This Sunday my wife and I gave a service on what’s variously called the Universe Story, or the Great Story, or New Cosmology, or various other things. I like this version, if only because I first heard it from Michael Dowd. The essential idea is to create an anthropological cosmology from the physical one, to tell the scientifically rigorous story of the creation of the universe and ourselves as a sacred story, the kind of story which can inform us, comfort us and guide us. The service consisted of me blabbing for awhile (too long, really), then a ritual of walking a spiral of time, from the Big Bang to the present gathering, lighting a candle to mark each major event. It went okay, I think, considering it’s the first time we’ve tried to do this sort of thing. It even had a decent turnout, bout twenty people, for a summer service.
One thing which always impresses me about the story is the origination of life. There’s lots of definitions of life, so I mean it in the reproducing-genetically-heritable-structures sense. Quite a bit is known about it, both from geological and fossil records and from paleontology in our genetic material themselves, which carry the echos of our very first ancestors. Once the Earth had cooled enough for liquid water to form, and meteor impacts slowed down enough, and it rained for hundreds of millions of years to establish the oceans, the conditions were established for molecules to start reproducing, and carrying information. Once bacteria were around, it took billions of years before they grew nuclear membranes, adopted mitochondria, and then turned into multicellular organisms like us. And the Universe took a few billion years to establish the conditions where genomes and bacteria could arise. The hard part, to me, has always seemed to be that step in the middle, going from the chemical soup (whatever and whereever it was)
to reproducing creatures, no matter how simple. But that hard part was basically instantaneous. A few hundred million years, maybe less, an interval so small it’s hard to measure in the records (geological and genomic) that we have. Once the Earth was ready for life, it arose immediately. Irrepressible creation.
Afterward, one participant remarked on an interesting implication of this. If we screw up, and get snuffed out, the Universe will, somewhere, sometime, recreate us. Not like us people, maybe. But life, and maybe even thinking, feeling creatures, will endure. And this she found comforting — we are, in the end, not the Universe’s one and only chance. No matter what the enviro doomsday theorists say, there is hope. Hope, yes, just not for us. (A Kafka line, I’m told.)
There’s lots of ways to screw up, of course. I’ve been interested in the energy angle. Jared Diamond’s latest thriller, Collapse, is supposed to go through them all, with prescriptions for the future, in Clintonian detail and depth. I’m reading the much shorter A Short History of Progress, from the Massey lecture series by author Richard Wright. I’m now all worked up about agricultural land salinization and desertification, the processes which turned the Fertile Crescent into modern Iraq, that agricultural powerhouse. (Don’t confuse with dessertification, the transformation of cuisines which adds more and more shorter and shorter chain carbohydrates to every part of the meal, until they all taste like dessert, leading to unsustainable tooth decay and the ensuing collapse of civilization. Witness Alphaghetti, which my children sometimes insist on eating for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.) Now, depending on where you are, soil destruction isn’t permanent, though it seems to be for the middle east. After the Aztecs collapsed, the jungle retook the land, and soil gets regenerated at an inch per century or so. Somebody, or something, will be able to eat from the lost land again. Just not the people who lost it in the first place.
Environmentalism — expanding your Universe by giving you new things to be frightened of, every day. Sometime I’ll tell you about helium, the ultimate nonrenewable resource.