creation – Page 2

Created. Now What? Part 2: Implementing the Image of God

October 19, 2017 by Dan Olinger Leave a Comment

We’re six days into Creation week. God has issued orders, as a sovereign from his throne, and the universe is running like clockwork.

It’s all good.

But now, on day 6, God changes everything. He comments to himself that he’s about to do something qualitatively different; he’s going to make someone “in our image” (Gen 1.26).

And he rises from his chair.

Why do I say that?

The account in Genesis 1 is tersely straightforward: God makes man in his own image (Gen 1.27), as he had said he would. But Moses, the narrator and cinematographer, has kindly given us a close-up shot of the same scene in the next chapter:

Then the Lord God formed the man of dust from the ground and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life, and the man became a living creature (Gen 2.7).

Unfortunately, we’ve become so familiar with these words that their significance escapes us.

This is physical, not verbal, language. God is not speaking Adam into existence; he’s sculpting him, forming him, shaping him, with his hands. He’s “rescue breathing” into him, with his lungs and mouth.

This is shocking language. God is a spirit (John 4.24); he has no hands, lungs, or mouth. What’s this all about?

I’d like to engage in a little biblically informed theological speculation for a moment.

We know that the active agent of creation was the Son (John 1.3; Col 1.16; Heb 1.2). We also know that the Son is the person who later, in God’s eternal plan (Heb 10.5, quoting Ps 40.6-8 LXX), became incarnate, permanently united with a human nature, including a human body, which he retains to this day (Acts 1.11; Col 2.9) and apparently will forever. We’re also fairly confident that Jesus appeared in bodily form repeatedly in the Old Testament, before the incarnation, as the “Angel of YHWH.” In Genesis 18 Abraham has an extended conversation with God, apparently this same “Angel of YHWH,” after sharing a meal with him in his tent—a very physical activity indeed. (Centuries later, Jesus would ask for a piece of fish to eat [Lk 24.41-43], specifically to demonstrate to his disbelieving disciples that he was indeed with them physically.)

So here’s what I imagine.

The Son, Jesus, is the one speaking all things into existence. In embodied form, he rises from his chair and steps to an area of clay. Kneeling, he begins to work the clay with his hands—physical hands—and fashions a body—a recumbent statue—that looks like him. (Isn’t it more appropriate that our body is in the image of the Son’s than that his is in ours?) When the sculpture is complete, he leans back on his heels and surveys his work, not to inspect it for flaws but simply to take joy in it.

It’s good.

But it’s not complete. It’s not human. It’s not alive.

The Son leans over the lifeless form and, placing his lips on the clay mouth, he exhales.

Once? Twice? Several times?

One thing we know. There is none of the desperation that accompanies CPR today: Come on, buddy; breathe for me now. Don’t die on me, man. Breathe for me!

The Son exhales with sovereign authority, and this statue, this clay mass, pinks up. It comes to life.

And there, sitting in the clay, is a living, breathing image of God.

Adam.

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Created. Now What? Part 1: Anticipating the Image of God

October 16, 2017 by Dan Olinger 1 Comment

Once you’ve settled on the fact that God is the Creator, the world never looks the same. A number of ideas immediately become obvious. I’d like to meditate on two of them for the next few posts.

One of the most obvious is that you and I are special.

I don’t mean that in the fawning sense, the way moms tell their children that they’re special. I mean it in the most life-changing way possible.

The creation account makes it obvious.

During the 6 days of active creation, God spends most of the time, metaphorically speaking, sitting in his chair and issuing orders. As I’ve noted before, sometimes he just speaks and items spring into existence: he says, “Let there be light” (Gen 1.3), and there is; he says, “Let there be an expanse” (Gen 1.6), and there is; he says, “Let there be lights in the heavens” (Gen 1.14), and the sun, moon, and stars come into being; he speaks (Gen 1.20), and fish swim in the seas, and birds fly through the atmosphere. Sometimes, when he speaks, he’s acting on things he has already created: he orders the waters to gather so that dry land becomes visible (Gen 1.9), and he causes plants (Gen 1.11) and then animals (Gen 1.24) to spring from the ground.

Through all of this activity (again, metaphorically speaking), God has never left his chair; he has spoken, and his will has been done. But now the story changes dramatically.

To begin with, God speaks, not to command his creation, but in meditation with himself. He says not, “Let there be man,” but “Let us make man” (Gen 1.26). He counsels with himself on what he is about to do.

In the hindsight of the New Testament, Christians see the Trinity here: the persons of the Godhead, perfectly one, speak among themselves, with the Father as administrator and visionary, the Son as active agent, and the Spirit as nurturer and protector. I don’t doubt that all that is true, but the picture here in Genesis, at the outset of God’s self-revelation, is murkier. God is speaking to himself, and he’s using the plural. Is this a majestic king planning his next action, or is it a consultation between or among infinitely exalted equals?

Well, neither, exactly. This is complicated by the fact that God doesn’t think of things, or through things, in the sense that we do. Sovereign and omniscient, he never hatches a plan or finds a solution. So why is he talking to himself, appearing to think through what he’s about to do?

It seems pretty clear what he’s doing. He’s pausing to relish what’s coming. This is not just another step in the long process of creating stuff. This next step is different in kind from what has happened so far; God is about to do something really extraordinary (as if speaking the cosmos into existence in an instant [Gen 1.16] isn’t extraordinary enough!).

In what way is this next step extraordinary? His joyous words tell us plainly: “Let us make someone like us! In our image! Exponentially greater than everything else!” (Gen 1.26a, paraphrased with abandon). May I say reverently, it’s as though he says, “You think that’s impressive? Just watch this!”

And then, metaphorically speaking, he rises, majestically and purposefully, from his chair. No pointing and giving orders now; he’s going to get involved. He’s going to roll up his sleeves and plunge into his creative work clear up to his elbows. Foreshadowing the coming incarnation, he’s going to step right into the middle of his creation.

In the next post we’ll consider what that means.

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Billions of Years? Part 10: Summary and Conclusion

October 12, 2017 by Dan Olinger 1 Comment

**Why I’m Still a Young-Earth Creationist, Even Though It’s Getting Increasingly Lonely over Here**

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9

In this series I’ve sought to lay out my reasoning process in continuing to hold to a young-earth creationist position, despite the fact that a great many evangelical Christians have moved to an old-earth view.

I begin by determining the narrative genre of the biblical creation account in Genesis 1-2 and consequently committing to a straightforward (“grammatico-historical”) hermeneutic: I’m going to take it at face value, as I would any other literary work, but with the added recognition that unlike all other literary works, it is the inerrant and authoritative Word of God.

With that foundation laid, I can move to a careful reading of the text and determine its key literary themes. I find that it speaks of direct divine agency, through means of both voice and hands, built around a chronological framework of six days involving “mornings” and “evenings.” Further, I find that chronogenealogies later in the document place the Creation “week” just a few thousand years before the birth of Christ.

I then examine the claims of the popular secular version of the story, alongside the similar claims of its Christian cousin, old-earth creationism. I look for incompatibilities with the biblical presentation, and at precisely those points, I look at the quality of the evidence, since my thesis is that the evidence for a supernatural source behind the biblical account is very strong. To reject the biblical account, I’m going to hold competing accounts to a very high evidentiary standard.

I begin with the currently popular “Big-Bang” model of cosmic evolution. I find its basis to be weak in two ways: first, its proponents confess that the beginning of the model is beyond the reach of scientific investigation; and second—and less importantly, I concede—I have the anecdotal observation that most of its most vocal proponents don’t really understand the model themselves; they are essentially fideists.

Then I move to the Neo-Darwinian model of biological evolution. I find that it requires three things: mutation, natural selection, and eons of time. I find serious evidentiary weakness in all three of these requirements, specifically with the ability of the first two to deliver on the promise of the current complexity of life, and with the scientific basis for the third, given the broad range of ages produced by the many geochronometers available. There’s clearly a lot of room for disagreement in the current state of Darwinism.

Returning to my own academic area, I find two serious theological problems with all of the evolutionary models, including the accommodationist Christian ones: the necessity of Adam’s sin as the cause of biological death, and the repeated New Testament assignation of Christ’s redemptive work to the undoing of Adam’s specific sin and its consequences.

So where does that leave me?

Well.

The Book is divinely sourced.
I’m following all the exegetical and hermeneutical rules.
The alternative(s) don’t meet anything like the evidentiary standard required to set aside the first two points.
Six days.
Then a few thousand years.
Not gonna change. Wouldn’t be prudent.

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Billions of Years? Part 9: Theological Issues

October 9, 2017 by Dan Olinger 1 Comment

**Why I’m Still a Young-Earth Creationist, Even Though It’s Getting Increasingly Lonely over Here**

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So far I’ve laid out my thinking regarding the biblical creation account and the evidentiary weaknesses in the competing evolutionary account. There’s one more area to address: the theological one.

The Bible’s theology of sin is rooted squarely in Adam (not in Eve, despite the allegations of some feminists—but that’s a topic for another post, preferably in the far, far distant future). According to the Scripture, Adam was a real, historical figure, whose willful sin—disobedience to a specific divine command (Gen 3)—had three results. First, since he stood as the representative of the human race—their “first father” (Isa 43.27)—the guilt for his sin was imputed to all his descendants (Rom 5.12, 18-19). Second, his nature was corrupted by his choice, so that for the rest of his life he was inclined in the direction of sinfulness rather than righteousness. This change in nature has been inherited by all his descendants as well (Rom 3). And finally, as God had warned (Gen 2.16-17), Adam and his descendants became susceptible to death (Rom 5.12).

Consequently, any theory of origins that claims to be biblical must address two theological issues that arise from this biblical view. First, the theory must account for biological death in the way that Scripture does. And second, the theory must account for the redemptive work of Christ, the “second Adam” (1Cor 15.22, 45), in the way that Scripture does. Both of these issues deserve a deeper examination.

Scripture asserts that sin entered the world through human agency, specifically Adam’s, and that death is a consequence of that event (Rom 5.12). Any theory of origins, then, must date fossil evidence—the one thing you can say for certain about fossils is that they’re really most sincerely dead—after Adam’s sin, and thus, obviously, after Adam.

Old-earth creationists would respond that since the Romans 5 passage is clearly talking about only human death, then the fossils in the geologic column would not be included in that passage and thus were free to die millions of years before Adam. But that seems to mean that hominid fossils must not be related to Adam, since they died before he did. Further, it’s not so clear that the Romans 5 passage refers only to human death; Paul speaks elsewhere (Rom 8.18-22) of “all creation” groaning under the consequences of Adam’s sin. My colleague Kevin Bauder has artfully and soberly captured the problem of the old-earth creationist view on this matter.

[Sidebar: This question on the reference of the word death does present an interesting opportunity for meditation. We know that Adam and Eve were free to eat fruit; since digesting a mango would result in cellular death in the fruit, it seems that Paul’s use of “death” in Romans 5 would not include that. It’s worth noting, I suppose, that the tree survives the “death” of its fruit. How about root vegetables? Did Adam and Eve eat carrots before the fall? That would kill the plant, after all. Most young-earth creationists would draw the line not there, but at organisms “in which is the breath of life” (Gen 7.15), which God chose to protect through the flood, by which he decreed that “everything that is in the earth shall die” (Gen 6.17). I’m inclined to think that this definition of death should be considered in interpreting Romans 5. And if that’s valid, then nothing in the fossil record that respired could have died before Adam’s sin.]

The presence of fossils as evidence of death before sin, it seems to me, remains a problem for old-earth creationist.

The second problem is the meaning of the work of Christ. Paul finds the significance of Christ’s work in the undoing of what Adam did (Rom 5.17-19; 1Cor 15.22). If there was no historical Adam, then there’s nothing for Christ’s work to undo, and the evolutionary view simply cannot be squared with biblical theology. Suggesting that Adam is a symbolic everyman really doesn’t get you there; we’d think it was silly if Paul based the work of Christ in undoing the sin of the boy who cried wolf or some other fabulous figure. Nothing in the text of Scripture, in either Testament, inclines us to believe that Adam was merely symbolic. You don’t list symbols in genealogies.

So the significance of Christ’s redemptive work hangs on the question of whether a particular man disobeyed God, and whether we—all—are the biological descendants of that man. I can’t find any of the other choices appealing.

Next time, we’ll summarize and draw some conclusions.

Part 10

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Billions of Years? Part 8: The Geologic Time Scale

October 5, 2017 by Dan Olinger Leave a Comment

**Why I’m Still a Young-Earth Creationist, Even Though It’s Getting Increasingly Lonely over Here**

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Having considered mutation and natural selection, I turn now to the third leg of the evolutionary stool: the time scales that are necessary for all of this naturally directed change to occur. Evolution needs billions of years, and that’s why we have old-earth and young-earth views.

So is there evidence for the geologic ages, or not?

Well, that’s an interesting question.

There are lots of geochronometers, or ways to calculate the age of the earth. I remember seeing a documentary years ago narrated by Donald Johanson, the paleontologist who discovered Lucy. He talked briefly about the age of the earth and cited 3 different geochronometers, completely unrelated to one another, that triangulated nicely on about 4.5 billion years. I remember thinking, “Wow. That’s really impressive!” So I started reading. And I found out that the geochronometers are all over the place. Lots of them point to 4.5 billion years, yes, but others point to widely differing ages—with a good many well within the range called for by a straightforward reading of Genesis.

Two questions, then. First, why is there so much variation? And second, which ones are you going to believe?

With that much variation, they can’t all be right. So what’s up? A look at a single method might help answer the question. As you know, there are lots of elements and compounds in sea water—most obviously salt, but lots of other stuff too. You can pick one of those—let’s say salt—and measure its concentration in sea water. Then you can try to calculate how much saltier the sea is getting every year—or you can just log your measurements over a period of several years—and you can run that number back to calculate how many years ago the sea would have had no salt in it. That gives you a presumed date for the beginning of the ocean, which is not necessarily the same as the age of the earth, but at least it’ll tell you whether you’re dealing with thousands or millions or billions of years.

[As usual, there’s more to this than what I’ve mentioned here. Salt settles out of sea water in sediment, and there are other variables as well. The method attempts to take all of this into account.]

Well, it turns out that when you run those numbers for different substances—salt, magnesium, calcium, whatever—you get different dates, sometimes widely varying dates. Why?

I think the answer is obvious. There’s an assumption behind the method. When you extrapolate the rate of increasing concentration back into previous years, you’re assuming that the rate was essentially constant over time. That seems to be a reasonable assumption, but it’s an assumption nonetheless; it’s uniformitarianism, which underlies pretty much all of evolutionary thinking.

But imagine another scenario. What would an unusual year—say, a year with a significant flood, even a global one—do to the numbers?

So our calculations are hostage to annual deviations in runoff to the oceans. And the very fact that our numbers differ from substance to substance tells us that the deposition has not been uniform. Our assumption is wrong, and our results are therefore invalid.

So we have dates, “measured” by geochronometers, that are all over the place.

Which ones do we pick?

Ah, there’s the rub. Our choices will be driven by our assumptions. If you’re Donald Johanson, and you’re confident that the earth is 4.5 billion years old, you’re going to select those indicators as examples of how science is done. After all, the ones that take us below 10,000 years can’t possibly be right. They’re statistical outliers. Obviously.

That’s called slanted selection of evidence, and like assuming your conclusion, it’ll get you an F on your freshman research paper.

(Now, this is a sword that cuts both ways. I’m strongly tempted to listen to just the geochronometers that indicate a young earth; I’ve even linked to several above. I need to do the best I can with the data myself, not letting my bias cloud my openness to hard facts.)

But my point is that the geochronometers don’t tell a single story, because we can demonstrate that a great many of them are based on illegitimate assumptions. So why do we insist that only one story can be told, and that the tellers of other stories are mythematicians? And where is the robustness in the evidence that seeks to turn me from the Scripture?

Next time, we’ll touch on a significant theological concern.

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Billions of Years? Part 7: Natural Selection

October 2, 2017 by Dan Olinger 1 Comment

**Why I’m Still a Young-Earth Creationist, Even Though It’s Getting Increasingly Lonely over Here**

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In the evolutionary system, mutations get you the possibility of change in living organisms. But the changes are random and thus are not directional; they’re not going to get you to anything that looks like a line of development, which is what the term evolution means. You need a mechanism to give the force of change some sort of direction. That mechanism, as proposed by Charles Darwin in On the Origin of Species, is natural selection.

Much has been written on the topic, but perhaps the best known is Richard Dawkins’s The Blind Watchmaker: Why the Evidence of Evolution Reveals a Universe without Design. Dawkins speaks reverently of the concept, divine in its simplicity: the many random changes that don’t work die out and are thus discarded, while the relatively few random changes that enhance the organism’s ability to survive and reproduce are preserved in future generations. What you end up with, then, is a whole bunch of stuff that works pretty much perfectly, giving the appearance that someone planned that way. But there is no Someone; he’s superfluous.

It’s indisputable that organisms are more likely to survive if they’re capable than if they’re not. So the idea works great in theory—and in practice, up to a certain point. As long as the changes are relatively simple, you can just work your way up the long slow ramp, after the fashion Dawkins suggests in Climbing Mount Improbable. But the data don’t seem to match the metaphor; as Michael Behe noted in his work Darwin’s Black Box, there are many structures in nature that would require multiple changes to occur simultaneously in the organism in order to confer any advantage for natural selection to, well, select. Behe coined the term irreducible complexity.

(And yes, I know that Behe is an old-earth creationist. I don’t think that invalidates his observations to the extent that they are observable and verifiable.)

Perhaps the example most often cited is the eye. To have any vision at all, the human needs an opening in the epidermis; an eyeball, containing a light opening (pupil), a translucent center (vitreous humor), and a light-sensitive retina; an optic nerve to carry the retinal output to the brain; and an area of the brain (the thalamus and, eventually, the visual cortex) to process what’s coming up the pipe. And all that needs to be tied into the circulatory system, or the whole kaboodle shuts down after a few seconds. If any one of those links in the chain is missing, you have no vision and hence nothing worth selecting by the blind watchmaker.

That’s a lot of stuff to evolve at once.

Dawkins has responded to this apparent problem by observing that there are ways to develop increasing vision over multiple generations in small, incremental steps. In what he seems to think is the coup de grace for Behe and his fellow benighted, he notes that some of those steps are observable in nature. But what he does not do is demonstrate that the examples from nature are in any way related to one another (though he does call them “relatives” in passing); he does not demonstrate a chain of development over time. He speculates that many different kinds of eyes developed independently, but again he does not demonstrate a sequence of development for each, or any, of them. In the standard college freshman English course, we call that assuming your conclusion, and it gets you an F on your research paper.

Some old-earth creationists have suggested a workaround for irreducible complexity. In his “progressive creationism,” Hugh Ross posits that at certain unbridgeable gaps in the process—say, the first life, or the first vertebrate, or the first human—God stepped in with an act of special creation. This is a concept referred to as “the God of the gaps,” and to my mind it seems far simpler, if you’re going to bring God into it, to bring him in in the way he described in the first place.

Recall that I’m expecting a high standard of evidence to draw me away from the evidentially supported elevated source of the Scripture. Showing how something might have happened is not showing that it did. And so irreducible complexity remains a problem for the process of natural selection and thus for the evolutionist.

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Billions of Years? Part 6: Mutation

September 28, 2017 by Dan Olinger 1 Comment

**Why I’m Still a Young-Earth Creationist, Even Though It’s Getting Increasingly Lonely over Here**

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My concerns with Big Bang cosmology are relatively vague, given my limited exposure to physics. On the matter of biological evolution, though, I have more specific concerns.

Those concerns begin with the origin of life from non-living material. I can recall in high school biology–which I took just shortly after life actually began–attempting to reenact the moment by zapping amino acids in grape juice with electrical current. I found the experience completely unconvincing. This single event remains the most difficult of the evolutionary problems.

Once you have a living organism, however simple, where do you go from there? I think every evolutionist would agree with me that Darwinian evolution—including whatever the current form of it is—absolutely requires 3 things: mutation, which is the mechanism by which organisms can change; natural selection, which is the mechanism by which deleterious mutations can be discarded and beneficial ones preserved; and time (LOTS of time), which is necessary because there are a lot of differences between an amoeba and, say, Pele. Since all 3 of these elements are necessary, raising significant doubt about just one of them would disable the theory. I have concerns with all three.

Let’s begin with mutation.

Of course mutation happens; the reason you are not short, bald, and brown-eyed like me is that you are a mutant. There are a bazillion mutations going on right around us all the time. But Darwin and his successors didn’t simply posit that change happens; they posited that positive changes occur that slowly, gradually enable an organism to become better at surviving in its environment, eventually culminating in organisms as diverse as the life we see on the planet today.

I have 3 questions about that.

First, how frequent are beneficial mutations? I’ve seen suggested examples here and there, mostly at the level of bacteria and viruses. But the great majority of mutations seem to be either harmful—Down syndrome, fragile X, sickle-cell anemia—or at best neutral (hair color, eye color). I know, blondes have more fun, and don’t it make my brown eyes blue, and all that. But since human sexual attraction is far more complex than eye color, it’s hard to argue that blue eye color makes the survival of the species more likely. Observational science seems to indicate that mutations are on balance not a good thing for the organism.

I realize that according to the view, natural selection will kindly weed out the negatives. But doesn’t the rarity of clearly beneficial mutations mean that the process will take even longer than a few billion years? I mean, Climbing Mount Improbable involves a lot of little tiny steps.

Second, and much more important, is the problem of what mutations actually do: jumble the genetic code, either by dropping “letters” (nucleobases) or rearranging them. What it can’t do is create genetic information that is simply not there. How would one rearrange the genetic code of an amoeba, regardless of the number of steps, to produce a spine, or a lung, or an ear, or a prefrontal cortex?

Third, what observational evidence do we have of mutations crossing all lines in the alleged family tree? That’s the old question of “missing links,” of which there are far more than just the one between Bonzo and Bono. Why do they seem to be missing from the phylogenetic tree with such irritating regularity? Shouldn’t the fossil record be full of them? And isn’t it assuming your conclusion to observe microchanges within species and extrapolate that to macrochanges across orders, classes, phyla, and even kingdoms?

These questions are enough to give me serious pause on the mutation leg of the stool. But there are 2 other legs to go.

As we’ll see next time, natural selection doesn’t seem to be the cure-all for these deficiencies.

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Billions of Years? Part 5: Cosmic Evolution

September 25, 2017 by Dan Olinger 5 Comments

**Why I’m Still a Young-Earth Creationist, Even Though It’s Getting Increasingly Lonely over Here**

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According to the current popular view, cosmic evolution—the development of the universe—began just less than 14 billion years ago with a singularity: space and time did not yet exist, and all matter was infinitely dense. This singularity began a rapid expansion (the so-called “Big Bang”), with every particle—subatomic particles in the early stages—moving away from every other particle as the space containing them expanded. Eventually these particles began regathering—in space—to form nuclei, then atoms, then clouds of gas and dust, then stars, then galaxies.

The physics behind all this is not simple. Lots of really smart people have wrestled with the questions raised; there are names like Einstein and Planck involved, and not a few Nobel prizes. The Big Bang model has made predictions, perhaps most notably the expected presence of Cosmic Background Radiation, which have been confirmed by later experimentation. This is pretty serious stuff.

But any scientist—and lay person—should question his presuppositions, beginning with the very first ones. I have lots of questions; I’d like to focus on the singularity model for now.

Some—many—of my questions, I’m pretty sure, stem from the fact that I’m not a physicist and don’t understand the model. I wonder, for example, how the expansion occurred without being restrained by gravity, which at that time had to be practically infinite—that is, the most gravity possible in the universe. But for all I know, that’s not even a legitimate question. I’m going to leave the heavy lifting to people who have actual expertise in the field.

But I would like to raise a couple of considerations, one philosophical and one sociological (since my academic credentials are more right-brained than left).

What caused the expansion? It seems to me that this is the very first question to be asked of the model.

My first exposure to a serious answer to that question came in Stephen Hawking’s seminal work A Brief History of Time: From the Big Bang to Black Holes, where he addressed the question briefly. At singularity, he said, all the laws of physics are rendered inoperative; we have no scientific tools with which to investigate it.

In the decades since Hawking’s book, the model has been refined, but I’m not aware of any suggestion that Hawking’s observation is viewed as incorrect; physicists today still agree that the singularity is not open to investigation by the tools of science.

So the first premise of the entire worldview is outside the realm of scientific investigation. I’m OK with that—the existence of God in eternity past is outside the realm of scientific investigation too. But it seems ironic for adherents to the Big Bang model to ridicule supernaturalists on scientific grounds.

In his Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, Douglas Adams took a swipe at supernaturalism with his question, “Isn’t it enough to see that a garden is beautiful without having to believe that there are fairies at the bottom of it too?” But how do we grant veto power to the Big Bang model when its first question is beyond scientific examination? Isn’t that a mite overconfident?

My second question, the sociological one, has been generated by several decades of experience interacting with people who think I’m crazy—or hopelessly ignorant—to believe in a Creator God. When I ask them about their own model, their answers often indicate that they don’t understand it themselves. I recall several years ago, when I was still laboring under the misconception that the Big Bang was an explosion rather than a rapid expansion (and yes, the difference is significant to physicists), I asked an engineer how the explosion could overpower all the gravity in the universe. His reply was, “Hmm. I’ve never thought about that.” Now, to be fair, he’s an engineer, not a physicist, and yes, it’s a complex theory. But this is just on the surface of the model, and it astonished me that as an engineer, whose job it is to think through systems, he’d never even asked the question—literally the first question about his worldview, about which he was so confident. I, the religious guy, was the one asking the questions and seeking to understand the model.

Now, my question was ignorant, as I later learned; the Big Bang, according to the model, did not work like an explosion. But my engineer friend didn’t know that, and he further admitted that he hadn’t given the foundation of his worldview any serious consideration. Yet he was confident that I was deluded. That doesn’t discredit the model, of course; the engineer wasn’t one of its developers. But it does make me SMH.

I have other questions—the antimatter problem comes to mind—but my gravest concern is that by far the majority of fervent adherents to the Big Bang model—the people who most aggressively ridicule young-earth creationists—seem not to have asked and answered these questions for themselves, precisely because the model is so arcane. How are they on any firmer ground than those they ridicule? How is their position not, um, religious—based on faith in the High Priesthood, which understands these Very Complicated Doctrines? 

Given the apparent philosophical inconsistency, it seems presumptuous to ask me to discard hard evidence of a supernatural book in order to genuflect before the dogma of the Assumption of the Virgin Matter. And it seems grossly immoral for the many adherents who literally don’t know what they’re talking about to pass judgment on any who disagree.

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Billions of Years? Part 4: Approaching the Question

September 21, 2017 by Dan Olinger Leave a Comment

**Why I’m Still a Young-Earth Creationist, Even Though It’s Getting Increasingly Lonely over Here**

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If the Bible’s account of creation is historical narrative and should be read straightforwardly, and if it says that creation occurred over a period of 6 “days” with “evenings and mornings,” and if the biblical genealogies place Adam a few thousand years ago, then we have a clear conflict between the biblical story and the broadly accepted modern evolutionary account. How do we respond to that conflict?

Assume that the science is settled, and the Bible is wrong?
Try to reconcile the two accounts by a creative reading of the biblical text?
Declare that Science Is Evil and move in next door to Simeon Stylites?

I see serious problems with all these approaches.

First, there is no statement more unscientific than that “the science is settled.” Science is never settled. Scientists regularly and correctly observe that errors are revealed and that models are constantly revised as new discoveries occur. Science, they tell us, is the ongoing, never-ending search for truth. I’m happy to accept their word on that. Question everything.

Second, my earlier posts (as linked above) have argued that there is no textual basis for getting hermeneutically creative with the biblical account. It is what it is.

Third, the fact that God is the Creator renders it impossible that genuine science could be in conflict with revealed truth. The heavens declare the glory of God (Ps 19.1), and the study of the heavens will not contradict God’s declarations about their origin. So I’m not going to live the rest of my life sitting cross-legged on my Luddite pillar. I’m going to study science as one more avenue toward increasing my knowledge of God.

As I’ve stated before, the demonstrated supernatural character of the Scripture requires that I give it the benefit of the doubt in any supposed conflict with science. That means that scientific “discoveries” that conflict with the biblical account have some serious burden of proof. I’m going to need more than consensus or, worse yet, allegation to bail on the biblical statements.

So I’m going to have to evaluate the evolutionary model to see just how rigorous it is. I recognize that that’s a risky business, since I’m not a scientist. In my graduate studies I learned what it means to acquire the specialized research skills necessary for a specific academic field, and I don’t take lightly the risk I’m taking on by evaluating a scientific model without those tools. I invite informed criticism. But I also note that name-calling is not rigorous rebuttal.

I’ve asked secular scientists about many of these things, and I haven’t gotten coherent, reasonable, validated answers—nothing even approaching the level of proof that I’m requiring if I’m going to reject the biblical account.

So the next few posts contain my thought process on evaluating the evolutionary model. Take it for what it’s worth, and refute it if you can.

To begin with, we need to note that there is no single “evolutionary model.” The modern secular view of cosmogeny requires at least 2 distinct phases: the beginning of the universe, and the beginning of life on earth. These phases require completely different mechanisms. The popular view is that the universe began with the so-called “Big Bang” more than 13 billion years ago, followed by material condensation into nebulae, stars, and galaxies, while biogenesis on Earth began about 4.5 billion years ago and has followed a mostly Darwinian process of mutation and natural selection since then.

How strong are the logical and observational bases of these processes? Strong enough to override the biblical account? We’ll begin by thinking about cosmic evolution, including both the Big Bang and the succeeding mechanism of star formation.

Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10

Photo by NASA on Unsplash

Billions of Years? Part 3: Genesis Data on the Age of the Earth

September 18, 2017 by Dan Olinger Leave a Comment

**Why I’m Still a Young-Earth Creationist, Even Though It’s Getting Increasingly Lonely over Here**

Part 1 Part 2

Last time we demonstrated that the Creation account in Genesis 1 is Hebrew narrative, which means that we should read it straightforwardly. We then demonstrated that it speaks of a personal agent who created the cosmos from nothing over a period described as 6 “days.” Before we begin to evaluate the claims of the old-earth position, however, we need to answer a second question from the text: how long ago did these 6 “days” occur?

The text reports that on the sixth “day” Elohim created a man, named Adam (“man”) (Gen 1.27; 2.19) and his wife, named Eve (“living”) (Gen 2.22; 3.20). Later in the narrative we’re given the same Adam as the starting point of a genealogy, including lifespans and progeny dates for everyone involved. Genesis 5 gives the data for every generation from Adam to Noah and his sons, and Genesis 11 gives the same data for every generation from Noah’s sons to Abraham. The lifespans and progeny dates from Abraham through David, whose life dates are generally agreed upon, appear throughout the biblical text up to the book of Samuel.

Thus we have numbers that can be manipulated to yield a calendar year, or thereabouts, for the creation of Adam. There are variations in this date for several reasons, including some textual variants in the Hebrew manuscripts and some interpretational questions. (For a detailed analysis of the interpretative history of that question, see the dissertation of my former PhD student Ben Shaw [free registration required].) The most restrictive date would yield a creation somewhere around 4000 BC, as calculated by James Ussher in the 1600s, while textual variants might allow a date 1000 years or so earlier.

Some have noted that it was traditional in ancient genealogies to omit generations that were considered unimportant; some interpreters have suggested, for example, that the genealogy of Jesus Christ in Matthew 1 has omitted some generations in order to yield 3 sets of 14 generations each (Mat 1.17), for easier memorization. It’s true that omitting generations did occur, but you’ll note that the Matthew list does not include the math; on the other hand, the Genesis genealogies include ages and sums that simply do not add up if generations are omitted. The omission suggestion introduces far more difficulties than it solves.

And of course, to get from 4000 or 5000 BC to 4.5 billion BC, you’d be omitting 1 million generations for every generation you mention. Some suggestions are just silly on their face.

So where does the text itself leave us? You have an earth and its contents created intentionally by a personal agent a few thousand years ago.

Given earlier evidence that the Bible exhibits characteristics of extraordinary origin, you’re going to need an extremely high level of proof to set that obvious declaration aside.

Does the old-earth view meet that level of evidence—something more substantial and logically compelling than “but everybody believes this!”?

On to that question next time.

Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10