hypothesis on the neurophysiology of pain. In the same way I wonder if most adults do not have a vested interest in believing that infants possess very limited powers of perception and memory, that there is no way the birth experience could have a profound and, in particular, a profoundly negative influence.

If Grof is right about all this, we must ask why such recollections are possible-why, if the perinatal experience has produced enormous unhappiness, evolution has not selected out the negative psychological consequences. There are some things that newborn infants must do. They must be good at sucking; otherwise they will die. They must, by and large, look cute because at least in previous epochs of human history, infants who in some way seemed appealing were better taken care of. But must newborn babies see images of their environment? Must they remember the horrors of the perinatal experience? In what sense is there survival value in that? The answer might be that the pros outweigh the cons-perhaps the loss of a universe to which we are perfectly adjusted motivates us powerfully to change the world and improve the human circumstance. Perhaps that striving, questing aspect of the human spirit would be absent if it were not for the horrors of birth.

I am fascinated by the point-which I stress in my book The Dragons of Eden-that the pain of childbirth is especially marked in human mothers because of the enormous recent growth of the brain in the last few million years. It would seem that our intelligence is the source of our unhappiness in an almost literal way; but it would also imply that our unhappiness is the source of our strength as a species.

These ideas may cast some light on the origin and nature of religion. Most Western religions long for a life after death; Eastern religions for relief from an extended cycle of deaths and rebirths. But both promise a heaven or satori, an idyllic reunion of the individual and the universe, a return to Stage 1. Every birth is a death-the child leaves the amniotic world. But devotees of reincarnation claim that every death is a birth-a proposition that could have been triggered by perithanatic experiences in which the perinatal memory was recognized as a recollection of birth. (“There was a faint rap on the coffin. We opened it, and it turned out that Abdul had not died. He had awakened from a long illness which had cast its spell upon him, and he told a strange story of being born once again.”)

Might not the Western fascination with punishment and redemption be a poignant attempt to make sense of perinatal Stage 2? Is it not better to be punished for something-no matter how implausible, such as original sin-than for nothing? And Stage 3 looks very much like a common experience, shared by all human beings, implanted into our earliest memories and occasionally retrieved in such religious epiphanies as the near-death experience. It is tempting to try to understand other puzzling religious motifs in these terms. In utero we know virtually nothing. In Stage 2 the fetus gains experience of what might very well in later life be called evil-and then is forced to leave the uterus. This is entrancingly close to eating the fruit of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil and then experiencing the “expulsion” from Eden. [26] In Michelangelo’s famous painting on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, is the finger of God an obstetrical finger? Why is baptism, especially total-immersion baptism, widely considered a symbolic rebirth? Is holy water a metaphor for amniotic fluid? Is not the entire concept of baptism and the “born again” experience an explicit acknowledgment of the connection between birth and mystical religiosity?

If we study some of the thousands of religions on the planet Earth, we are impressed by their diversity. At least some of them seem stupefyingly harebrained. In doctrinal details, mutual agreement is rare. But many great and good men and women have stated that behind the apparent divergences is a fundamental and important unity; beneath the doctrinal idiocies is a basic and essential truth. There are two very different approaches to a consideration of tenets of belief. On the one hand, there are the believers, who are often credulous, and who accept a received religion literally, even though it may have internal inconsistencies or be in strong variance with what we know reliably about the external world or ourselves. On the other hand, there are the stern skeptics, who find the whole business a farrago of weak-minded nonsense. Some who consider themselves sober rationalists resist even considering the enormous corpus of recorded religious experience. These mystical insights must mean something. But what? Human beings are, by and large, intelligent and creative, good at figuring things out. If religions are fundamentally silly, why is it that so many people believe in them?

Certainly, bureaucratic religions have throughout human history allied themselves with the secular authorities, and it has frequently been to the benefit of those ruling a nation to inculcate the faith. In India, when the Brahmans wished to keep the “untouchables” in slavery, they proffered divine justification. The same self-serving argument was employed by whites, who actually described themselves as Christians, in the ante-bellum American South to support the enslavement of blacks. The ancient Hebrews cited God’s direction and encouragement in the random pillage and murder they sometimes visited on innocent peoples. In medieval times the Church held out the hope of a glorious life after death to those upon whom it urged contentment with their lowly and impoverished station. These examples can be multiplied indefinitely, to include virtually all the world’s religions. We can understand why the oligarchy might favor religion when, as is often the case, religion justifies oppression-as Plato, a dedicated advocate of book-burning, did in the Republic. But why do the oppressed so eagerly go along with these theocratic doctrines?

The general acceptance of religious ideas, it seems to me, can only be because there is something in them that resonates with our own certain knowledge-something deep and wistful; something every person recognizes as central to our being. And that common thread, I propose, is birth. Religion is fundamentally mystical, the gods inscrutable, the tenets appealing but unsound because, I suggest, blurred perceptions and vague premonitions are the best that the newborn infant can manage. I think that the mystical core of the religious experience is neither literally true nor perniciously wrong-minded. It is rather a courageous if flawed attempt to make contact with the earliest and most profound experience of our lives. Religious doctrine is fundamentally clouded because not a single person has ever at birth had the skills of recollection and retelling necessary to deliver a coherent account of the event. All successful religions seem at their nucleus to make an unstated and perhaps even unconscious resonance with the perinatal experience. Perhaps when secular influences are subtracted, it will emerge that the most successful religions are those which perform this resonance best.

Attempts at rationalistic explanations of religious belief have been resisted vigorously. Voltaire argued that if God did not exist Man would be obliged to invent him, and was reviled for the remark. Freud proposed that a paternalistic God is partly our projection as adults of our perceptions of our fathers when we were infants; he also called his book on religion The Future of an Illusion. He was not despised as much as we might imagine for these views, but perhaps only because he had already demonstrated his disreputability by introducing such scandalous notions as infantile sexuality.

Why is the opposition to rational discourse and reasoned argument in religion so strong? In part, I think it is because our common perinatal experiences are real but resist accurate recollection. But another reason, I think, has to do with the fear of death. Human beings and our immediate ancestors and collateral relatives, such as the Neanderthals, are probably the first organisms on this planet to have a clear awareness of the inevitability of our own end. We will die and we fear death. This fear is worldwide and transcultural. It probably has significant survival value. Those who wish to postpone or avoid death can improve the world, reduce its perils, make children who will live after us, and create great works by which they will be remembered. Those who propose rational and skeptical discourse on things religious are perceived as challenging the remaining widely held solution to the human fear of death, the hypothesis that the soul lives on after the body’s demise. [27] Since we feel strongly, most of us, about wishing not to die, we are made uncomfortable by those who suggest that death is the end; that the personality and the soul of each of us will not live on. But the soul hypothesis and the God hypothesis are separable; indeed, there are some human cultures in which the one can be found without the other. In any case, we do not advance the human cause by refusing to consider ideas that make us frightened.

Those who raise questions about the God hypothesis and the soul hypothesis are by no means all atheists. An atheist is someone who is certain that God does not exist, someone who has compelling evidence against the existence of God. I know of no such compelling evidence. Because God can be relegated to remote times and places and to ultimate causes, we would have to know a great deal more about the universe than we do now to be sure that no such God exists. To be certain of the existence of God and to be certain of the nonexistence of God seem to me to be the confident extremes in a subject so riddled with doubt and uncertainty as to inspire very little confidence indeed. A wide range of intermediate positions seems admissible, and considering the enormous emotional energies with which the subject is invested, a questing, courageous and open mind seems to be the essential tool for narrowing the range of our collective ignorance on the subject of the existence of God.

When I give lectures on borderline or pseudo or folk science (along the lines of Chapters 5 through 8 of this book) I am sometimes asked if similar criticism should not be applied to religious doctrine. My answer is, of course, yes. Freedom of religion, one of the rocks upon which the United States was founded, is essential for free inquiry. But it does not carry with it any immunity from criticism or reinterpretation for the religions themselves. The words “question” and “quest” are cognates. Only through inquiry can we discover truth. I do not insist that these connections between religion and perinatal experience are correct or original. Many of them are at least implicit in the ideas of Stanislav Grof and the psychoanalytic school of psychiatry, particularly Otto Rank, Sandor Ferenczi and Sigmund Freud. But they are worth thinking about.

There is, of course, a great deal more to the origin of religion than these simple ideas suggest. I do not propose that theology is physiology entirely. But it would be astonishing, assuming we really can remember our perinatal experiences, if they did not affect in the deepest way our attitudes on birth and death, sex and childhood, on purpose and ethics, on causality and God.

AND COSMOLOGY. Astronomers studying the nature and origin and fate of the universe make elaborate observations, describe the cosmos in differential equations and the tensor calculus, examine the universe from X-rays to radio waves, count the galaxies and determine their motions and distances-and when all is done a choice is to be made between three different views: a Steady State cosmology, blissful and quiet; an Oscillating Universe, in which the universe expands and contracts, painfully and forever; and a Big Bang expanding universe, in which the cosmos is created in a violent event, suffused with radiation (“Let there be light”) and then grows and cools, evolves and becomes quiescent, as we saw in the previous chapter. But these three cosmologies resemble with an awkward, almost embarrassing precision the human perinatal experiences of Grof’s Stages 1, 2, and 3 plus 4, respectively.

It is easy for modern astronomers to make fun of the cosmologies of other cultures-for example, the Dogon idea that the universe was hatched from a cosmic egg (Chapter 6). But in light of the ideas just presented, I intend to be much more circumspect in my attitudes toward folk cosmologies; their anthropocentrism is just a little bit easier to discern than ours. Might the puzzling Babylonian and Biblical references to waters above and below the firmament, which Thomas Aquinas struggled so painfully to reconcile with Aristotelian physics, be merely an amniotic metaphor? Are we incapable of constructing a cosmology that is not some mathematical encrypting of our own personal origins?

Einstein’s equations of general relativity admit a solution in which the universe expands. But Einstein, inexplicably, overlooked such a solution and opted for an absolutely static, nonevolving cosmos. Is it too much to inquire whether this oversight had perinatal rather than mathematical origins? There is a demonstrated reluctance of physicists and astronomers to accept Big Bang cosmologies in which the universe expands forever, although conventional Western theologians are more or less delighted with the prospect. Might this dispute, based almost certainly on psychological predispositions, be understood in Grofian terms?

I do not know how close the analogies are between personal perinatal experiences and particular cosmological models. I suppose it is too much to hope that the originators of the Steady State hypothesis were each born by Caesarean section. But the analogies are very close, and the possible connection between psychiatry and cosmology seems very real. Can it really be that every possible mode of origin and evolution of the universe corresponds to a human perinatal experience? Are we such limited creatures that we are unable to construct a cosmology that differs significantly from one of the perinatal stages? [28] Is our ability to know the universe hopelessly ensnared and enmired in the experiences of birth and infancy? Are we doomed to recapitulate our origins in a pretense of understanding the universe? Or might the emerging observational evidence gradually force us into an accommodation with and an understanding of that vast and awesome universe in which we float, lost and brave and questing?

It is customary in the world’s religions to describe Earth as our mother and the sky as our father. This is true of Uranus and Gaea in Greek mythology, and also among Native Americans, Africans, Polynesians, indeed most of the peoples of the planet Earth. However, the very point of the perinatal experience is that we leave our mothers. We do it first at birth and then again when we set out into the world by ourselves. As painful as those leave-takings are, they are essential for the continuance of the human species. Might this fact have some bearing on the almost mystical appeal that space flight has, at least for many of us? Is it not a leaving of Mother Earth, the world of our origins, to seek our fortune among the stars? This is precisely the final visual metaphor of the film 2001: A Space Odyssey. Konstantin Tsiolkovsky was a Russian schoolmaster, almost entirely self-educated, who, around the turn of the century, formulated many of the theoretical steps that have since been taken in the development of rocket propulsion and space flight. Tsiolkovsky wrote: “The Earth is the cradle of mankind. But one does not live in the cradle forever.”

We are set irrevocably, I believe, on a path that will take us to the stars-unless in some monstrous capitulation to stupidity and greed, we destroy ourselves first. And out there in the depths of space, it seems very likely that, sooner or later, we will find other intelligent beings. Some of them will be less advanced than we; some, probably most, will be more. Will all the space-faring beings, I wonder, be creatures whose births are painful? The beings more advanced than we will have capabilities far beyond our understanding. In some very real sense they will appear to us as godlike. There will be a great deal of growing up required of the infant human species. Perhaps our descendants in those remote times will look back on us, on the long and wandering journey the human race will have taken from its dimly remembered origins on the distant planet Earth, and recollect our personal and collective histories, our romance with science and religion, with clarity and understanding and love.