Last spring I wrote a post in which I described my dissatisfaction with the atheist, fully materialistic world-model I had inhabited (and defended with vigor, sometimes even cruelty) all my life. I’d come to see that there were essential questions to which it provided no good answers — and that the “scientism” it was built upon, despite its protestations to the contrary, nevertheless required the very thing it claimed so ardently to reject: faith. Moreover I’d come to see that it explained the Universe by explaining away the very things that constitute almost the entire universe of human experience. The resulting explanandum was a rump Universe, shrunken and dessicated, and in human terms hardly worth explaining (or living in) at all.
In his book Orthodoxy, G.K. Chesterton sums this up:
I have remarked that the materialist, like the madman, is in prison; in the prison of one thought. These people seemed to think it singularly inspiring to keep on saying that the prison was very large. The size of this scientific universe gave one no novelty, no relief. The cosmos went on for ever, but not in its wildest constellation could there be anything really interesting; anything, for instance, such as forgiveness or free will. The grandeur or infinity of the secret of its cosmos added nothing to it. It was like telling a prisoner in Reading gaol that he would be glad to hear that the gaol now covered half the county. The warder would have nothing to show the man except more and more long corridors of stone lit by ghastly lights and empty of all that is human. So these expanders of the universe had nothing to show us except more and more infinite corridors of space lit by ghastly suns and empty of all that is divine.
In my earlier post I wrote:
Where, then, does all of this leave me? It seems there is no process of pure reason that will settle these ultimate questions, and so I must either believe nothing, or rely on faith. To believe nothing, though, is a good deal harder than it sounds: it’s easy, perhaps, when one is young and can defer the question while focusing on practical matters, but as one’s shadow lengthens, and the distractions of youth and middle age fall away, the great mysteries come increasingly to the fore. I would like very much, in the time I have left, to be able to believe something. But if pure Reason cannot tell me what to believe (and it is Reason itself that has convinced me it can’t), and so belief must be built upon Faith, then where should Faith be placed? Such are my stubborn habits of mind that I am still, in some way, hoping that Reason will help me adjudicate between the competing prospects. But I’m starting to see that this isn’t really how it works — the harder I try, the more I see the limits of Reason.
My secular friends are horrified that I would even be asking these questions; it is to them self-evident — a matter of faith — that there can be no true account of things that extends beyond the naturalistic model. I understand this well, because it was exactly my own position until very recently; and even now I am making no certain claim to the contrary. But there is faith on either side: the choosing of axioms is, by definition and by logical necessity, prior to reason. This means — and such is the power of habit, especially habits of belief, that it has taken me all my life to see this — we are radically free to choose such axioms as do not lead to obvious contradictions with truth.
So, at this time, feeling rather exhilaratingly liberated, I am simply re-examining my axioms, to see where it leads. Trying the other day to explain this to a shocked friend, I hit upon an apposite metaphor:
For roughly two thousand years, we understood geometry according to Euclid’s Elements. Even in the fourth century B.C., the basics of formal reasoning were understood: you adopt a foundation of unproven axioms, and then build upon them an expanding (and potentially limitless) structure of theorems. That the axioms themselves are unproven is a matter of logical necessity; were they provable, it would have to be in terms of even more fundamental postulates, and so your original axioms would now be theorems. At some point, the regress has to bottom out in postulates that we simply take as given — or, to put it another way, that we take on faith.
The theorems of Euclidean geometry rest on a set of five postulates. They are:
1) A straight line segment may be drawn from any given point to any other.
2) A straight line may be extended to any finite length.
3) A circle may be described with any given point as its center and any distance as its radius.
4) All right angles are congruent.
5) If a straight line intersects two other straight lines, and so makes the two interior angles on one side of it together less than two right angles, then the other straight lines will meet at a point if extended far enough on the side on which the angles are less than two right angles.
One of these — the fifth — has troubled mathematicians from the beginning. It can be restated as:
In a plane, given a line and a point not on the line, at most one line parallel to the given line can be drawn through the point.
This postulate feels true, but it seems so much more complicated than the others that it ought to be a theorem, not an axiom. But try as they might, geometers were never able to derive it from the other axioms — and it was so deeply embedded in the centuries-old theoretical edifice of geometry that everyone just left it alone.
But in the eighteenth century, mathematicians (beginning with Lobachevsky) finally found the courage to attempt a geometry that rejects this postulate. It seemed like a crazy experiment, expected to lead in no time to absurdities and self-contradictions — but it turned out to be internally consistent, and enormously fruitful. What’s more, it has since turned out that this “non-Euclidean” geometry appears to be the actual geometry of the Universe. Who knew?
Well, that’s all I’m trying here: I am, late in my life, questioning the “fifth postulate” that has been a part of all of my theorems to date. That postulate is the one shared by all of my secular friends: there is no God.
I have no way of knowing whether this postulate is true or not; the essence of postulates is, after all, that they are unprovable. Such was the depth of my embedding in the secular, scientistic model that it has taken me till now, believe it or not, fully to understand that this was in fact just an axiom like any other; an unprovable thing to be taken on faith for the sake of theorem-building. Even now, my faith in the postulate has been displaced, not by certainty in its opposite, but only by doubt.
Doubt is not faith. But it can be awfully liberating — and now, at 63 years old and with plenty of time on my hands, I find myself free to try out, if only provisionally, a different postulate: God exists.
Why not see what sort of world-geometry that leads to? What can I possibly have to lose?


