XXVII. Science, Spirituality and Religion

I have written previously about the distinction between the essential character of a scientist versus that of a technician. In a purely technical sense, my aptitude was (and, perhaps, in some sense, still is) in those things that define and constitute an engineer. My college scholarship was in engineering and Boston University paid me well to go there as one of the first batch of students in their then-fledgling School of Engineering. I will always be grateful for the opportunity they gave me – and little did any of us know at the time just what kind of opportunity it would turn out to be.

It was the mid- to late-sixties, an illegal, unjust war was raging in Southeast Asia, and the tiny, backward, insular, provincial world of my youth was about to expand, indeed explode – quickly, dramatically, convulsively. Reflecting on that time, I must have known from early on that engineering would not be my path. I was a well-behaved child (not a single detention in high school), but troublesome in terms of the kinds of questions I asked. In the very conservative, Roman Catholic-Republican tradition in which my parents were trying to raise me, asking questions that could not be answered by the Catechism meant big trouble. For outsiders: up through the sixth decade of the 20th century the Irish and French in French Canada and much of New England practiced a very conservative form of Catholicism known as Jansenism. With its heavy focus on original sin, the depravity of the human condition, and predestination, this was great fun for children (and some priests who preyed on their innocence). Despite their religious similarities, the French are (or were in the last part of the 19th and first three-quarters of the 20th century) very different politically from the Irish or Italians or other immigrants from Europe, who tended to be Democrats.

For me and my siblings, who were similarly inclined, the reluctance to allow that members of the “flock” could think led to an early apostasy from the political party of my parents and the Church. Despite the outward appearance of resolve and commitment to the regressive politics and stifling religion they professed, my parents were considerably ambivalent. My father had a quiet inquisitiveness, appreciation for intellectual pursuits, and a timid distrust of authority. My mother was firmly, indeed avidly, committed to her children’s education as the way out of the kind of life that she was forced to lead. At a fundamental level she did not really believe that her boys should go to Vietnam to fight the “commies,” despite her avowed faith in the government’s anti-communist ruse. Unlike dictators who will stifle education because they know its power to threaten their authority, the love of a parent dedicated to the betterment of her children will overcome the reluctance that derives from the realization that education opens the mind in unpredictable ways – and creates troublesome, questioning children along the way. Each of us, in our own way, saw the cracks, drove in the wedge, and broke out.

Over the years I have come to understand that religion and spirituality are orthogonal concepts (see VIII. Orthogonality); and have sought deeper understanding of both the material and non-material bases of life. I have met many truly religious people who practice their belief through hard work for the betterment of others. This is in stark and wonderful juxtaposition to the shallow, showy, and blustery stuff that “fundamentalists” use to intimidate so as to exert control over individuals in order to gain and consolidate power.

I know enough about the life of Jesus to appreciate the importance he attached to social justice and good deeds as an expression of one’s commitment to things beyond our own material needs; and certainly beyond our hedonistic desires and pure greed. Despite the church’s malevolent, oppressive aspect in the Middle Ages, I see the great cathedrals of Europe as a dramatic expression of the belief in the power of the Church by the artisan class and their supporters and sponsors. I also see this power in India in many religious traditions, including the Assyrian Christians who are reputed to have entombed the remains of Saint Thomas, who died in India in the 7th decade of the 1st century AD, in San Thome Basilica in Chennai.

What I have sought, and still continue to seek, is to understand how some people in our modern world, with all of its inequities and chaos, have managed to live inquisitive, useful lives that satisfy both their own intellectual yearnings and the principles espoused by virtually all of the great spiritual leaders throughout history. I have seen this in Mennonite and Catholic Missionaries in different parts of the developing world (an image of Father Marco plowing a field in Karamoja comes to mind) and in the quiet practice of people who do not even profess a formal “religion.” Over the years, I have come to embrace the idea that true religion is “practice.” Neither a series of lectures nor posturing to advance ones position in the social and political order meets my definition of religion.