Spooky Theology at a Distance

The misuse of scientific concepts within theology causes me exceptional annoyance. After all, before I suddenly switched to theology, I had intended to pursue a doctorate in physics. To be clear, this unfulfilled aspiration does not provide me with any noteworthy credentials. I cannot pretend to have the scientific expertise of, for example, the man who was with me in the Notre Dame Ph.D. program who already had a Ph.D. in physics. Nevertheless, I do understand many scientific concepts better than the average person and, unfortunately, far better than the average theology Ph.D.

The scientific concepts in vogue today are especially in danger of being abused and co-opted. Popular terminology, aside from being a rich reservoir for Star-Trek-esque technobabble, carries with it an often unwarranted scientific caché, making it attractive to those who wish to advertise a theological claim as being up-to-date with contemporary experience and ideas. Doesn’t “quantum theology” sound so much cooler?

Speaking of which, David O’Murchu’s 2004 book Quantum Theology serves as an example of a theologian-philosopher who has at least done his homework, but who nonetheless reduces quantum theory to a set of cultural symbolic relations. Borrowing from Danah Zohar, O’Murchu insists that:

…consciousness is a property of all living systems and, in a quantum context, becomes the basis not merely for awareness, but more importantly for relationships, an innate potential for mutual cooperation between all beings and systems within the one quantum universe.

In typical process-theology form, O’Murchu insists that we are “co-creators” in the process of the world, and as such we have a certain evolutionary responsibility:

If we are to influence global and planetary life, we’ll do it in cooperative interaction rather than in competitive strife.

In short, quantum physics has proven once and for all that life is all about freedom and joy and hand-holding and kumbayas. Violence and exploitation are unnatural aberrations, because as we all know, the natural world is never violent or exploitative. (When a cat tortures a mouse to death without even eating it, I’m sure it does it out of the highest spirit of friendship and camaraderie.) O’Murchu shows us definitively that science truly has a heart:

Surprise, expectancy, wonder, creativity, beauty, and elegance are the kinds of words that enable the quantum scientist to make sense of reality.[mfn]Quantum Theology, 36–37.[/mfn]

Well, I’m sure quantum scientists would be surprised about at least one thing that he has said. After all, his lovely view of the world has next to nothing to do with quantum physics. Let’s review.

In simple terms, the dominant, Copenhagen interpretation of the Heisenberg uncertainty principle claims that when either the position or momentum of a subatomic particle is observed, the other property (momentum or position) becomes less certain or indeterminate. In fact, according to this view it is not merely the case that the property is unknown, but rather that outside of observation the participle is really in a state of “superimposition”—meaning that it is one way and the opposite at one and the same time. By analogy, it is neither left nor right nor somewhere in between; it is both left and right at the same time. In some sense this means that the subatomic participle is defined by relationships, but not as much as may seem. The claim is not that the observer as subject modifies the reality of the subatomic particle, but rather that the very nature of subatomic particles becomes concrete only in interaction with others. Think of it this way: sound is only sound because of the movement of air. Despite what a Buddhist may tell you, a falling tree does indeed make a sound even if no one is there to hear it. It moves the air, which is itself sound. Analogously, since a subatomic particle is at one and the same time a waveform, it is in itself a kind of relation to the world around it.

OK, we’ve got that. But in what way does this physics tell us that we should be nice to each other? How in the world does quantum physics translate into a moral imperative? The answer is easy: it doesn’t. Like so many other theologians, O’Murchu merely takes an idea that is in vogue, strips it of its real content, and uses its bare form as a symbolic justification for what he already believes. If he didn’t already have a sense that peace was better than war, then there’s no way that he would have gleaned that from reading The Journal of Computational Physics. In fact, one could easily read quantum mechanics as making quite different claims.

Ironically, these theological misuses of science often build themselves up via the contrast between Newtonian and quantum physics. The old Newtonian way represents legalism, domination, determination, and dogmatism. Yet one could just as easily construct a relational theology by way of Newton, whose mechanistic (read: relational) approach to reality formed the basis that in many ways allowed for the discovery of evolution, relativity, and even quantum mechanics. In fact, one of the profound mysteries of the universe is the fact that despite quantum indeterminacy on the subatomic level, on the actual level of ordinary, everyday experience physics still functions in a predominantly Newtonian and Einsteinian way. If O’Murchu had been alive two hundred years ago, his book would probably have been entitled Gravitational Theology: Spiritual Implications of Newtonian Physics.

In other words, when a scientific concept is drained of its real content and reduced to a mere form, then it becomes relatively interchangeable with any other similarly-reduced concept. Such a drained concept provides no real scientific benefit for theology. It only provides a kind of false and deceptive authority. It substitutes a veneer of scientific respectability for the authority of tradition or Magisterium. At least the Church has a clear sense of its own use of authority. Too often theologians appeal to deceptive forms of authority without even admitting it.

Let’s look at another example. Ilia Delio, a prominant Teilhardian theologian, uses quantum physics in much the same way as O’Murchu. Unfortunately, she understands it even less. She claims, for example, that “What quantum physics tells us is that nothing is real unless it is observed.” Of course, it tells us nothing of the sort. The dominant interpretation is not saying that an unobserved participle is unreal, but rather that it really exists in a superimposed state. Nevertheless, Delio draws from this claim a direct and non sequitur conclusion: “it is a participatory universe.”[mfn]Making All Things New, chap. 3.[/mfn]

Delio is aided in her claim by the language of quantum entanglement, which she takes as meaning that we are “entangled” together with one another and with the world in a web of relationships. She explains:

We might consider the sacraments of baptism and Eucharist as quantum entanglement with the life of Jesus. The term entanglement comes from quantum physics; it is based on the interaction of particles and the enduring bond between them after their separation.[mfn]Making All Things New, chap. 5.[/mfn]

Of course, quantum entanglement is not the kind of thing where subatomic particles celebrate afterwards with family, friends, and refreshments. (If they did, I’m sure the Mexican subatomic particles would include music, too.) Rather, quantum entanglement is merely a mathematical oddity that allows the state of a particle to be known from another, “entangled” particle even after they have been separated. If only this idea had retained the name that Einstein originally gave it, “spooky action at a distance,” then Delio might not think it sounded cool enough to co-opt. Or, perhaps she would simply write a book on “Spooky Theology at a Distance.”

In Delio’s usage, quantum entanglement thus becomes nothing more than an empty symbol. After all, baptism does not “entangle” us in such a way that if you measure Jesus’s spin then you know that I must be spinning in the opposite direction. Once again, Delio may as well have used Newtonian gravity as a symbol for baptism and Eucharist. The misuse of gravity and electricity are common in eighteenth-century writings. Hegel is convinced that the positive and negative poles of electricity reveal the dialectical character of reality. Schelling connects God’s expansive will and God’s contractive will with magnetism and gravity, respectively.

But at the end of the day, these misuses of science are a drop in a very, very large bucket. It’s difficult to combat such problematic claims for many reasons. In the first place, a lack of scientific understanding often makes people receptive to such views, and unless one can rectify that lack, then such views will remain attractive. Secondly, since they tend to misuse science to promote vague but popular postmodern ideas, it can seem as though an assault on this misuse were an assault on goodness itself. “What, you don’t like relationality, friendship, and peace? What kind of monster are you?” Lastly, a good critique often falls upon deaf ears. There’s a reason that the Bible says never to argue with a fool. If someone is not already receptive to the possibility of correction, then any attempt easily turns out to be wasted effort.

I guess the best I can do is sit back, relax, and trademark the name Blockchain Theology while I still have a chance.