Fr Gareth discovers that in the Bible, Noah is not only depicted as the first climate scientist but also, the first biochemist.

In chapter 8 of the Book of Genesis, we find a report of a scientific experiment read straight from the pages of the Bible. Noah is, in fact, the Bible’s first recorded research scientist!

The context is that in Genesis 7, Noah built an ark, a boat afloat on floodwater for 150 days; at the start of Genesis 8, the ark has grounded on a mountain but no land is yet visible. It is at this point that Noah, the man of faith who followed God’s promptings, starts to act as a man of science. It seems to me that Noah was a scientist because – we are told – he does three things characteristic of a research scientist.

First, he adjusts the details of his experiment one step at a time. He tries sending out a raven to see if it can settle anywhere – then he sends a dove.

Second, he repeats his experiment. At least, he can’t repeat the raven experiment because it hasn’t come back, but he can repeat the dove. In trial 1, it returns quickly. In trial 2, it returns with an olive branch. In trial 3 it corroborates the raven experiment by failing to return. In this way, Noah knows the water is drying up.

Third, Noah uses a complicated experimental set-up to test what a non-scientist would have approached by a more crude method – for instance, looking through one of the ark’s portholes to see if there was any land!

Seriously, it really is part of the story of Noah that he wants to find out about the state of the world around him, so he does an experiment. In this he is unlike the ancient Greek philosophers, who theorized about how the world worked without doing experiments to test their understanding. Noah’s story stands as part of a wider message in Genesis about our planet being entrusted to the care of humankind; but if we are to be good stewards, we must first understand our world and how it works. This is implicit in the charge to care for the Earth given to the first human beings in Genesis 1, and it’s made explicit here in Noah’s story.

The work of science is to summarise our understanding of the way the world works using words and mathematics. We call these summaries, “theories”. And let’s be clear – “theory” is not a woolly word. There’s a theory which states that an aircraft wing will hold the weight of the aeroplane in the air as long as the angle is correct and the plane flies fast enough. Every time I fly, I entrust my life to that theory.

The task of science is to refine theories over time, so they become better and better descriptions of the way the Universe actually works. All theories are provisional – but many are good enough to allow us to build computers or aim space rockets accurately even while we are fine tuning them to the n’th decimal place. And it’s part of the nature of science that sometimes we use theories even though we know they must contain a serious flaw.

As an example, let’s take two superb theories from the world of science. Albert Einstein’s General Theory of Relativity is an excellent description of how gravity works for exceptionally heavy objects, such as galaxies and black holes. Quantum Theory is an equally well proven description of the behaviour of the tiniest objects imaginable; without it we wouldn’t be able to design the microchips which make our 21st century technology work.

Now, one aspect of Quantum Theory, the famous Uncertainty Principle, says that we can’t pin down the location of any object to an exact pinpoint in space. But what would happen if you had something that was both massive and tiny – a mini-black hole? Relativity says that nothing can escape. Quantum Theory says that nothing can be confined in such a small point. They can’t both be right – yet both General Relativity and Quantum Mechanics are superb theories that no physicist would dream of abandoning. The correct solution must involve a small tweak to at least one theory – and perhaps both. At least one of the theories is both superb, and flawed! But for now, scientists hang on to both theories because they are so useful, while knowing that there must be future refinements to come.

I got hooked on science at the age of 7, when I read my first book on astronomy. My personal faith came a little later. My grandmother died when I was 11, prompting me to say the first serious prayer of my life – and to ask whether I believed there was a God. That first prayer led to a nebulous sense that I was connecting with someone or something. A few months later I started secondary school and was given a New Testament by the Gideon Society, and kept the promise asked of recipients to read it every evening. In the course of two years, the New Testament helped me identify Jesus as the One who was present in answer to my prayers. The Lord’s command “Do this in memory of me”, together with his teaching on the need to eat the Bread of Life in John 6, led to my becoming a Catholic when I was 16.

In St John’s Gospel, Jesus said “I am the Truth” and in another place, “you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free”. I believe that whenever we find a way to express a truth in a way which is slightly less wrong than before, we move closer to God.

It doesn’t disturb me that Quantum Theory and General Relativity are mutually incompatible theories. I have faith that as the Quest for Truth continues, some scientists will prove to be smart enough to work out what’s not quite right and to fix it.

If it should happen that something I believe as a Christian isn’t compatible with the place where the evidence leads me as a scientist, that isn’t going to disturb me unduly either. Intellectual honesty requires me not to put my head in the sand, but to say “Hmmm – something doesn’t add up here.” Something has to give. It might be my religious understanding. It might be that the science isn’t quite right. But as long as there can only be one Truth about how the universe actually works, I have nothing to fear. All of the twists, turns and cul-de-sacs on the road of improving my understanding will lead me from what I know today, to the best possible description of the Truth – Truth about God and Truth about the material universe.

Personally, I believe that the opening chapters of Genesis are meant to be read as poetry about the love which God has for God’s creation. The story of Noah can teach us something about the need to explore the natural world, whether or not Noah was a historical person. Christians will hold different views about whether or not there was a world-wide flood within the last ten thousand years, and whether “world-wide” in the Bible would mean the whole globe, or merely the world known to the human scribes responsible for compiling Genesis. The Catholic Church does not impose a particular interpretation on her members.

I merely suggest that, with integrity, we can agree to differ on the right reading of Genesis in the same way as scientists, with complete integrity, can hold incompatible views on how Quantum Theory might be reconciled with General Relativity. The weight of scientific evidence suggests there wasn’t a planet-wide flood, relegating the story of Noah to parable rather than history.

One further thought. Noah is not only depicted as the first climate scientist – he is also the first biochemist. Noah was chosen to survive the Flood because he was a morally upstanding man; Genesis goes on to tell us that he was also the first person to ‘plant a vineyard’ and so deliberately ferment wine into alcohol. This is as good a reminder as any that basic research and development is morally neutral: new information and new technologies can be used for good or for ill. The story of Noah ends with God’s promise not to flood the world again. Now the power to cause mass destruction is in the hands of human beings. As we recall how the dove returned with the olive branch, let us be mindful of those world leaders who must decide how to use technology in the Middle East, in these troubled times.

Revd Dr Gareth Leyshon is a parish priest in the South Wales Valleys, who read physics at Oxford and completed a doctorate at Cardiff (a study of the structure of distant galaxies) before entering seminary.

Related