I am genuinely amazed that someone employed in teaching science is as bad at science as my geology teacher. Interesting science-y tidbits I have caught her mangling in class this week:
Silicon is a metal, which is why we use it for electronics.
This isn't true, silicon is not a metal. It is one of the most common elements on earth, and is found in a multitude of minerals and mineraloids, including sand and glass. Silicate elements are used in many applications, from computing to soap to non-stick cookware.
Electrons don't have any mass because they move at the speed of light.
This also isn't true. Electrons are subatomic particles with a mass of 1/1836 of a proton; they are very light, obviously, but they do have mass and are matter, not energy. Additionally, the speed at which electrons travel can approach the speed of light in a vacuum but never reach it. Electrons are considered to be fundamental particles with no substructure, and have an electric charge that is negative and equally strong as the positive charge in protons, which is key for electromagnetism. Many other exciting facts about electrons can be found at wikipedia.org!
It's amazing how useful the Internet is. What did people with shitty teachers do before it was possible to Google things that sound wrong?
Showing posts with label science. Show all posts
Showing posts with label science. Show all posts
Wednesday, October 01, 2008
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Like a vagabond with a fishing pole
Last week was the first week of class, and I'm wiped out. I'm taking one (1) class, a freshman geology course that has me in class a grand total of 7 hours a week and is an easy A, and I'm completely wiped out. I feel like I have the flu.
Its almost hard to believe that I'm seriously considering several years of this. Who voluntarily puts themselves through this much pain? I must be crazy.
My teacher is also crazy, and one of the worst things about the class is that she stands in the front spouting insane, impossible shit and I can't rebut and save the minds of the rest of the class from debilitating ignorance.
I know I have a tendency to exaggerate drama, but I'm really not kidding here. An example:
She is convinced that global warming isn't caused by human influence. Now, a lot of people believe this because they have a vested interest in doing whatever the fuck they want to the environment and their beliefs follow their interests, and she used to work for an oil company, so maybe that's all there is to it. However, the alternate explanation for global warming is so off the wall that her acceptance of it makes me wonder why she's a science teacher.
The cause of global warming, she says, is solar wind. Not directly, though- nothing as simple as solar winds heating the atmosphere and causing climate change. No, you see, solar winds have been less strong in the last 30-50 years than they were before that, which is a problem because solar winds exert pressure on the Earth's atmosphere, so when the solar winds are less strong, less pressure on the Earth's atmosphere means the atmosphere expands. When the atmosphere expands, the lowered air pressure allows the tectonic plates (and I guess the whole Earth) to expand, widening the space between plates and allowing magma to push up from the core into the plate boundaries under the oceans at the poles, causing an increase in undersea volcanoes which heat up the ocean water. The heated ocean water causes the sea ice to melt and affects the weather.
At least its a novel and exciting theory, right? Even if it does rely on a complete misunderstanding of gravity.
I guess in one sense, its encouraging that someone like this can get a job as a science teacher. It means I have a chance of finding employment, which is a thought that is at least partially appealing. I really hate doing things that make me feel this ill, but I also hate living in the room behind my parents' house. Enduring pain and fatigue and idiocy like this are all part of the plan to get me a crappy studio apartment of my very own.
My dedication to this plan gets more and more tenuous the more I think about it, so I've been not thinking about it. I've been knitting, and I read Kit Whitfield's Benighted yesterday, it's really quite good. I also started up a short story set in the Left Behind universe. Slacktivist finished LB Fridays, or at least finished the analysis of the first book, and I figure if there's any time to write a foefic for Right Behind, now is it. Although the story is looking a bit long and not showing any signs of ending, so it might be too long to post on Right Behind. We'll see.
Its almost hard to believe that I'm seriously considering several years of this. Who voluntarily puts themselves through this much pain? I must be crazy.
My teacher is also crazy, and one of the worst things about the class is that she stands in the front spouting insane, impossible shit and I can't rebut and save the minds of the rest of the class from debilitating ignorance.
I know I have a tendency to exaggerate drama, but I'm really not kidding here. An example:
She is convinced that global warming isn't caused by human influence. Now, a lot of people believe this because they have a vested interest in doing whatever the fuck they want to the environment and their beliefs follow their interests, and she used to work for an oil company, so maybe that's all there is to it. However, the alternate explanation for global warming is so off the wall that her acceptance of it makes me wonder why she's a science teacher.
The cause of global warming, she says, is solar wind. Not directly, though- nothing as simple as solar winds heating the atmosphere and causing climate change. No, you see, solar winds have been less strong in the last 30-50 years than they were before that, which is a problem because solar winds exert pressure on the Earth's atmosphere, so when the solar winds are less strong, less pressure on the Earth's atmosphere means the atmosphere expands. When the atmosphere expands, the lowered air pressure allows the tectonic plates (and I guess the whole Earth) to expand, widening the space between plates and allowing magma to push up from the core into the plate boundaries under the oceans at the poles, causing an increase in undersea volcanoes which heat up the ocean water. The heated ocean water causes the sea ice to melt and affects the weather.
At least its a novel and exciting theory, right? Even if it does rely on a complete misunderstanding of gravity.
I guess in one sense, its encouraging that someone like this can get a job as a science teacher. It means I have a chance of finding employment, which is a thought that is at least partially appealing. I really hate doing things that make me feel this ill, but I also hate living in the room behind my parents' house. Enduring pain and fatigue and idiocy like this are all part of the plan to get me a crappy studio apartment of my very own.
My dedication to this plan gets more and more tenuous the more I think about it, so I've been not thinking about it. I've been knitting, and I read Kit Whitfield's Benighted yesterday, it's really quite good. I also started up a short story set in the Left Behind universe. Slacktivist finished LB Fridays, or at least finished the analysis of the first book, and I figure if there's any time to write a foefic for Right Behind, now is it. Although the story is looking a bit long and not showing any signs of ending, so it might be too long to post on Right Behind. We'll see.
Saturday, June 21, 2008
the liquid that we're all dissolved in
AiG's Ken Ham on PZ Myers:
There is this concept in philosophy- I encountered it while studying linguistics- called Theory of Mind, which is essentially the ability to imagine that other people have minds much like one's own even though you can't directly experience another's mind. Without this, much of social interaction including things like language and commerce would be completely impossible; it is the basis for all of society, and all neurotypical (and at least almost all a-typical) humans have it. Empathy is a closely related ability.
Religions tend to disguise it, with ceremonial laws and proscriptions against things that are said to offend God although they hurt no one, but they can't disguise it completely: the theory of mind is the basis for morality. "Do unto others as you would have them do unto you," and "Love your neighbor as yourself," are not concepts that must be revealed in a holy book, they are accessible to everyone with a human brain, simply because we are able to imagine what it might be like to be another person. Morality doesn't require divine intervention, or supernatural woo, or special revelation. Religion has added those trappings onto what everyone is able to know: if you want to know what is right, consider how your actions affect those around you, weighing the effects on others with the same seriousness as the effects on yourself.
Empathy is a scary thing; it is often painful and frustrating to put yourself in someone else's place, especially when you don't have the power to change the things that are causing that other person pain. It takes a great deal of effort to learn someone else's history, to understand all the forces at work in someone else's mind. And when your actions affect whole swathes of people, the determination of what is right is very complicated. Morality isn't easy or simple, but it doesn't require the supernatural.
Religious people who insist that divine revelation is the only source of morality either have such an atrophied sense of empathy that their understanding of morality has withered, or they are deceived and are trying to pass that deception on to others. Or both, I guess.
What’s he so worked up about anyway? If he’s right, God doesn’t exist—so prayer can’t do anything and, therefore, can’t harm anything. But, then, who cares about harm in a world without moral absolutes? It’s the survival of the fittest; so, evolution will inexorably eliminate these weak-minded “idiots” at the Pentagon. If they nuke some people along the way, so what? That’s just the death of the weakest in this purposeless accidental existence of ours; sooner or later the more fit will triumph, and the world will be more evolved. So, what’s Myers concerned about? This is all just time and chance and the laws of nature at work. What is, is. There are and can be no “oughts.”This is a fairly common concept in American culture: those who reject God also necessarily reject all morality and concern for other people. I have heard people claim that atheists are unable to love their spouses, parents or children, and like Ham here suggests, atheists ought to have no problem with just killing people at random for no reason. In fact, evolution demands that anyone who admits that people evolved actively desire the murder of those "less fit" in order to continue the evolution of the race toward a better goal. Nevermind that this kind of teleological view of the world is a profound misunderstanding of what evolution is; the implication that I'm some kind of murderer just because I reject Jesus, well, it irritates me.
There is this concept in philosophy- I encountered it while studying linguistics- called Theory of Mind, which is essentially the ability to imagine that other people have minds much like one's own even though you can't directly experience another's mind. Without this, much of social interaction including things like language and commerce would be completely impossible; it is the basis for all of society, and all neurotypical (and at least almost all a-typical) humans have it. Empathy is a closely related ability.
Religions tend to disguise it, with ceremonial laws and proscriptions against things that are said to offend God although they hurt no one, but they can't disguise it completely: the theory of mind is the basis for morality. "Do unto others as you would have them do unto you," and "Love your neighbor as yourself," are not concepts that must be revealed in a holy book, they are accessible to everyone with a human brain, simply because we are able to imagine what it might be like to be another person. Morality doesn't require divine intervention, or supernatural woo, or special revelation. Religion has added those trappings onto what everyone is able to know: if you want to know what is right, consider how your actions affect those around you, weighing the effects on others with the same seriousness as the effects on yourself.
Empathy is a scary thing; it is often painful and frustrating to put yourself in someone else's place, especially when you don't have the power to change the things that are causing that other person pain. It takes a great deal of effort to learn someone else's history, to understand all the forces at work in someone else's mind. And when your actions affect whole swathes of people, the determination of what is right is very complicated. Morality isn't easy or simple, but it doesn't require the supernatural.
Religious people who insist that divine revelation is the only source of morality either have such an atrophied sense of empathy that their understanding of morality has withered, or they are deceived and are trying to pass that deception on to others. Or both, I guess.
Saturday, April 19, 2008
Living with Darwin
Christian resistance to Darwin rests on the genuine insight that life without God, in the sense of a Darwinian account of the natural world, really does mean life without God in a far more literal and unnerving sense. Even those who understand, and contribute to, the enlightenment case can find the resultant picture of the world, and our place in it, unbearable.
...For many Americans, their churches, overwhelmingly supernaturalist, providentialist churches, not only provide a sense of hope, illusory to be sure, but also offer other mechanisms of comfort. They are places in which hearts can be opened, serious issues can be discussed, common ground with others can be explored, places in which there is real community, places in which people come to matter to one another- and thus come to matter to themselves. Without such places, what is left?
…There is truth in Marx's dictum that religion, more precisely supernaturalist and providentialist religion, is the opium of the people, but the consumption should be seen as medical rather than recreational. The most ardent apostles of science and reason recommend immediate withdrawal of the drug- but they do not acknowledge the pain that would be left unpaliated, pain too intense for their stark atheism to be a viable solution. Genuine medicine is needed, and the proper treatment consists of showing how lives can matter.
- Living with Darwin: Evolution, Design, and the Future of Faith,
Philip Kitcher
Kitcher’s Living with Darwin is as elegant a defense of evolution against Intelligent Design as any I’ve read, and I recommend reading it if you’re interested in the subject. The part of the book that I most valued, however, was his conclusions about the place of religion in a society that accepts scientific reality. Kitcher describes two variations of religion; the first is “providentialist” religion, which is based on the idea “that the universe has been created by a Being who has a great design, a Being who cares for his creatures, who observes the fall of every sparrow and who is especially concerned with humanity.” The second variation is what he calls “spiritual” religion, which doesn’t rely on any description of the supernatural, but is solely concerned with the state of one’s mind and one’s relationship with others.
Kitcher, who, by the way, is a professor of philosophy, makes a strong case for the incompatibility of providentialist religion and current scientific knowledge, but, unlike a lot of what I’ve been reading lately on the subject of science, he doesn’t take that to mean that people should resign themselves to being without the comfort of religion. His entire essay is a wonderful argument for reinventing religion as a primarily social phenomenon, concerned with the present, not stories about the past or future.
His final few paragraphs, about the idea that “religion is the opium of the people,” got me thinking. There is actually quite a bit of similarity between the way I face physical pain and the way I think about religion. A lot of people with chronic pain try to keep positive by telling stories about the possibility that in the future they will recover; doctors recommend techniques to distract the mind from focusing on pain. Avoidance is a common coping technique, and when it comes to pain, it’s a perfectly healthy one, but I find that it does nothing to make me feel better about being in pain.
The best way I’ve found to stay positive is actually to spend a little time focusing on the pain, feeling exactly how and where it hurts, falling into it to see if, this time, I will be overwhelmed. I do this, and I find that, as bad as it gets, I can endure it. I may moan and cry, but when it comes down to it, I am able to make the choice to live in pain, and I find that strength an incredibly positive thing.
I think this is very similar to the way I refuse stories about the world that offer a more comforting version of reality. I want the world as it is, no matter how much it hurts. And its kind of funny that I can see how odd I am when it comes to my pain coping techniques, but I’m inclined to expect that everyone will react the same way I do to the conflict between religion and science. Reading Kitcher makes me think that it may be more important to carve a place for the religious impulse in science than is obvious to me.
Philip Kitcher
Kitcher’s Living with Darwin is as elegant a defense of evolution against Intelligent Design as any I’ve read, and I recommend reading it if you’re interested in the subject. The part of the book that I most valued, however, was his conclusions about the place of religion in a society that accepts scientific reality. Kitcher describes two variations of religion; the first is “providentialist” religion, which is based on the idea “that the universe has been created by a Being who has a great design, a Being who cares for his creatures, who observes the fall of every sparrow and who is especially concerned with humanity.” The second variation is what he calls “spiritual” religion, which doesn’t rely on any description of the supernatural, but is solely concerned with the state of one’s mind and one’s relationship with others.
Kitcher, who, by the way, is a professor of philosophy, makes a strong case for the incompatibility of providentialist religion and current scientific knowledge, but, unlike a lot of what I’ve been reading lately on the subject of science, he doesn’t take that to mean that people should resign themselves to being without the comfort of religion. His entire essay is a wonderful argument for reinventing religion as a primarily social phenomenon, concerned with the present, not stories about the past or future.
His final few paragraphs, about the idea that “religion is the opium of the people,” got me thinking. There is actually quite a bit of similarity between the way I face physical pain and the way I think about religion. A lot of people with chronic pain try to keep positive by telling stories about the possibility that in the future they will recover; doctors recommend techniques to distract the mind from focusing on pain. Avoidance is a common coping technique, and when it comes to pain, it’s a perfectly healthy one, but I find that it does nothing to make me feel better about being in pain.
The best way I’ve found to stay positive is actually to spend a little time focusing on the pain, feeling exactly how and where it hurts, falling into it to see if, this time, I will be overwhelmed. I do this, and I find that, as bad as it gets, I can endure it. I may moan and cry, but when it comes down to it, I am able to make the choice to live in pain, and I find that strength an incredibly positive thing.
I think this is very similar to the way I refuse stories about the world that offer a more comforting version of reality. I want the world as it is, no matter how much it hurts. And its kind of funny that I can see how odd I am when it comes to my pain coping techniques, but I’m inclined to expect that everyone will react the same way I do to the conflict between religion and science. Reading Kitcher makes me think that it may be more important to carve a place for the religious impulse in science than is obvious to me.
Saturday, April 12, 2008
Just a better way to fall
So my brother wants to know why I’m an atheist.
Short answer is, I’m an atheist because I haven’t encountered a persuasive reason to believe that a God, or anything else supernatural, exists.
Long answer is, I was raised to believe that there is a God- the God of the Apostle’s Creed:
I believe in God, the Father Almighty,
the Creator of heaven and earth,
and in Jesus Christ, His only Son, our Lord:
Who was conceived of the Holy Spirit,
born of the Virgin Mary,
suffered under Pontius Pilate,
was crucified, died, and was buried.
He descended into hell.
The third day He arose again from the dead.
He ascended into heaven
and sits at the right hand of God the Father Almighty,
whence He shall come to judge the living and the dead.
I believe in the Holy Spirit, the holy catholic church,
the communion of saints,
the forgiveness of sins,
the resurrection of the body,
and life everlasting.
Amen.
And I fell away from various aspects of this faith one at a time. The first to go was belief in ‘the holy catholic church' and 'the communion of saints.’ Frankly, Christians aren’t better people than anyone else, and their actions show it. There are good and bad Christians just like there are good and bad people of all faith; there is nothing about the church that is holy or even unusual in any way.
The second belief to go was the belief that Jesus is the son of God, and all that follows from that. C. S. Lewis wrote on various occasions versions of the idea that there are two options: either Jesus was who he said he was, i.e. God, or he was a madman; he can’t possibly have been just an above-average, wise man. I was raised in the middle of all kinds of “proof” that Jesus was God and that he really did rise from the dead, and my rejection of this belief didn’t actually deal with the factual veracity of any of these claims. What I realized was that Lewis’ imagination was too limited. There is in fact a third option: Jesus was an ordinary man, manipulated by God because God views human history as a work of art that is more interesting when covered in blood. History makes ever so much more sense if you don’t try to wedge it into a worldview that includes a good and loving God.
Along with the idea that Jesus is God, I abandoned the idea that there is a God who is interested in me personally. There have been times in my life where the smallest intervention would have made the difference between hope and despair; and I don’t mean “small” miracles, I mean the little coincidences that are so often used in churches to support the idea that God loves each of us personally. A smile, a kind word, a hopeful dream, the sort of thing that people often claim God does all the time. The year I was 17, I spent a lot of time praying for some small sign that there was a God who cared, but nothing ever came. When you go to church on a regular basis, you're told all the time that you have to pray and read your Bible consistently because you have to have a relationship with God and relationships take persistent work, but it was like trying to have a relationship with a rock… or an imaginary friend. Eventually I gave up.
I guess what it comes down to is that this is just the way my mind works. I am not capable of faith. I am not able to subscribe to an ideology that I know isn’t supported by any kind of evidence. Things have to make logical sense to me; I think things through and reject my emotional reactions in favor of ideas that I can support with evidence (not just in the religious arena, either: sometime I should write about my hopeless fondness for anarchist political philosophy). I’m not always right; my logical reasoning is sometimes flawed, but I still have to try. Its just the way I am.
And honestly, I think its a good way to be. Life doesn’t consist of the world the way we want it to be, it consists of the world as it is. Emotion is an important part of being human, and intuition and faith and all that are an important part of the way the human mind works, but in order to be a successful person, you have to be able to deal with the world as it is. That means dealing with facts, facing fear and pain, and, when you tell stories about the world to make it seem a more hospitable place, you have to understand what is story and what is real.
I think this also answers, at least partially, the question of what exactly I mean when I say I am an atheist. I believe that the world can be discovered. I believe in reason and science and a way of looking at the world that requires facts before conclusions. There really isn't an atheist orthodoxy that I follow, but a better writer than I put it this way:
Short answer is, I’m an atheist because I haven’t encountered a persuasive reason to believe that a God, or anything else supernatural, exists.
Long answer is, I was raised to believe that there is a God- the God of the Apostle’s Creed:
I believe in God, the Father Almighty,
the Creator of heaven and earth,
and in Jesus Christ, His only Son, our Lord:
Who was conceived of the Holy Spirit,
born of the Virgin Mary,
suffered under Pontius Pilate,
was crucified, died, and was buried.
He descended into hell.
The third day He arose again from the dead.
He ascended into heaven
and sits at the right hand of God the Father Almighty,
whence He shall come to judge the living and the dead.
I believe in the Holy Spirit, the holy catholic church,
the communion of saints,
the forgiveness of sins,
the resurrection of the body,
and life everlasting.
Amen.
And I fell away from various aspects of this faith one at a time. The first to go was belief in ‘the holy catholic church' and 'the communion of saints.’ Frankly, Christians aren’t better people than anyone else, and their actions show it. There are good and bad Christians just like there are good and bad people of all faith; there is nothing about the church that is holy or even unusual in any way.
The second belief to go was the belief that Jesus is the son of God, and all that follows from that. C. S. Lewis wrote on various occasions versions of the idea that there are two options: either Jesus was who he said he was, i.e. God, or he was a madman; he can’t possibly have been just an above-average, wise man. I was raised in the middle of all kinds of “proof” that Jesus was God and that he really did rise from the dead, and my rejection of this belief didn’t actually deal with the factual veracity of any of these claims. What I realized was that Lewis’ imagination was too limited. There is in fact a third option: Jesus was an ordinary man, manipulated by God because God views human history as a work of art that is more interesting when covered in blood. History makes ever so much more sense if you don’t try to wedge it into a worldview that includes a good and loving God.
Along with the idea that Jesus is God, I abandoned the idea that there is a God who is interested in me personally. There have been times in my life where the smallest intervention would have made the difference between hope and despair; and I don’t mean “small” miracles, I mean the little coincidences that are so often used in churches to support the idea that God loves each of us personally. A smile, a kind word, a hopeful dream, the sort of thing that people often claim God does all the time. The year I was 17, I spent a lot of time praying for some small sign that there was a God who cared, but nothing ever came. When you go to church on a regular basis, you're told all the time that you have to pray and read your Bible consistently because you have to have a relationship with God and relationships take persistent work, but it was like trying to have a relationship with a rock… or an imaginary friend. Eventually I gave up.
I guess what it comes down to is that this is just the way my mind works. I am not capable of faith. I am not able to subscribe to an ideology that I know isn’t supported by any kind of evidence. Things have to make logical sense to me; I think things through and reject my emotional reactions in favor of ideas that I can support with evidence (not just in the religious arena, either: sometime I should write about my hopeless fondness for anarchist political philosophy). I’m not always right; my logical reasoning is sometimes flawed, but I still have to try. Its just the way I am.
And honestly, I think its a good way to be. Life doesn’t consist of the world the way we want it to be, it consists of the world as it is. Emotion is an important part of being human, and intuition and faith and all that are an important part of the way the human mind works, but in order to be a successful person, you have to be able to deal with the world as it is. That means dealing with facts, facing fear and pain, and, when you tell stories about the world to make it seem a more hospitable place, you have to understand what is story and what is real.
I think this also answers, at least partially, the question of what exactly I mean when I say I am an atheist. I believe that the world can be discovered. I believe in reason and science and a way of looking at the world that requires facts before conclusions. There really isn't an atheist orthodoxy that I follow, but a better writer than I put it this way:
An atheist's creed
I believe in time,
matter, and energy,
which make up the whole of the world.I believe in reason, evidence and the human mind,
the only tools we have;
they are the product of natural forces
in a majestic but impersonal universe,
grander and richer than we can imagine,
a source of endless opportunities for discovery.I believe in the power of doubt;
I do not seek out reassurances,
but embrace the question,
and strive to challenge my own beliefs.I accept human mortality.
We have but one life,
brief and full of struggle,
leavened with love and community,
learning and exploration,
beauty and the creation of
new life, new art, and new ideas.I rejoice in this life that I have,
and in the grandeur of a world that preceded me,
and an earth that will abide without me.
Tuesday, April 01, 2008
The Problem of Pain: Omnipotence
Today C.S. Lewis' The Problem of Pain finally made it through the queue at the library. I've read the first few chapters and already have about a million things I want to say about it, which I guess is as good a criteria for a good book as any. This whole internal debate process started with a post I wrote a while back about creationism and the problem of pain, here.
Lewis defines the problem of pain like this: "If God were good, He would wish to make His creatures perfectly happy, and if God were almighty He would be able to do what He wished. But the creatures are not happy. Therefore God lacks either goodness, or power, or both." I think that Lewis believed that he had a solution to this problem, but he admits further on in the same paragraph that "if the popular meanings attached to these words (speaking of 'good', 'almighty' and 'happy') are the best, or the only possible, meanings, then the argument is unanswerable." Normally an attempt to define away the terms of an argument as a means of defeating the argument would annoy the hell out of me, but the way Lewis defines things is interesting, so I'm going to write about it like this isn't a cheap and cowardly tactic.
The first term he addresses is 'almighty;' if I'm reading this right, what he's saying is that an almighty God can't in fact do anything he wishes, but instead has limits. He claims to believe in miracles- I guess he didn't particularly want to be a heretic- but maintains that a physical universe must have certain natural laws that produce a certain amount of suffering, and God is not able to create a universe that doesn't work this way.
The proof of this, I think, is supposed to be free will, which requires things to choose among, which requires a physical world, which requires laws of nature, which means the exact laws of nature which we have now and which cause so much suffering.
This approach is very interesting to me. I've heard a lot of people talk about the problem of pain from the angle of goodness, and from the angle of happiness, but I don't think I've ever actually encountered someone who seriously argued that part of the solution to the problem is the idea that God is not actually omnipotent as we understand the word, but rather is constrained by the laws of the universe (but can somehow do miracles anyway, as long as he limits them enough to not actually prove or disprove his existence). It makes sense, but it's not an argument I expect from a Christian, much less C. S. Lewis. If God is subject to scientific laws of nature, you'd expect science to be a big deal, but Lewis is much fonder of weird magical thinking, which he shows in his chapter on the Fall of Man, where he spins a tale that accepts evolution but posits a 'missing link' between pre-humans and modern humans that is essentially super-human: in control of every cell in the body, never dying or ill or in pain, fully one with God and the animals around him and at peace. Like I said, weird and fantastical.
Lewis makes it clear that he believes both that God is limited in power, and that God is something beyond human comprehension beside which humans are vermin. In his chapters on the goodness of God and the wickedness of men, he actually goes into quite a bit of detail about how horrible humans are and how unfortunate it is that modern culture doesn't condemn everything human as utterly worthless and disgusting. These two beliefs don't seem very compatible to me, and if you had asked me before I read this if claiming the omnipotence of God was limited was allowed in orthodox Christianity I would have said it absolutely was not. However, this book is supposed to be one of the best modern works on the problem of pain, so I guess I must be wrong about that. Anyway, Lewis' positions on omnipotence aren't nearly as interesting as his positions on goodness and love, but I think I'm going to write a separate post for that.
Lewis defines the problem of pain like this: "If God were good, He would wish to make His creatures perfectly happy, and if God were almighty He would be able to do what He wished. But the creatures are not happy. Therefore God lacks either goodness, or power, or both." I think that Lewis believed that he had a solution to this problem, but he admits further on in the same paragraph that "if the popular meanings attached to these words (speaking of 'good', 'almighty' and 'happy') are the best, or the only possible, meanings, then the argument is unanswerable." Normally an attempt to define away the terms of an argument as a means of defeating the argument would annoy the hell out of me, but the way Lewis defines things is interesting, so I'm going to write about it like this isn't a cheap and cowardly tactic.
The first term he addresses is 'almighty;' if I'm reading this right, what he's saying is that an almighty God can't in fact do anything he wishes, but instead has limits. He claims to believe in miracles- I guess he didn't particularly want to be a heretic- but maintains that a physical universe must have certain natural laws that produce a certain amount of suffering, and God is not able to create a universe that doesn't work this way.
"The inexorable "laws of Nature" which operate in defiance of human suffering or desert, which are not turned aside by prayer, seem, at first sight to furnish a strong argument against the goodness and power of God. I am going to submit that not even Omnipotence could create a society of free souls without at the same time creating a relatively independent and "inexorable" Nature."
The proof of this, I think, is supposed to be free will, which requires things to choose among, which requires a physical world, which requires laws of nature, which means the exact laws of nature which we have now and which cause so much suffering.
This approach is very interesting to me. I've heard a lot of people talk about the problem of pain from the angle of goodness, and from the angle of happiness, but I don't think I've ever actually encountered someone who seriously argued that part of the solution to the problem is the idea that God is not actually omnipotent as we understand the word, but rather is constrained by the laws of the universe (but can somehow do miracles anyway, as long as he limits them enough to not actually prove or disprove his existence). It makes sense, but it's not an argument I expect from a Christian, much less C. S. Lewis. If God is subject to scientific laws of nature, you'd expect science to be a big deal, but Lewis is much fonder of weird magical thinking, which he shows in his chapter on the Fall of Man, where he spins a tale that accepts evolution but posits a 'missing link' between pre-humans and modern humans that is essentially super-human: in control of every cell in the body, never dying or ill or in pain, fully one with God and the animals around him and at peace. Like I said, weird and fantastical.
Lewis makes it clear that he believes both that God is limited in power, and that God is something beyond human comprehension beside which humans are vermin. In his chapters on the goodness of God and the wickedness of men, he actually goes into quite a bit of detail about how horrible humans are and how unfortunate it is that modern culture doesn't condemn everything human as utterly worthless and disgusting. These two beliefs don't seem very compatible to me, and if you had asked me before I read this if claiming the omnipotence of God was limited was allowed in orthodox Christianity I would have said it absolutely was not. However, this book is supposed to be one of the best modern works on the problem of pain, so I guess I must be wrong about that. Anyway, Lewis' positions on omnipotence aren't nearly as interesting as his positions on goodness and love, but I think I'm going to write a separate post for that.
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
look me in the eye
I was wandering through the library the other day and, on the New Books shelf, I noticed look me in the eye: my life with asperger's, by John Elder Robison (and now I see Mr. Robison has a blog, which I will have to add to my reading list). The book is, obviously, a memoir that focuses on life with Asperger's Syndrome. I've been interested in autism and autism-spectrum disorders for awhile now; oddly enough, a lot of the crackpot alternative "cures" for things like fibromyalgia and chronic fatigue are also billed as cures for autism, or are closely related to the "cures" for autism. Techniques like the elimination of metallic tooth fillings, or candida, or mold in your house, the use of acupuncture, or massive doses of the vitamin of your choice, or eating only organic whole food, or positive (magical) thinking, are all sold as cures for both autism and fibromyalgia. There was even a scientist on the Chronic Fatigue Syndrome forum I used to frequent who hypothesized that a regimen of dietary supplements developed for autistic children was actually the cure for CFS (registration required). (As a side note, the Methylation Protocol did seem to have some effect, as it made some people feel slightly better before making them horribly ill. The world of alternative medicine is a disturbing place.)
Some of this overlap is no doubt due to the thinking of the sellers of these "cures," which is "medical science can't solve Problem X, so the solution for Problem X is clearly this bit of quackery that makes me so much money." But there is also this sense that both autism and fibromyalgia are somehow caused by significant systems in the brain going subtly wrong, and this, to me, is very interesting. This kind of connection makes me wish I could stand formal schooling long enough to have a chance at becoming a scientist on the cutting edge of research into these questions; how typical of the world that the pain that motivates me to ask these questions is the very same thing that keeps me from being able to find the answers.
The science of pain isn't the only thing that interests me in autism-spectrum disorders, though. Robison's stories of growing up with Asperger's reminded me very forcefully of what it was like for me growing up. Not that I think I have Asperger's; I know how easy it is to read a description of anything like this and self-diagnose, simply because the mind is complicated and diverse enough that whatever it is you're looking for there, you'll probably find it. However, so many of his stories that focus specifically on what Asperger's is are things I can relate to that the whole idea of Asperger's intrigues me.
For example, he writes about being yelled at for not looking people in the eye during conversations; no one ever really yelled at me, but I certainly agree with him that looking people in the eye is unnatural and weird and uncomfortable. He talks about learning to drive, and then having problems driving and talking at the same time; when I'm in traffic and my husband is sitting next to me and he tries to talk to me, even to give directions, I ask him to stop because the distraction makes me panic, and I even have to turn down the radio so it's quiet. I relate to his description of how being petted- constant gentle physical contact- is so soothing to his nervous system that it keeps him from fidgeting without even noticing it, and some of what he says about how he relates to machines reminds me of the way I used to relate to political ideas, before I got hurt. The usefulness of training oneself to converse in ways that other people will find normal is something that I discovered as a teenager. Also, the clarity of focus that he describes as part of his savant-like ability to work with sound circuits is something that I have experienced. The single-minded abstractness required to work at a certain level of brilliance is something that I had, on occasion, but that I've lost since fibromyalgic fatigue clouded my thought processes.
The most emotional parallel between my life and Mr. Robison's life, though, is his stories about making friends as a child- or rather, failing to make friends. The bewildering emptiness of being unable to connect with the people around you, the desperate loneliness of knowing that the people you want to be friends with think you're weird and alien, all of that is very familiar to me. My childhood was, if my memories are accurate, thoroughly unhappy. It is tempting, as my brother said in comments on this post, to blame that unhappiness on my external situation, on the church or the school or the kids at school or my parents, but if I am quite honest with myself the truth is that nothing in my childhood, including my parents' religion, did quite so much damage to me as did my failure to make friends.
It's enough to make me wish that when I was young, someone had told me that I had Asperger's, even if that diagnosis wasn't justified. If I had had a diagnosis to explain why I felt no connection with other people, would I have believed for years that there was something wrong with me that made me impossible to love? I don't know. It's impossible to know what things would be like if the past was different, but I can't help but think that if someone had just recognized that I had a problem I could have been a whole lot happier.
Some of this overlap is no doubt due to the thinking of the sellers of these "cures," which is "medical science can't solve Problem X, so the solution for Problem X is clearly this bit of quackery that makes me so much money." But there is also this sense that both autism and fibromyalgia are somehow caused by significant systems in the brain going subtly wrong, and this, to me, is very interesting. This kind of connection makes me wish I could stand formal schooling long enough to have a chance at becoming a scientist on the cutting edge of research into these questions; how typical of the world that the pain that motivates me to ask these questions is the very same thing that keeps me from being able to find the answers.
The science of pain isn't the only thing that interests me in autism-spectrum disorders, though. Robison's stories of growing up with Asperger's reminded me very forcefully of what it was like for me growing up. Not that I think I have Asperger's; I know how easy it is to read a description of anything like this and self-diagnose, simply because the mind is complicated and diverse enough that whatever it is you're looking for there, you'll probably find it. However, so many of his stories that focus specifically on what Asperger's is are things I can relate to that the whole idea of Asperger's intrigues me.
For example, he writes about being yelled at for not looking people in the eye during conversations; no one ever really yelled at me, but I certainly agree with him that looking people in the eye is unnatural and weird and uncomfortable. He talks about learning to drive, and then having problems driving and talking at the same time; when I'm in traffic and my husband is sitting next to me and he tries to talk to me, even to give directions, I ask him to stop because the distraction makes me panic, and I even have to turn down the radio so it's quiet. I relate to his description of how being petted- constant gentle physical contact- is so soothing to his nervous system that it keeps him from fidgeting without even noticing it, and some of what he says about how he relates to machines reminds me of the way I used to relate to political ideas, before I got hurt. The usefulness of training oneself to converse in ways that other people will find normal is something that I discovered as a teenager. Also, the clarity of focus that he describes as part of his savant-like ability to work with sound circuits is something that I have experienced. The single-minded abstractness required to work at a certain level of brilliance is something that I had, on occasion, but that I've lost since fibromyalgic fatigue clouded my thought processes.
The most emotional parallel between my life and Mr. Robison's life, though, is his stories about making friends as a child- or rather, failing to make friends. The bewildering emptiness of being unable to connect with the people around you, the desperate loneliness of knowing that the people you want to be friends with think you're weird and alien, all of that is very familiar to me. My childhood was, if my memories are accurate, thoroughly unhappy. It is tempting, as my brother said in comments on this post, to blame that unhappiness on my external situation, on the church or the school or the kids at school or my parents, but if I am quite honest with myself the truth is that nothing in my childhood, including my parents' religion, did quite so much damage to me as did my failure to make friends.
It's enough to make me wish that when I was young, someone had told me that I had Asperger's, even if that diagnosis wasn't justified. If I had had a diagnosis to explain why I felt no connection with other people, would I have believed for years that there was something wrong with me that made me impossible to love? I don't know. It's impossible to know what things would be like if the past was different, but I can't help but think that if someone had just recognized that I had a problem I could have been a whole lot happier.
Saturday, February 09, 2008
In my dreams I've found this place
About a week and a half ago I went to the emergency room with blinding abdominal pain accompanied by frequent vomiting and that intense feeling you get of things being not right. Turns out I had kidney stones and an infection to go with them. At the ER, I got a prescription for Vicodin, among other things, to deal with the pain, but I didn't get it filled right after being discharged because I've tried Vicodin before for my fibromyalgia pain and it does nothing whatsoever to alleviate the pain, but it does make me vomit, and I was doing enough of that already.
After I was discharged from the ER, though, the pain got bad again quickly and I eventually sent my husband to the pharmacy to pick up my Vicodin prescription. I took it, and it dramatically reduced the amount of pain I was feeling from the kidney stones. However, at the same time I was in pain from my fibromyalgia because I'd been laying down for over twenty-four hours at that point, with breaks only to go to the bathroom or vomit. My shoulders and back were compressed from being immobile and the pain grew to the point where it was about 3/4s as bad as the kidney stone pain was without any medication at all. Once I took the Vicodin, the kidney stone pain was reduced by 85% or more, but the fibromyalgia pain was not affected at all, just like usual. I only had one episode of vomiting that I think was due to the medications, too; despite the lack of relief of my fibromyalgia pain, I was pretty pleased with this outcome.
I assume doctors are aware of this difference in medication efficacy between pains; thinking on it, they must be, or why would they develop drugs like Lyrica specifically for nerve pain? I haven't heard a doctor articulate this difference before, though, and you'd think that, as a patient with a chronic pain condition, I would have a fair chance of hearing it if they were in the habit of talking about it. It makes me curious, though, if whether in my lifetime I will see the development of pain treatments that acknowledge all the different kinds of pain. I have this theory that the way our bodies sense pain is much more complicated than medical science currently acknowledges. My experience with kidney stones suggests that if you view opiates like Vicodin as acting primarily to block pain receptors in the brain so that pain signals don't get through (which I believe is more or less accurate), there has to be more than one set of pain receptors, or more than one way in which those receptors accept information, and perhaps whole different systems built for sensing different kinds of pain.
In Pain: the Science of Suffering, by Patrick Wall, Dr. Wall describes the traditional medical model for pain as something like a contraption where at one end you knock a ball with a hammer to start it rolling on its path and then at the other end once the ball gets there it rings a bell: injury equals nervous system reaction equals pain. This traditional model is clearly sadly lacking, and often cruelly misleading, and I'm interested to see what medical science is going to discover to put in it's place.
After I was discharged from the ER, though, the pain got bad again quickly and I eventually sent my husband to the pharmacy to pick up my Vicodin prescription. I took it, and it dramatically reduced the amount of pain I was feeling from the kidney stones. However, at the same time I was in pain from my fibromyalgia because I'd been laying down for over twenty-four hours at that point, with breaks only to go to the bathroom or vomit. My shoulders and back were compressed from being immobile and the pain grew to the point where it was about 3/4s as bad as the kidney stone pain was without any medication at all. Once I took the Vicodin, the kidney stone pain was reduced by 85% or more, but the fibromyalgia pain was not affected at all, just like usual. I only had one episode of vomiting that I think was due to the medications, too; despite the lack of relief of my fibromyalgia pain, I was pretty pleased with this outcome.
I assume doctors are aware of this difference in medication efficacy between pains; thinking on it, they must be, or why would they develop drugs like Lyrica specifically for nerve pain? I haven't heard a doctor articulate this difference before, though, and you'd think that, as a patient with a chronic pain condition, I would have a fair chance of hearing it if they were in the habit of talking about it. It makes me curious, though, if whether in my lifetime I will see the development of pain treatments that acknowledge all the different kinds of pain. I have this theory that the way our bodies sense pain is much more complicated than medical science currently acknowledges. My experience with kidney stones suggests that if you view opiates like Vicodin as acting primarily to block pain receptors in the brain so that pain signals don't get through (which I believe is more or less accurate), there has to be more than one set of pain receptors, or more than one way in which those receptors accept information, and perhaps whole different systems built for sensing different kinds of pain.
In Pain: the Science of Suffering, by Patrick Wall, Dr. Wall describes the traditional medical model for pain as something like a contraption where at one end you knock a ball with a hammer to start it rolling on its path and then at the other end once the ball gets there it rings a bell: injury equals nervous system reaction equals pain. This traditional model is clearly sadly lacking, and often cruelly misleading, and I'm interested to see what medical science is going to discover to put in it's place.
Thursday, February 07, 2008
and you were walking sideways too
I forget how I got there (perhaps via The Digital Cuttlefish), but I was reading Pharyngula yesterday and this morning. The author of the blog recently was in a debate with a creationist on the radio and so several of the posts were about intelligent design as a scientific theory and its lack of merit in the scientific arena. It's all very interesting. To say that my scientific education was neglected in high school is an understatement; I don't think my parents would have allowed me to study evolutionary biology in any form were they consulted about it, and my own lack of interest in the hard sciences at the time ensured that I didn't put the effort in to pursue it behind their backs (unless you count reading science fiction of every variety, which certainly exposed me to ideas my parents didn't approve of, but sadly didn't educate me in the specifics of biology).
Recently, I've been on a kick to educate myself independently, as part of accepting that I won't be able to go back to formal schooling as a path to employment any time soon. I want to know things, and my general desire to know everything has focused more on science lately, mostly because of some reading I've done about the medical science behind pain, the nervous system and the brain and so forth. My knowledge is horribly shallow, but one of the benefits of this is that when I come across things that I ought to already know, they seem incredibly fascinating. Take, for example, the evolution of whales. Ever since I read David Brin's Startide Rising and The Uplift War as a freshman in high school, I've thought dolphins are probably the coolest animals ever. Now, thanks to Pharyngula, I've learned that the not only are dolphins and whales amazing as they are, but their evolution is also endlessly fascinating. And here's a Wikipedia article that gives similar but less information, but has pictures.
It kind of makes me sad that my level of interaction with this information is on the level of a sixth grader with dolphin posters on the wall: "ooo, what neat pictures!" I should probably think about taking a community college class in biology or something. If only I were, you know, rich.
One intelligent thought that I do have on the subject is related to an idea I saw at Greta Christina's Blog. Well, the idea originates in a book she talks about, Mistakes Were Made (but not by me): there is a process by which we humans, instead of confessing mistakes and changing our actions, justify and excuse our wrong decisions, sometimes building huge constructs to show why we weren't wrong to do what we did. And part of that process is that when we've convinced ourselves that a mistake was wisdom and then we're confronted with a counter argument, we can't confront it rationally, because we can't admit mistakes. So instead we get defensive and angry and so on. Everyone does this, it's a feature of the brain.
So how does this relate to evolution?
Evolutionary biologists, and I suppose other types of scientists who argue for evolution, try to argue with creationists on a scientific field, and creationists have attempted to argue back, developing things like Intelligent Design and the Creation Museum. The problem is, in a purely scientific arena, creationists can't win. There is a pretense in creationist circles that they can, but it's pretty clear to me that in fact they can't. Scientifically, the case against creationism is made and scientists who know this and still have to argue with creationists about it are frustrated by the fact that these people don't realize what's going on.
The problem is, creationism is a necessary part of the supporting rationalization that has been built to sustain a belief in a God who is good, omniscient and omnipotent. Scientists who attack creationism are attacking part of a belief structure that is mistaken, but getting people to admit a mistake, particularly one of this magnitude, isn't a matter of simply laying out a true argument, it's a tricky finagle that, depending on the person you're trying to persuade, isn't always possible.
There are a lot of people who claim a general belief in God while also acknowledging that evolutionary theory is true, so this claim that creationism is necessary for belief in God might seem to be a little out there. It's true, though.
This is how it goes. There is a classic philosophical question to do with the existence of God, the Question of Suffering, as in, if God is good, powerful, and all-knowing, why do random storms come out of the sky and kill dozens of people? It seems that this could happen if God didn't know about it, or couldn't stop it, or didn't care, but doesn't seem compatible with the definition of God in the major monotheistic religions.
There are two explanations that I've heard for this question in the Christian tradition in which I was raised, and although I could be wrong, I think they're the answers generally accepted to be correct by Christian theologians. First, there's the idea that God created a perfect world and then humans came along and messed everything up, and second, there's the idea that in fact this is a perfect world, the best of all worlds, and it only seems to be flawed and full of suffering because we don't understand God's ineffable plan which is actually both morally good and beneficial for us in the long run.
The creationist underpinnings of the first answer are pretty clear: in the beginning there was a perfect Eden, God made Adam and Eve and everything was perfect until Eve ate the apple. Once you introduce the idea of a gradual emergence of human intelligence over generations, in a world that pre-existed humanity by a great deal of time, you can still posit the existence of sin, but you can't blame suffering on it. If sin is a human invention, but tornadoes and landslides and forest fires predate humanity, sin can't be to blame for these disasters. Even if you assume some sort of evolutionary step in one generation where pre-humans gave birth to humans and this first generation of humans is responsible for the existence of sin because one of them 'ate the apple,' real or metaphorical, you still have the problem of the time when those first humans were children, innocent and yet subject to cold and hunger and natural disaster. As this whole fanciful scenario shows, if you accept evolution you cannot blame sin for suffering, and honestly I don't think anyone really tries anymore. If I recall correctly, this was one of the early arguments for why evolution couldn't possibly be true, though.
The second answer, that God is Unknowable, is a little more complicated because sometimes it's invoked as a way of simply saying, "I have no idea what's going on but instead of trying to figure it out I'm just going to embrace these conclusions about God that I already have and like." It can also be used as a genuine argument, though, and often is, by people who are smart and thoughtful and fairly openminded, for example some of the community at Slacktivist. This idea- that God has a plan that we humans can't comprehend because it's so complicated or whatever, so what appears to be completely gratuitous and inexplicable horror is actually part of a good plan- isn't decimated by the time line of evolution, but the two still cannot co-exist.
The mechanics of evolution require suffering to work. Natural selection, environmental pressure, and competition with other species are all abstract ways of saying misery and death to the innocent. Without pressures that kill those who can't cope, species would never differentiate. Suffering is a feature of the process that resulted in the world as it is, not an anomaly, not something that the world could do without.
When I was a good little church kid, I used to memorize Bible verses. One of the tear-jerkers was Jeremiah 29:11: "For I know the plans I have for you," says the Lord, "plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future." It's possible to reconcile evolution, and the suffering it entails, with the idea of a God with a plan, but not the God who promises a plan to prosper his people. People who accept evolution and the suffering it requires are left with either a God who is amoral at best and sociopathic at worst, or no God at all.
All of this means that, for people of a certain religious persuasion, creationism absolutely must be true. Evidence of fact doesn't enter into the equation because evidence for evolution threatens these basic elements of their worldview, and scientists who try to argue for evolution are using rational arguments to combat a gut terror of a Godless world. It's an interesting situation.
Recently, I've been on a kick to educate myself independently, as part of accepting that I won't be able to go back to formal schooling as a path to employment any time soon. I want to know things, and my general desire to know everything has focused more on science lately, mostly because of some reading I've done about the medical science behind pain, the nervous system and the brain and so forth. My knowledge is horribly shallow, but one of the benefits of this is that when I come across things that I ought to already know, they seem incredibly fascinating. Take, for example, the evolution of whales. Ever since I read David Brin's Startide Rising and The Uplift War as a freshman in high school, I've thought dolphins are probably the coolest animals ever. Now, thanks to Pharyngula, I've learned that the not only are dolphins and whales amazing as they are, but their evolution is also endlessly fascinating. And here's a Wikipedia article that gives similar but less information, but has pictures.
It kind of makes me sad that my level of interaction with this information is on the level of a sixth grader with dolphin posters on the wall: "ooo, what neat pictures!" I should probably think about taking a community college class in biology or something. If only I were, you know, rich.
One intelligent thought that I do have on the subject is related to an idea I saw at Greta Christina's Blog. Well, the idea originates in a book she talks about, Mistakes Were Made (but not by me): there is a process by which we humans, instead of confessing mistakes and changing our actions, justify and excuse our wrong decisions, sometimes building huge constructs to show why we weren't wrong to do what we did. And part of that process is that when we've convinced ourselves that a mistake was wisdom and then we're confronted with a counter argument, we can't confront it rationally, because we can't admit mistakes. So instead we get defensive and angry and so on. Everyone does this, it's a feature of the brain.
So how does this relate to evolution?
Evolutionary biologists, and I suppose other types of scientists who argue for evolution, try to argue with creationists on a scientific field, and creationists have attempted to argue back, developing things like Intelligent Design and the Creation Museum. The problem is, in a purely scientific arena, creationists can't win. There is a pretense in creationist circles that they can, but it's pretty clear to me that in fact they can't. Scientifically, the case against creationism is made and scientists who know this and still have to argue with creationists about it are frustrated by the fact that these people don't realize what's going on.
The problem is, creationism is a necessary part of the supporting rationalization that has been built to sustain a belief in a God who is good, omniscient and omnipotent. Scientists who attack creationism are attacking part of a belief structure that is mistaken, but getting people to admit a mistake, particularly one of this magnitude, isn't a matter of simply laying out a true argument, it's a tricky finagle that, depending on the person you're trying to persuade, isn't always possible.
There are a lot of people who claim a general belief in God while also acknowledging that evolutionary theory is true, so this claim that creationism is necessary for belief in God might seem to be a little out there. It's true, though.
This is how it goes. There is a classic philosophical question to do with the existence of God, the Question of Suffering, as in, if God is good, powerful, and all-knowing, why do random storms come out of the sky and kill dozens of people? It seems that this could happen if God didn't know about it, or couldn't stop it, or didn't care, but doesn't seem compatible with the definition of God in the major monotheistic religions.
There are two explanations that I've heard for this question in the Christian tradition in which I was raised, and although I could be wrong, I think they're the answers generally accepted to be correct by Christian theologians. First, there's the idea that God created a perfect world and then humans came along and messed everything up, and second, there's the idea that in fact this is a perfect world, the best of all worlds, and it only seems to be flawed and full of suffering because we don't understand God's ineffable plan which is actually both morally good and beneficial for us in the long run.
The creationist underpinnings of the first answer are pretty clear: in the beginning there was a perfect Eden, God made Adam and Eve and everything was perfect until Eve ate the apple. Once you introduce the idea of a gradual emergence of human intelligence over generations, in a world that pre-existed humanity by a great deal of time, you can still posit the existence of sin, but you can't blame suffering on it. If sin is a human invention, but tornadoes and landslides and forest fires predate humanity, sin can't be to blame for these disasters. Even if you assume some sort of evolutionary step in one generation where pre-humans gave birth to humans and this first generation of humans is responsible for the existence of sin because one of them 'ate the apple,' real or metaphorical, you still have the problem of the time when those first humans were children, innocent and yet subject to cold and hunger and natural disaster. As this whole fanciful scenario shows, if you accept evolution you cannot blame sin for suffering, and honestly I don't think anyone really tries anymore. If I recall correctly, this was one of the early arguments for why evolution couldn't possibly be true, though.
The second answer, that God is Unknowable, is a little more complicated because sometimes it's invoked as a way of simply saying, "I have no idea what's going on but instead of trying to figure it out I'm just going to embrace these conclusions about God that I already have and like." It can also be used as a genuine argument, though, and often is, by people who are smart and thoughtful and fairly openminded, for example some of the community at Slacktivist. This idea- that God has a plan that we humans can't comprehend because it's so complicated or whatever, so what appears to be completely gratuitous and inexplicable horror is actually part of a good plan- isn't decimated by the time line of evolution, but the two still cannot co-exist.
The mechanics of evolution require suffering to work. Natural selection, environmental pressure, and competition with other species are all abstract ways of saying misery and death to the innocent. Without pressures that kill those who can't cope, species would never differentiate. Suffering is a feature of the process that resulted in the world as it is, not an anomaly, not something that the world could do without.
When I was a good little church kid, I used to memorize Bible verses. One of the tear-jerkers was Jeremiah 29:11: "For I know the plans I have for you," says the Lord, "plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future." It's possible to reconcile evolution, and the suffering it entails, with the idea of a God with a plan, but not the God who promises a plan to prosper his people. People who accept evolution and the suffering it requires are left with either a God who is amoral at best and sociopathic at worst, or no God at all.
All of this means that, for people of a certain religious persuasion, creationism absolutely must be true. Evidence of fact doesn't enter into the equation because evidence for evolution threatens these basic elements of their worldview, and scientists who try to argue for evolution are using rational arguments to combat a gut terror of a Godless world. It's an interesting situation.
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