Chapter Content
Okay, so, when I was getting my science training over at Cornell, I, you know, learned a bunch of mind-blowing stuff. Like, black holes are basically cosmic vacuum cleaners. Anything that gets too close just gets sucked in, gone forever. And then there were virtual particles. These are like, uh, subatomic ghosts, hanging out in this quantum Twilight Zone. They're real, but they're not *really* real. Space and time? Yeah, they’re all elastic, like, stretching and shrinking depending on how you look at them. It's crazy.
And the universe itself? It's not just a random scattering of galaxies. They're arranged in this beautiful, three-dimensional pattern. The whole thing is expanding, like, at a crazy pace, which means everything we see is basically the leftovers from this massive explosion. And get this: we can only see about 5% of the universe. The other 95%? Totally invisible to us. And beyond that, there's even *more* universe that's, like, 100% invisible. It's insane!
All of this just, wow, took my breath away, you know?
So, pretty soon, I started asking myself, okay, how did this totally amazing, mostly invisible universe come to be so... well, amazing and mostly invisible?
My areas of study, physics, astronomy, math, they kind of pointed me to one answer: the universe was an accident. A random little blip, a disturbance in something called the quantum vacuum. Now, this is supposed to be completely empty, but, and here's the thing, it's actually jam-packed with these unseen force fields. And these fields can just, out of nowhere, cough up real, honest-to-goodness atomic particles. Think of it like, um, invisible guitar strings that just make sound if you pluck them hard enough.
So, basically, science says that at some point in the past, something plucked these invisible force fields inside the empty quantum vacuum and boom! Out came the universe.
Now, this is a pretty wild idea, right? I had to, as a grad student, buy into this huge paradox: The quantum vacuum is absolutely *nothing*, but it has the *potential* to be absolutely *everything*. It’s like a womb that's both barren and super fertile.
And yeah, that sounds kinda supernatural. But, it's backed up by quantum physics, which is, you know, a big deal in modern science. So, even though it sounds a bit mystical, we scientists take it seriously.
We even have a fancy way of describing this whole nothing-is-everything thing. We say that, get this, nothing is *unstable*. According to this idea, if you wait long enough, nothing will become something. Even an entire universe.
And, just to be clear, we call this the standard model of cosmology. Or sometimes, the standard model of big-bang cosmology. There are even more names for it, but, you know, I won't bore you with the technical stuff.
For a long time, I went along with this. Yeah, I thought, the standard model completely answers the question of how the universe came to be. And even today, I gotta say, the standard model is backed by some pretty good evidence, and some of the equations are just plain beautiful, works of art even.
But, I eventually realized that the standard model has some *serious* problems. Problems that have actually gotten worse over time. In fact, cosmology today is kind of, you know, in a crisis.
Let me try to explain this...
So, basically, the standard model is like a marriage of two huge ideas: general relativity and quantum physics.
General relativity is our best way to explain gravity and, like, all the big stuff it controls: planets, stars, galaxies, black holes, all that.
Quantum physics, on the other hand, is our best way to explain the other forces out there: electromagnetism, the weak force, the strong force, and all the super tiny stuff they control: atoms, electrons, quarks, all that.
Now, the first beautiful equation I mentioned, that's Einstein's field equation, which is central to general relativity. The second equation is all about the quantum vacuum, which is super important in quantum physics.
So, here's the problem: the two equations, and the two theories themselves, are fundamentally *incompatible*. They're like oil and water. And that means this marriage of theirs within the standard model is, yeah, a disaster. It’s a bit of a deception, really.
Think of it this way: Imagine you're building a tunnel from two sides. If you want the two sides to meet in the middle, you have to, you know, make sure you’re building toward the same location. Well, general relativity and quantum physics are like two enormous boring machines digging away at the universe from opposite ends, from the big side and the tiny side. Each machine is awesome at what it does, but the two sides don’t connect.
For years, we've been trying to find ways to fix this dysfunctional marriage. One idea is string theory, which says that space and time aren't made of points, but of strings that have tons of dimensions.
Now, this is a pretty cool idea. It could fix the problem between general relativity and quantum physics, and it even suggests that our universe is just one of many, an infinite number, even. I'll get to that later.
But, string theory has its own issues. So, even though it could solve the crisis, it actually makes things worse in other ways.
As a grad student, I was just, you know, thinking about these problems and trying my best to believe in the standard model. But eventually, I couldn't ignore the problems anymore.
So, I had a decision to make. Was there another theory that could explain the origin of the universe better? There were some contenders, but they all had their own problems.
Around this time, the astronomer Carl Sagan was getting super famous. He was on TV all the time and everyone knew him. He was even hosting a big series on PBS called Cosmos.
I knew Carl, I'd even taken classes from him. And he was always talking about something called the Vedas.
So, I got curious. I wanted to know what the Vedas were all about.
I found out that the Vedas are the sacred writings of Hinduism, which is the oldest religion in the world. This just fascinated me, so I dove in headfirst, you know, like I do with anything I find interesting.
I discovered the novels of Hermann Hesse. I really connected with Hesse's characters, intellectuals on long, winding journeys searching for answers.
That was me, you know?
Over the next few years, I became fascinated with all sorts of metaphysical belief systems: Buddhism, Chinese mysticism, Islam, all of it. My thesis professor was Jewish, so I even explored Judaism and Jewish mysticism.
And, fun fact, during this journey, I learned to love chopped chicken liver. I used to hate it as a kid. But my professor, he'd always offer it to me, and eventually, I gave it a try and loved it.
At one point, I even tried Transcendental Meditation, TM. A guru came to Cornell claiming that TM could make you levitate.
Levitating? That's insane! As a scientist, I had to know.
It never worked for me, but it was still a fascinating experience.
So, one night, it was like three in the morning, I went back to my dorm room, and I saw a white envelope under my door. It was a Valentine's Day card, signed by Laurel. And I remember thinking I didn't even know it was Valentine's Day.
Laurel was an undergraduate who'd taken my physics class a while back. She always sat in the front row, asked great questions, and she was, you know, beautiful.
She was volunteering for a group I'd started to encourage multidisciplinary studies, the kind I was doing.
But a Valentine's Day card? From her? She was a sorority girl, and I was, you know, a nerdy grad student. It was like a scene from Beauty and the Beast.
I thanked her, and I started changing my routine. Laurel lived with some other students in a house with a roof deck. I started going up on the roof with her late at night, talking under the stars.
When I asked her why she'd sent me the card, she said she was intrigued by me. My weird behavior, switching fields, working on a complicated thesis, starting that society, getting so little sleep, it had made me something of a campus legend. Like Cornell's own Phantom of the Opera, but better looking.
She also said she sensed "a latent spirituality" in me. That was her phrase. She found my exploration of religions fascinating because she was searching for deeper meaning too.
She'd grown up Catholic, but her parents' divorce had changed everything. Her mom had left the Church and gotten into New Age stuff. Laurel had followed along.
She'd been to New Age retreats and learned about yoga, crystals, past lives, all that. But at Cornell, she'd dated a Christian guy and started thinking about Christianity again. She asked me what I thought about it. I told her about my background and how it seemed foreign to me now.
Then she asked, "Have you ever actually read the Bible?"
I said, "No."
I knew the basic teachings, so it was old news to me. I wanted to explore religions I *didn't* know about.
Plus, I thought that people who believed in the Bible hated science. And that was a big turnoff for me. I loved science more than anything.
Laurel didn't argue. But one day she said, "Hey, I've never read the Bible either. If you read it, I'll read it with you."
I couldn't refuse. Not because I wanted to read the Bible, but because I wanted to spend more time with Laurel.
I had no idea it would change my life.
So, for the next two years, Laurel and I read the Bible, cover to cover.
We met on Sundays, carving out time from our studies. Usually at her house, sometimes at the student union or a local cafe.
It took us two years because we analyzed every single word. If something didn't make sense, we'd talk it out. We had a ton of questions, and we wrote them down.
The Old Testament was mostly depressing. God created us, we messed up, he got angry. He kept giving us chances, we kept messing up, and he kept getting mad. There was no happy ending.
But, the Old Testament was also extremely logical. Like all the other religions I'd studied. You get what you deserve; karma wins. You mess up, the universe punishes you. It’s an eye for an eye.
And if you want to get into heaven, you have to earn it. No free lunch. The logic is very simple, very predictable.
The New Testament, though, was totally different. Which was shocking. Reading the Old Testament felt like sitting in the dark. But when we started reading the New Testament, it was like the lights came on.
In the New Testament, God isn't mad at us anymore. He wants to make peace. He does it in a way that’s hard to believe but that takes our species by storm.
And the New Testament didn’t seem logical. It claims Jesus is both man and God. He's mortal and immortal at the same time. How is that possible?
The God-man says things that defy logic. You can be a huge sinner and still get into heaven. You should love your enemies. The last shall be first. You must die in order to truly live. The meek shall rule the world.
Huh?
That last one set my mind racing because it defies logic and evolutionary biology. Darwinism says the strongest, not the meekest, shall always rule the world.
But surprisingly, the New Testament’s disregard for logic didn't turn me off. It reminded me of quantum physics.
Quantum physics isn’t logical either. It says something can exist and not exist at the same time. Something can get from here to there without actually traveling between the two points. Something can be nothing and everything at the same time.
It all sounds crazy, just like the New Testament. But there's a lot of evidence that quantum physics is trustworthy.
So, quantum physics isn’t logical, but it’s not nonsense.
And for that reason, I knew I couldn’t dismiss the New Testament either. I had to take it seriously. I needed to see where it led me. Only then could I reach a fair verdict.
This is important. Listen to this carefully.
Just because something isn’t logical doesn’t mean it’s illogical. Just because it doesn’t make sense doesn’t mean it’s nonsense. If you limit your analysis to logic, you risk overlooking the most profound truths about yourself and the universe.
Why?
Reasoning that doesn’t sound logical, that sounds like nonsense, might very well be what I call translogical thinking. Quantum physics and the New Testament are examples of this.
Conventional thinking leads you to trivial truths. Trivial truths are logical and commonplace. A trivial truth makes sense. Above all, the opposite of a trivial truth is always false.
Translogical thinking leads to profound truths. A profound truth is not logical. It doesn’t make sense. Above all, and this is hard to believe, the opposite of a profound truth is also true.
A physicist named Niels Bohr explained it: “Profound truths are recognized by the fact that the opposite is also a profound truth, in contrast to trivialities where opposites are obviously absurd.”
Here's an example: "A dime is worth ten cents." This is a trivial truth because its opposite is false: "A dime is *not* worth ten cents."
Now consider: "The quantum vacuum is nothingness." This is a profound truth because its opposite is also true: "The quantum vacuum is *not* nothingness."
According to quantum physics, the quantum vacuum is both nothing and everything. It's empty space, but it's also filled with particles.
I know, it doesn’t make sense. You're used to thinking logically. You're used to thinking that the opposite of true is false. So translogical truths don’t make any sense to you. But they are, nonetheless, true. In fact, they are the most profound truths in the universe.
Translogical thinking is the most penetrating way of seeing the universe. It's a superpower unique to humans; no other animal is capable of it. It’s a special kind of intelligence that goes beyond the normal rules of logic.
You can do translogical thinking, and so can I. But not everyone uses it.
Back when I was reading the Bible with Laurel, I already knew about translogical thinking. So I recognized that the New Testament *might* be translogical. That, far from being trivial, it was actually signaling profundity. For this reason, the New Testament captivated me like no other sacred writing ever had.
Still, it wasn’t enough to make me stop being an atheist. Not by a long shot.