Problems of Metaphysics

Cosmological-Theological Problem

Atomistic and Teleological Theistic Explanation of Nature

I shall begin my examination of these competing hypotheses by delineating the opposition between the atomistic and theistic hypotheses, initially in the form they have held dominion over human thought for centuries, that is, without regard for the changes the problem has undergone with the advent of evolutionary biology and cosmology in our era. These are two perspectives that still resonate most clearly with common thought: atomism predominates in the spheres of natural science education, while anthropomorphic theism prevails in realms influenced by ecclesiastical philosophy. I must note immediately that the Church's doctrine differs from the viewpoint I designate as anthropomorphic theism in one significant respect: it does not permit the existence of any independently existing matter, viewing God not merely as an architect but as the creator of the world ex nihilo. In this regard, it draws so close to the third—pantheistic—perspective that it cannot be abstractly separated from it: the being that creates all other beings from nothing is necessarily the singular independent or truly existing being. In relation to God, the created things and those sustained in existence possess no autonomy; they are manifestations and determinations of His essence. Omnipotence can do anything; it can, however, not grant its creations independence from itself—otherwise, it would have to be capable of endowing them with uncreatedness.

The anthropomorphic theism from which we begin our exposition relies approximately on the following argument, often termed teleological. Wherever we encounter a multitude of independent elements, arranged in such a way that their collective activity produces a result of full meaning and value, we assume that the arrangement of parts has been wrought by a rational principle that, desiring this result as an end, arranges the given combination of parts as a means to that end. For example, in a clock, a multitude of parts—wheels, screws, stones, hands, a dial, and a spring—are interconnected in such a manner that their combined action results in the uniform movement of the hands, thereby rendering the clock a suitable instrument for measuring time. Anyone familiar with the purpose of the device, upon observing the arrangement of parts, would immediately conclude with certainty that this object originated from art and intention. And if, being stranded on a deserted island, one were to discover a clock or even just a fragment of a gear, they would immediately assert: there were humans here; it was not chance that brought these elements together, but human intent.

We find a similar case in nature as a whole. We have not witnessed the initial distribution of parts; however, we encounter works of natural processes that are so akin to those of human art and intention that we are compelled to draw conclusions regarding a similar origin—namely, the activity of some architectural reason. This is particularly true for living beings. In their structure and functions, they resemble exceedingly complex machines. Their components—bones, muscles, ligaments, nerves, vessels, heart, lungs, blood, skin, hair, etc.—are connected in such a way that their interaction results in what we call life, a phenomenon we recognize as full of meaning and value—indeed, as the presupposition of all values. Moreover, each of these parts is complex in its own right, displaying astonishing adaptations of numerous components to fulfill some essential function for the whole. Take the eye, for instance. Here, we have the retina with the endings of optical nerve fibers; this, as revealed under a microscope, is an exceedingly complex structure capable of responding to the faintest vibrations, light waves, and transmitting its excitation through nerve fibers to the brain. Yet, the general sensitivity to light would be of little utility for orienting oneself in reality if sharply delineated images of objects did not project onto the retina. For this purpose, the optical apparatus located at the front—cornea, lens, and vitreous body—refracts incoming light rays in such a way that they produce a sharp, reduced, inverted image on the retina. The movable iris with a central pupil prevents the ingress of distracting light rays from the edges of the lens, while the pigmented layer lining the eye socket, along with a complex system of muscles and nerves that endow the eye with the ability to adapt to varying distances, completes its utility. Finally, this vital organ is meticulously protected; encased in the bony cavity of the skull, it is shielded from all sorts of incidental damage by the very structure of its environment, including eyelashes and eyebrows.

What unfolds before us here is repeated in the organism a thousandfold; each system of organs reveals the same artificial connection of multiple parts into a single instrument whose activity contributes to the preservation of life, be it that of the individual or the species. The deeper anatomy and biology delve into the structure and functions of the body with their new investigative methods, the more suspicious the matter becomes; complexity escalates before our eyes, dissection deepens, and the formation becomes ever more diverse. But concurrently, the wonder of the connection of parts into a whole and the adaptation of the whole to its environment grows; every expansion and deepening of knowledge leads biology to a more profound penetration into the inner unity of the plan governing the overall structure and formation. "As the architect of nature," exclaims Trendelenburg, the reviver of Aristotelian teleology in our century, "Cuvier depicts, starting from the goal, the means, and the structure of some animal species." A few fragments of the skeleton of an extinct species are sufficient for the master to discern the plan of the whole and to reconstruct the animal before our eyes based on its structure and functions.

How did living beings arise? They now come into being through birth and growth; form is inherited from the producing individuals. But how did they originate initially? To this question, atomistic materialism offers the following answer: through the spontaneous collision of atoms, moving according to universal physical laws. In the infinite flow of blindly necessary movements, all conceivable arrangements of elements must have arisen, including those that present themselves to us in animal and plant forms; thousands of combinations could disintegrate anew; ultimately, however, there had to occur a few that were capable of preserving themselves and reproducing.

Is this conceivable? asks the teleologist. Or, if it is conceivable, can one believe that something like this truly occurred? At some point in time, at some place—here, on bare ground or in mud, or in water or air—did all those elements that compose the eagle, or shark, or lion collide? And here stands the latter, as if suddenly blown by the wind, with skin and fur, eyes and ears, teeth and claws, heart and vessels filled with circulating blood? Let the boldest imagination test its limits in painting a picture of such an origin! And consider: at the same fortunate moment, the same chance would have had to create a lioness, and precisely at that same location; otherwise, this grand birthing would have indeed been in vain! And alongside that, of course, some animal serving as prey, such as a gazelle, or perhaps a pair of gazelles, or more likely a whole number of pairs sufficient for sustenance until reproduction could take care of replenishment.

We must admit that if this is not incredible, then there is nothing at all in the world that is incredible. Moreover, the matter becomes no more probable if we, following Empedocles, assume that the parts first arose separately by themselves: arms and legs without a torso, eyes and ears without a head, so that they could then find one another and, if some proved suitable, join together firmly. Aristotle is entirely correct in opposing this notion with the thought: the whole exists before the parts, parts grow on and from the whole, and there is no other way for them to arise. Not the slightest hair will emerge anywhere other than on the body to which it belongs, no matter how long we might shuffle the atoms. Now we must also, perhaps, believe that lion’s fur, having arisen separately and scattered in its hundreds of thousands across the world, suddenly one fine day came together on some singular skin, each fitting into a pre-prepared hole!? It would be a hundred times more probable if, one day, say, during an earthquake, thousands of stone fragments rubbed against one another and piled up in such a way that they formed one time a Doric temple, another time a Gothic cathedral, or if someone, shaking out millions of typeset letters from a large bag, finally managed to have them fall together in such a way that they created the "Iliad" or the "Aeneid."

Indeed, there is no hint of injustice when Aristotle compares certain notions to the delirium of the intoxicated, while praising Anaxagoras, who, with his idea that reason brings order to chaos, stands among them as a sober presence, grounding us in rational and conceivable thoughts.

For us, Anaxagoras’s thought poses no novelty or surprise; it appears to us quite comprehensible, and some may even regard it as trivial today. Yet, at that time, it was a revelation. The gods of Greek folk belief were not creators or shapers; they were merely products of the world. The notion that the world could be a creation of spirit was initially entirely alien to the Greeks. What makes Greek philosophy so alluring to those who view it through a historical lens is precisely how it reveals the gradual awakening of the human spirit to wonder at the world. An ordinary person does not find things surprising; they become accustomed to them from childhood. What could they find astonishing? The sun, moon, and stars rise and set; plants and animals arise and grow; this has always been so—what could possibly be surprising about it? Only to the philosopher does the matter present itself as remarkable; or, to put it another way, in the very act of someone marveling and reflecting upon what until then was considered self-evident to the entire world, we encounter, as noted by Plato and Aristotle, the first beginnings of philosophy. How did the celestial firmament arise, and how did plants and animals initially come into existence? With these inquiries into the origins of the great and the small worlds, Greek philosophy begins. Its earliest responses are the attempted explanations of nature based on some property or movement of the primary elements.

It was Anaxagoras who first grasped the inconceivability of these notions. The clearer and more definitively they were articulated—as eventually accomplished by the atomists—the more evidently their impossibility became apparent. Thus, Anaxagoras, in light of the mathematical regularity of the cosmos and the eternal order of celestial movements, first articulated a thought rich with implications in the Greek world: only spirit can give rise to this order. Plato and Aristotle embraced this thought, which serves as a pivotal point in their worldviews: it is not blind motion, but a directed force towards the good thought, permeating things everywhere, that imparts to them their form and reality. Naturally, this assumes the existence of something “other,” on one hand, capable of receiving “thoughts,” and on the other, inevitably constraining their pure realization—a certain irrational factor alongside the rational, that is, matter. With this arises the difficulty associated with the new theory: how does thought relate to substance? Whence comes the power it manifests in relation to it? Does the cosmic intellect, akin to a master craftsman, possess eyes and hands? Trendelenburg expresses this difficulty thus: “In nature, we observe nowhere a point where thought acquires power, arms itself, and employs it for its purposes, and no reasoning can indicate it. Contemplation, seeking an inner aim, founds the ideal in the real, yet it lacks knowledge of how the ideal enters into the real, how it engages with the real. Human thought has an executing hand, and the latter introduces the real phenomenon; for phenomena in nature, resemblance breaks off at this juncture, and primarily on this gap of knowledge, doubt is directed, mistrustfully observing the aim. It is not impossible,” he adds with resignation, “that our knowledge may not be augmented; for now, it suffices to know what we know and what we do not know.”

Indeed, it is precisely this “gap in knowledge” that continually gives rise to doubt, troubling the teleological explanation of nature. Explanation by thought, whose existence cannot be empirically proven, and whose action cannot be physically or physiologically represented! It is no wonder that natural philosophers did not know what to make of such an explanation, and thus repeatedly found themselves compelled to revert to attempts at mechanical explanations. No matter how improbable Empedocles’s explanation of the emergence of organic beings may appear, it still constitutes an attempt to present this process visually; the teleological explanation, by rejecting visual construction, altogether renounces scientific explanation.

Thus arises the dilemma between mechanical and teleological views of nature; it runs through the entire history of philosophy. In ancient philosophy, Epicurus’s school again adopts Democritus’s atomistic mechanical natural philosophy, in opposition to the idealistically teleological worldview stemming from Socrates. In modern philosophy, the prevailing interest in natural science tips the scales in favor of the former understanding. With the dissemination of new cosmic and physical views in the 16th and 17th centuries, a strong aversion to teleological explanations of nature emerges—an aversion that the scholastic philosophy inherited from the Middle Ages, combined with ecclesiastical dogma and Aristotelian philosophy, could scarcely counter. This tendency is evident in the works of Bacon and Descartes; it is straightforwardly advanced in Spinoza, who resolutely rejects explanations of nature based on ends. However, a countercurrent emerges again; in the 18th century, teleological understandings of nature once more gain prominence. In the popular English and German philosophy of this time, the explanation of nature based on the intentions of a supernatural intellect is perhaps presented more naively than ever before. This is related, on one hand, to the conciliatory character of that century, as evidenced by its two philosophical leaders—Leibniz and Locke. Furthermore, this was significantly aided by the fact that the small world—the realm of living beings—resisted mechanical explanation far more stubbornly than the latest natural science had anticipated in its initial intoxication with victory. One must read Descartes’s physiological treatises to feel how confidently the philosophy armed with new principles advanced towards the explanation of life phenomena, convinced that it would soon unveil every mystery of life by revealing its mechanism. Instead, anatomy and physiology, particularly after they found support in the microscope, led only to new and deeper mysteries. How helpless we now stand before the mechanism of the nervous system, the activities of which Descartes so easily explained! Thus it occurred that natural philosophers, though they did not explicitly advocate for a teleological view, nonetheless, in the absence of better alternatives, did not oppose it. Even in the first half of the 19th century, atomistic mechanical interpretations of nature were almost extinct. Vitalistic teleological views, as represented by Trendelenburg (setting aside speculative philosophy), also predominated in the realms of natural science.

In truth, if we were left to choose only between Empedocles and Anaxagoras, we would scarcely waver in our decision. That animals and plants could ever arise solely from the fortuitous arrangement of parts is both incredible and will remain so. This sentiment was felt by such critical minds as Voltaire and Hume. No matter how little they were inclined to yield otherwise to the teleological philosophy of their time, the denial of purposes in the organic world and a purely mechanical explanation appeared to them, nonetheless, to be a hopeless endeavor. Indeed, they also recognized the weak points of the teleological perspective. Thus, they found themselves confronted with an insurmountable dilemma.

Only with the latest biological perspective, the most recent development of which is associated with the name of Darwin, does a way out seemingly open, at least from the most immediate and distressing difficulties. However, before dwelling on this in detail, I would like to make several critical remarks regarding the ancient teleological proof; this matter still holds more than mere historical interest.