One recent sunny afternoon, I took a bunch of exercise balls with little sticks taped to them to the local grammar school where I met a class of second graders. As part of my war on the flat earth myth, I had encouraged their teacher to read Kathryn Lasky’s The Librarian Who Measured the Earth to them, and I had already come to class once to explain Eratosthenes’ method for measuring the earth’s circumference.
They seemed to get it, mostly. But I was left wishing for a more concrete, experiential way of showing them what Eratosthenes did. So I devised this hands-on exercise that they could do in groups of three.
I used inflatable an exercise ball as our model “earth.” I taped pipe cleaners to them at two points on a line of latitude (a fabrication seam) as gnomons. I gave each group a tape measure. I explained that they were going to rotate their “earths” until one of the gnomon cast no shadow. Then, holding the ball still, they needed to measure the shadow cast by the other gnomon. They also needed to measure the height of this gnomon. Finally, they needed to measure the distance between the gnomons. I handed out a worksheet I had prepared so all they needed to do was fill in the first three columns on the table. I had them carry out the steps three times (one for each student). When they finished, they were to bring their sheets to me so I could calculate the circumference of their “earth.” Pretty basic instructions that even second graders can follow.
They then came to me with their data. I plugged their numbers into a simple spreadsheet I had made (I confess, I cheated in so far as I used trigonometry to calculate the angle of the shadow cast by the gnomon). Their numbers were reasonably accurate (especially given the size of the ball and the uncertainty in the measurements).
Thirty minutes later, I had 33 second graders who not only knew that Eratosthenes had calculated the circumference of the earth, but could give a coherent account of how he did it. They eagerly took home their completed worksheets. Judging by the number of parents who have said something about it, they were able to explain to their parents what they had done and how.
For me, this is an important form of outreach, a way of “taking history of science to ‘them’.” Do I get any professional credit for it? Nope. Does it make the world a better place? Yep.
If you’re interested in more details, contact me. I’m happy to share.
Next up: I’m trying to convince the school to let me and the students use the flagpole as the gnomon for a permanent sundial.
For generations now American school children have learned that Christopher Columbus proved the earth was round. They have learned that the Church tried to prevent Columbus from sailing west to Asia, fearing that he and his seamen would sail off the edge of the earth or plunge into a chasm. They know that Columbus persevered and eventually overcame religious opposition. And they know that Columbus was right. At its core, the Columbus story pits humble rationality against dogmatic obscurantism in a sort of secular inversion of the David and Goliath story. Judging from the students in my intro classes, the Columbus story is thriving in American schools.
The only problem, as any historian or historian of science will tell you: it’s a myth.
Like any beloved myth, the Columbus story mixes truths and truthiness, something that seems so natural and so obviously true but isn’t. Columbus did face opposition. He did persevere. He did sail west. He did find land (not Asia as he had predicted and continued to believe but the New World). But these truths have nothing to do with the shape of the earth—Columbus and all his detractors knew that the earth was round. The truthiness in the myth lies, on the one hand, in the image of a dogmatic medieval Spanish Church that clung to a retrograde idea about the shape of the earth and refused to listen to reason and evidence. On the other hand, truthiness also inheres in the image of Columbus as a proto-modern, quasi-secular thinker guided only by reason and evidence. The truthiness is the reason 19th-century authors fabricated the myth and 21st-century educators continue to repeat it.
The seeds of the Columbus myth seem to grow from Washington Irving’s biography of Columbus, A History of the Life and Voyages of Christopher Columbus (1828) (online here). Alexander Everett, Minister Plenipotentiary to Spain, had invited Irving to Madrid in the hopes that Irving would translate a recently published collection of documents on Columbus. When Irving got there and had a chance to read the collection, he decided
that a history, faithfully digested from these various materials, was a desideratum in literature, and would be a more acceptable work to my country, than the translation [he] had contemplated.
So he set out to write a history of Columbus. Irving enjoyed unfettered access to libraries, which he mined for his biography. He culled from manuscripts and published books a wealth of information. Despite the material at his disposal, the sources were at times silent or missing or not all that interesting. So Irving embellished. He wrote what should have happened, what surely did happen even if the evidence had since disappeared. He did what historians had been doing since Herodotus: he made it up. He seamlessly wove fact and fiction together into a “clear and continued narrative.”
Irving detailed Columbus’s thoughts about the size of the earth. Columbus examined earlier maps that depicted the known world that stretched from Canary Islands in the west to its eastern limits in China. The Portuguese had more recently explored further west to the Azores. According to Columbus’s calculations, only a third of the earth’s circumference remained unexplored. Moreover, based on his reading of Arabic astronomers, Columbus thought the length of a degree at the equator was shorter than the commonly accepted length. The third of earth’s circumference was, Columbus concluded, much smaller than that accepted by contemporary cosmographers. As Irving pointed out in various places, Columbus was aberrant in his beliefs, which beliefs were, in fact, wrong:
It is singular how much the success of this great undertaking depended upon two happy errors, the imaginary extent of Asia to the east, and the supposed smallness of the earth ….
But a recitation of historical truths was boring, especially when Irving knew the confrontation between Columbus and the Council at Salamanca must have been dramatic. So Irving embellished a little when he described Columbus before the council. He enhanced the historical truths with truthiness—events that seemed so right, so natural, that must have happened even if there’s no record of them.
The Council at Salamanca was composed of professors of astronomy, geography, mathematics, as well as church dignitaries and learned friars, and convened to examine Columbus’s “new theory.” Most of the council members were biased against Columbus, “an obscure foreigner, without fortune, or connexions, or any academic honors.” In what must have been the acme of truthiness for Irving, he described the council benighted by “monastic bigotry” and assailing Columbus with Biblical citations. They rejected mathematical demonstrations that conflicted with scriptures or Church Fathers. At issue was not, however, the shape of the earth, but the possibility of antipodes:
Thus the possibility of antipodes in the southern hemisphere … became a stumbling block with some of the sages of Salamanca.
Members of the council invoked Lactantius, who connected the existence of antipodes to the shape of the earth. Irving quoted what has become the standard passage:
“The idea of the roundness of the earth,” he adds, “was the cause of inventing this fable of the antipodes with their heels in the air….”
A quick reading of Irving might confirm that the issue here was the shape of the earth, but in the next sentence he returned to the antipodes:
But more grave objections were advanced on the authority of St. Augustine. He pronounced the doctrine of antipodes incompatible with the historical foundations of our faith; since, to assert that there were inhabited lands on the opposite side of the globe, would be to maintain that there were nations not descended from Adam, it being impossible for them to have passed the intervening ocean.
The council’s grave objections focused on the existence of other humans, not on the shape of the earth.
Iriving described briefly a couple objections raised about the shape of the earth—passages from the Psalms and St. Paul’s Epistle to the Hebrews—but these serve merely as a foil for the objections raised by “[o]thers, more versed in science, [who] admitted the globular form of the earth.” Their objections were grounded the knowledge that the earth was a sphere. They worried that it was impossible to sail across the torrid zone at the equator, that only the northern hemisphere was inhabitable, and that the circumference of the earth was so great as to require three years to sail across the Atlantic.
Whatever liberties Irving took in crafting his biography, he did not lose sight of historical truths. Instead, and perhaps more disturbingly, he enlisted those truths in the service of truthiness. In Irving’s version, Columbus had struggled against “errors and prejudices, the mingled ignorance and erudition, and the pedantic bigotry” of the Spanish Church that refused to listen to reason and evidence. His biography was less about Columbus and more about the timeless struggle between on the one hand rationality, science, individuality, and anti-aristocratic modernity and, on the other hand, a retrograde, oppressive, medieval Church. It was the story’s truthiness that appealed to other 19th-century authors.
Within a decade, William Whewell had published his History of the Inductive Sciences (1837) (online here). In a section on antipodes, he admitted that most people throughout history had known the earth was round. Only a few people who preferred scriptural evidence over physical evidence denied the sphericity of the earth. Lactantius, of course, and now Cosmas Indicopleustes, who says nothing about antipodes but offers an easily mocked tabernacle-shaped world and flat earth. Whewell then returns to the antipodes before concluding the section by casually remarking: “Tostatus notes the opinion of the rotundity of the earth as an unsafe doctrine, only a few years before Columbus visited the other hemisphere.” Again, Columbus and the shape of the earth.
By the latter 19th-century, the supposed truth of the Columbus story had completely replaced the historical truths. In works like John Draper’s History of the Conflict between Religion and Science (1874) (online here) we read nothing of the reasoned objections raised by the Council at Salamanca or of Columbus’s errors. Instead we learn that his proposal’s
irreligious tendency was pointed out by the Spanish ecclesiastics, and condemned by the Council of Salamanca; its orthodoxy was confuted from the Pentateuch, the Psalms, the Prophecies, the Gospels, the Epistles, and the writings of the Fathers—St. Chrysostom, St. Augustine, St. Jerome, St. Gregory, St. Basil, St Ambrose.
In the end, Columbus prevailed and along with Vasco Da Gama and Ferdinand Magellan finally settled the question of the shape of the earth.
By the time Andrew White wrote his A History of the Warfare of Science with Theology in Christendom (1896) (online here), Columbus’s struggles to overcome a medieval Church that believed in a flat earth had become historical fact. Historical truth had surrendered to truthiness. White transformed Irving’s biased but still recognizable historical account into little more than agitprop:
The warfare of Columbus the world knows well: how the Bishop of Ceuta worsted him in Portugal; how sundry wise men of Spain confronted him with the usual quotations from the Psalms, from St. Paul, and from St. Augustine; how, even after he was triumphant, and after his voyage had greatly strengthened the theory of the earth’s sphericity, with which the theory of the antipodes was so closely connected, the Church by its highest authority solemnly stumbled and persisted in going astray.
Despite decades of historical work and dozens of articles and textbooks and, more recently, blogposts, the Columbus myth is alive and well in the United States. The cosmologist Lawrence Krauss recently invoked it. President Obama equated opponents of clean energy to people who opposed Columbus on the grounds that the earth was flat. The president received much applause when he said (at 0:55 in the video):
If some of these folks [opponents of clean energy] were around when Columbus set sail, they must have been founding members of the flat earth society. They would not have believed that the world was round.
More recently still, Chris Impey, an astronomer at University of Arizona who claims to be interested in and knowledgable about history, fell prey to the Columbus myth in a lecture posted on YouTube, “Ancient Astronomy.” He identifies himself as “a student of history” and a member of a select group, “the educated extreme of the culture.” Yet moments earlier he lamented that
[t]here was a thing called the Dark Ages. There was a period of 700 or 800 years when all of the extraordinary insights of the Greek philosophers were utterly lost. People thought the world was flat. And truly thought the world was flat. There were demons that lurked at the edge of the map.
He underscores this claim in his video series “Teach Astronomy” (which is part of an online textbook). In the section on “The Dark Ages” he says:
In the fourth century with the fall of Rome and the sacking of the great library at Alexandria scientific darkness fell across Europe. Even the language of learning, Latin, splintered as warring tribes took over. The theology of the day was defined by Augustine, and the Christian church was mostly anti-science. The learning of the Romans and the Greeks was denigrated as pagan knowledge. Even the knowledge of the round Earth was lost for many centuries.
Impey’s comments reveal, I think, the power of the Columbus myth. It has become so central to the idea of modernity, that even a self-described student of history who is both smart and very educated—part of the “educated extreme”—is not motivated to do a simple internet search to fact check that part of his lecture and textbook. Whereas Irving had mixed truths and truthiness into a “clear and continued narrative,” subsequent authors have pruned the historical truths from the story, leaving just a myth that has become part of modern folklore.
Irving’s biography also depicts Columbus as something of a zealot, motivated by religious and dogmatic convictions as much as anything. For more on Columbus’s religious motivations, see Columbus’s Voyage was a Religious Journey. ↩
At last spring’s Philadelphia Science Festival I talked about early 17th-century thoughts about extraterrestrial life. Here is a draft of that talk.
17th-Century Lunar Men
The news recently has been filled with stories about Kepler 186f. In case you missed it, Kepler 186f is an earth-sized planet orbiting near the outer limits of the habitable zone of a dull little star about 500 light years away. Its discovery has prompted speculation and celebration that astronomers have finally found earth’s twin, or maybe earth’s cousin, or perhaps earth 2.0. Twitter exploded—to the extent that it Twitter ever “explodes” about scientific discoveries—with optimism about this untrammeled world as if it’s some postlapsarian paradise, or at least in the minds of many Twitters a pre-capitalist paradise.
While news articles and tweets typically overstate the similarities between Kepler 186f and the earth, even astronomers get caught up in the excitement, describing their great progress finding habitable planets and their hopes of finding planets that show some form of alien life.
This is not the first time that people, astronomers and otherwise, have looked to the heavens in the hopes of finding habitable planets. Nor is it the first time people have imagined traveling to those planets and finding a paradise inhabited by beautiful human-like creatures. If we turn back the hands of time 300 years, we can watch as astronomers, natural philosophers, and authors wondered about the inhabitants of our nearest neighbor, the moon.
In the early 17th-century there was a flurry of scientific and popular speculation about habitable planets and extraterrestrial life. Philosophers, astronomers, theologians, lapsed Catholics and Protestants all chimed in. Certainly part of the motivation for contemplating other worlds was prompted by growing familiarity with the new astronomy. Following Copernicus and his heliocentric system, people wondered about the size of the universe. The comfortable, finite universe was expanding and seemed likely to lose its limits entirely. If the universe was infinite, how many of those little dots, those stars, were really suns like ours? And how many of those suns were home to planets like ours? And how many of those planets supported life, perhaps like us? These were real questions with real consequences for people in the late–16th and early–17th centuries.
Giordano Bruno is probably the most (in)famous person to think about the size of the universe and the number of other habitable planets. But in many ways his wild speculations were vague flights of fancy grounded in nothing but his own imagination. Much more interesting, I think, are the more restrained arguments of people like Johannes Kepler, the German astronomer/astrologer who is best remembered for his three laws of planetary motion, or John Wilkins, an English clergyman and member of the Royal Society, or Francis Godwin, an Anglican Bishop. They turned not to distant stars in their early-modern search for extraterrestrial life, but to the planet they knew best, the moon.
Join me as I glance first at Kepler’s dystopian lunar world and then at Godwin’s lunar utopia.
Kepler first speculated about the moon, its atmosphere, and its inhabitants in 1610, shortly after receiving a copy of Galileo’s Starry Messenger, in which Galileo reported his first telescopic observations of the moon and stars, and his discovery of the four moons of Jupiter. Kepler was giddy with excitement as he read Galileo’s descriptions of the moons of Jupiter. Imagine, Kepler wrote, the Jovians who look up from the surface of Jupiter and see not one but four moons, and imagine how much more light those moons must provide at night for Jovians as they wander about. For Kepler, the moons of Jupiter had to exist for a reason. And, just as our moon existed for us, the moons of Jupiter must exist for inhabitants of that planet. He wrote:
The conclusion is quite clear. Our moon exists for us on the earth, not the other globes. Those four little moons exist for Jupiter, not for us. Each planet in turn, together with its occupants, is served by its own satellites. From this line of reasoning we deduce with the highest degree of probability that Jupiter is inhabited.
Jupiter is fine and all, but Kepler became really excited when he read Galileo’s description of the surface of the moon.
The moon, with its mountains and valleys, turned out to be a lot like the earth. The large dark and light areas must, it seemed reasonable, be land masses and seas, just as on earth. Kepler agreed with Galileo that the dark areas were oceans while the light areas were continents. Kepler was sure an atmosphere of air and clouds encased the moon — he claimed that his teacher had even observed rainstorms on the moon. If the moon was like the earth with mountains, valleys, an atmosphere, and water, it must also support life. Indeed, when Kepler looked closely at the drawings of the moon in Galileo’s book, he thought he detected evidence of intelligent inhabitants. Caves. He saw evidence that the moon’s massive inhabitants, for Kepler was certain they would be much larger than humans, had dug out enormous caves to live in. Beyond evidence of their handiwork and his brief comment about their size, Kepler refrained from describing the lunar inhabitants. He was sure, however, that advances such as the telescope would soon reveal them to us.
Kepler never stopped thinking that the moon was inhabited. Over 30 year he collected his ideas together in a book published just after he died, his Dream. Here Kepler mused more concretely about the moon’s inhabitants and the conditions on the moon. He considered the length of the day and the night—each 14 time longer than our day or night. How and when lunar people slept. He also worried about how the lunar creatures survived the unbearably hot lunar day. And how they kept warm during the long, freezing lunar night. While their caves provided some shelter from the sun, he thought he had good evidence for thick layer of clouds that covered the moon and offered some relief from the sun during the lunar day. To help them survive the lunar night, Kepler pointed out that the light reflected from the earth would provide some warmth.
When Kepler turned to life on the moon, he realized it would have to be very different from life on earth—the lunar climate was too harsh to support creatures just like humans. He imagined a sort of antediluvian nightmare world populated by giant winged, reptilian and amphibian creatures that lived short, harsh, nomadic lives.
But why was Kepler so interested in who or what lived on the moon?
Kepler worried about our place in the universe:
Well, then someone may say, if there are globes in the heaven similar to our earth, do we vie with them over who occupies a better portion of the universe? For if their globes are nobler, we are not the noblest of rational creatures. Then how can all things be for man’s sake? How can we be the masters of God’s handiwork?
At the core of Kepler’s Dream are profound questions that animated thinkers in the early 17th century:
If other planets are inhabited, do humans live on them?
If humans live on those planets, did God create them and did each world have its own Adam and Eve, and Original Sin?
Had Christ died for their sins?
And if so, did Christ die once, on earth, for all the universe’s inhabitants, or was he some sort of planet-hopping savior, dying an infinite number of deaths on an infinite number of planets?
In short, were we alone and unique in the universe or were we just part of some cosmic hoi polloi?
Astronomers like Kepler weren’t the only people to ponder such questions. Popular writers too worried about these issues in numerous books and pamphlets in early 17th century. Francis Godwin, an Anglican bishop, wrote one of the most widely read texts on lunar society.
Godwin’s Man in the Moone appeared in 1638 and was an instant success. His book recounted the picaresque adventures of a young nobleman, Domingo Gonzales. Somewhere in his adventures, Domingo discovered a flock of amazing geese that when properly harnessed could transport him through the air. These geese saved him from harm a couple of times before one day, as they carried him to safety once again, his geese migrated to the moon. After twelve days they arrived at the moon. Godwin wasn’t alone in thinking there might be geese strong enough to carry a human—there were credible reports of giant birds carrying animals as big as elephants and Francis Bacon, that hero of experimental science, considered the possibility of harnessing birds for flight. That’s right, geese migrated to the moon where they wintered before returning in each spring.
When Domingo arrived on the moon, he found it inhabited by incredibly tall, peaceful, beautiful people. Their complexion was perfect, and they were an indescribably beautiful “lunar color.” They spoke a lilting, sing-song language. Domingo spent nearly two years amongst the lunar people before returning to earth.
Godwin’s Man in the Moone was not just a fanciful novel. He, like Kepler, based his description of the moon in the best contemporary knowledge. But unlike Kepler, Godwin envisioned a lunar paradise.
On his journey to the moon, Domingo had been able to observe the daily rotation of the earth. This observation, he claimed, convinced him that Copernicus was right, at least about the diurnal motion of the earth—Domingo remained unconvinced that the sun was at the center of the universe. Also during his trip to the moon, Domingo noticed that as they traveled farther from the earth the force attracting the geese and him to the earth weakened. He concluded that there was some secret, innate force in planets that attracted things to them, perhaps like the force that attracted iron to magnets.
Because the moon was roughly one third the size of the earth, the force of holding things to the moon was considerably weaker. Consequently, plants and animals were many times larger than on earth. An advantage of this weak attractive force, Domingo explained, was how lunar people traveled. They leapt into the air and flapped large feathers to guide their slow descent. In this way they could travel many miles in a single bound.
The lunar society was a utopia: The atmosphere itself was fertile and supported not only the inhabitants but also nourished vegetation, which never needed to be cultivated. Lunar people naturally despised all vice and ever committed any crime. There were no physicians because wounds healed naturally, even a severed head would reattach if placed by on the body in a timely manner. Perhaps most amazing (at least to any of us who have experience with kids these days), all children were wonderful and well behaved—Domingo did point out that the lunar people could tell a bad child at birth and would send these bad children down to “a certaine high hill in the North of America.” Finally, these lunar people seem to be Christians of some sort.
To be sure, Godwin’s Man in the Moone is an imaginative and optimistic description of lunar society—sort of a 17th-century Pandora filled with early-modern Na’vi. His Man in the Moone, like Kepler’s Dream and more recently James Cameron’s Avatar, uses extraterrestrial life to examine contemporary issues and to try to understand our place in the cosmos. In the 1630s they could only look as far as the moon for those aliens. Today, with our more powerful telescopes and CGI techniques, we can look 500 light years or more into the universe.
In “The Fossil Record,” module seven of Jay Wile’s Exploring Creation with General Science, we learn that most fossils were hard-shelled animals and were incredibly similar to living animals, that “environmentalists” lie about current rates of extinction, and that catastrophism makes more sense than uniformitarianism. Or, in other words, the earth was covered by a massive flood, evolution does not occur, and “environmentalists” are hysterical, lying, alarmists.
After a brief survey of how fossils form, Wile highlights particular features of the fossil record and draws conclusions from them. First, the fossil record supports the idea of a universal flood since the vast majority of fossils are hard-shelled marine animals. Second, the fossil record shows that evolution does not occur. Wile explains that “many, many fossils” have living counterparts. The living animal and the fossil are incredibly similar. “Based on the fossil evidence,” Wile tells us, “we can conclude that organisms … experience little change,“ certainly not enough change to become a different species. Third, scientists are not to be trusted. They have wrongly concluded that some species were extinct simply because they have not found a living specimen. But we can’t know for sure that living individual isn’t hiding in some rainforest or dark, unexplored corner of the world.
Then, as a purely political aside, Wile discusses rates of extinction. Citing numbers that seem to have come from a World Conservation Monitoring Center report ca. 1992, Wile claims that since 1600 only 484 animals and 654 plants have become extinct. Perhaps he misread the report (or perhaps his source misread the report), leading him to assert that some of these extinctions “were the result of the natural ebb and flow of creation“ and only some due to human activity. The report seems, rather, to blame human action for causing these extinctions above and beyond the background extinction rates. Wile also ignores the tentative nature of these numbers, which by the early 1990s scientists were using them as a sort of minimum approximation. Instead, he boldly claims that in the last 400 years just over 1,100 species have gone extinct and accuses “environmentalists” of “outright lies” when they suggest larger numbers. His use of the slur, “environmentalist,” serves to deny climate change and indirect human responsibility for the extinction of species.
As a sort of preview for the next module, Wile concludes “The Fossil Record” by contrasting once again uniformitarianism and catastrophism. Uniformitarianism with its modest assumptions—geological processes remain largely the same throughout history and the earth is really, really old—and tidy explanations of geological features is somehow deficient. Wile prefers a Rube Goldberg-esque catastrophism. He denies the consistency and regularity of natural processes. Instead, he adopts a framework divided by the Biblical Flood—he devotes an entire page making the case for the universal deluge, sprinkled with a few choice quotations from Genesis 7. The antediluvian period is entombed below John Wesley Powell’s Great Unconformity. Here Wile sketches the basic contours of a flood geology. Slippery uses of terms like evidence, speculate, article of faith, relevant data, and scientific allow him to conclude: “In the end, then, both uniformitarians and catastrophists must speculate. … Neither framework is any more “scientific” than the other.” Despite Wile’s claim, his possibly coherent and certainly labyrinthine his exposition of catastrophism doesn’t make catastrophism scientific.
Wile grants that mammoths are extinct, but that’s about it. I suppose even he had difficulty accepting that somewhere in the wilds of Siberia mammoth herds roam the permafrost just waiting for scientists to discover them. But mammoths are the exception that prove his rule. ↩
One wonders, or at least I wonder, if Wile thinks that somewhere individuals from this group of 484 animals might be hiding under leaves or lurking in the shadows, evading the searching eyes of scientists. ↩
Or rather, a preponderance of other quotations purporting to be from a report by the WCMC indicate that the original report highlighted the human causes of these extinctions. ↩
Wile does say humans caused the extinction of the Passenger Pigeon and the Robust White-eye, but these are unusual. ↩
The term “byzantine” might apply as well, if not for the farcical aspects of Wile‘s exposition. His ornate description of catastrophism seems better suited for a Monty Python sketch than a science textbook. ↩
If you are worried that Wile seems to departed from anything resembling “science,” I share that concern. How can a science of geology be constructed on a model that assumes most geological features were produced by singular, miraculous events. How can we know when a geological feature is the result of such miraculous interventions or merely the mundane result of natural processes? What criteria are there to keep “explanations” from becoming simply a matter of making up stories about interesting geological features? Wile’s touchstone is the creation story in Genesis. As a thought experiment, it might be interesting to think how Dr. Jay Wile, PhD in chemistry, would apply a similar approach to “nuclear chemistry,” his area of expertise. Suppose radioactive decay was inconsistent or catalysts randomly lowered activation energy (almost unbelievably, he does seem skeptical about rates of radioactive decay, calling them “wild extrapolation” (you will have to take my word on this since I cannot bring myself to link to his blog post)). ↩
Of the antediluvian period, Wile thinks only the first three days of the Creation week were geologically important. Despite the 1650 years between Creation and the Flood, “there probably wasn’t a lot of geologically important activity between the end of Creation week and the worldwide flood.” Wile’s position is, at the very least, internally consistent. The Biblical narrative doesn’t include any significant catastrophes between Creation and the Flood. So, accordingly, Wile doesn’t find evidence of any in the geological record. Sure, a few small, local catastrophes “contributed only a little to the geological features below the Great Unconformity,” but on the whole nothing worth noting. ↩
In my scientific opinion, the most important data support catastrophism, and the data in support of uniformitarianism are rather limited and can mostly be “explained away.”
As appealing as this might be for Wile, even William Buckland might have been hard pressed to accept Wile’s catastrophism. Buckland at least tried to formulate an old earth creationist model that did not unduly privilege the Flood. For Buckland, the deluge could not have deposited all the strata in a single year. Wile doesn’t seem to see that as a problem (more on this in the next two posts).
This module focuses mostly on vocabulary, basic geology terms: types of rock, weathering and erosion, and the Grand Canyon’s Great Unconformity. The real payoff, for Wile, comes in the next two modules. There he presents his case for catastrophism.
This module along with the preceding one and especially the following two seem tangential to his main subject, which subject is basic biology. These four modules serve only to provide him with the space to undermine evidence for an ancient earth and to assert his young earth creationist ideas. Like the firstcouplemodules, which served only to let him undermine well-established scientific findings.
Although Dr. Jay L. Wile, PhD in chemistry, gets points for honesty, we might worry about his rhetorical stance here and its implicit argument from authority. Expertise is not fungible. A degree in chemistry doesn’t, by itself, give Dr. Wile expertise in geology. Nevertheless, in comments like this he asserts his superiority over his middle-school-aged student and their homeschooling parents (assuming the parents read their homeschooling texts carefully). ↩