There is a part in atheist writer and founder of objectivism Ayn Rand’s book “The Fountainhead,” where the main character, Howard Roark, looks at a skyscraper, marveling. He thinks to himself not how amazing the skyscraper itself is, but how amazing is the mind that created it. He reminds himself how things like a skyscraper, or a city or any other astonishing thing made by humans, is nothing but a monument to the greatness of mankind, specifically of the greatness of that man or woman who made it.
In “Atlas Shrugged,” Ayn’s own monument, the main character, Dagney Taggert, finds a part of a motor in an old abandoned factory. She recognizes that the engineering of this motor is such that it could change the course of the advancement of …things that use motors… which is of course, just about every manmade thing that moves. When she sees this piece of a motor, she sees the possibilities and what it means for the advancement of humanity and of her company. But more importantly, she sees behind this motor a brilliant mind. She sees the motor, and she knows that somewhere out in the world, there is a person who made that motor, and she sets out to find him. In fact, she spends half the book looking for him desperately. She begins to think of the maker of that motor as her salvation, and when she finds him, he’s everything she hoped for and more.
And it’s true, what Howard Roark said. Or what Ayn Rand said through the character of Howard Roark. When we see a creation, we see how amazing its creator is. When we were in Florence, Kate and I saw Michelangelo’s “David.” It was possibly the most extraordinary piece of art I have ever seen. You think to yourself, “I’m just going to see a statue. What’s the big deal?” But then you see it, and it takes your breath away. We stared at it for a half an hour. We pointed to different parts and said in loud whispers things like, “Look at the palm of his hand!” and “Look at his toenails!” and “The veins! Look at the veins in his forearms!” and “His eyes!” and mostly “Michelangelo was amazing.” We were mesmerized by the beauty, but we were immediately marveling at the brilliance and talent of Michelangelo. It was him we saw, his mind and ability we gazed upon when we stared into the eyes of the David.
In my college theology class, we learned about two ways in which God speaks to us: through general revelation and special revelation. Special revelation is God using words for the most part to speak directly to you individually (e.g. The Bible, Moses and the burning bush, the Holy Spirit speaking to us each day, etc.). General revelation is God revealing himself to all of humanity. There is only one example of this that I remember: Nature, the universe … all of creation.
At the time, I remember thinking this seemed a little unfair. I mean, the trees and flowers and mountains hardly explained about Jesus and repenting of our sins and so forth. I mean, how were the Native Americans supposed to get that from just the breeze and the sun and the lake? But the more that I think of it now, the more I wonder if God made a place for people like the Native Americans in pre-settled America. Because they looked around themselves and realized what every logical human being decides when he or she sees a creation: that it was created. They saw the animals and the plants and the rivers and rocks and themselves, and they said, “A great being, greater than ourselves, made all of this. And he/she/it is deserving of our worship.”
In fact, I can’t think of any people group, Native American, aboriginal or otherwise, who encountered the world in which they lived and didn’t decide that someone must have created it. And although they, like their European counterparts, didn’t have all of the scientific advances we have today, they were far from stupid. If they had been walking in the woods and found an arrow, they would have known someone else had been there and someone had made that arrow. And they looked at the trees and rocks the animals and said the same thing.
If you decided to become an explorer, and you got in a boat and traveled to an island which had not yet been discovered, and you got out of the boat and whipped out your machete and started making your way through this glorious new country, what would happen if you suddenly came upon a broken-down old truck? What would you say to yourself? Would you say, “Wow! Nature is amazing! Out of this untouched island a truck has grown! Perhaps there was once a piece of metal that has, over the millennia, evolved into this truck!”
Of course not. That would be ridiculous. Just because you thought the island had never been discovered, and just because you couldn’t see anyone and hadn’t and maybe never would see anyone on that island, the truck itself is proof that someone else has been there.
And I suppose all of these things, in a meandering sort of way, explain why I can’t understand how anyone can NOT believe in God. Even if you don’t believe in Jesus or the God of Jacob, Isaac and Abraham, how can anyone not see the world, see the astonishing brilliance and resourcefulness and creativity of human beings, and not see a creator?
Macroevolution just doesn’t make sense. This world is too complicated, too … creative. There’s too much about its parts that are dependent on each other. From the ozone to ecosystems to the way that in order for one part of my body to function, a completely different part must function as well, and in order for that one to function, the first must also be functioning. Science tells me that things don’t generally become more complicated. Science tells me that macroevolution does not make rational, logical sense. Science tells me that it takes more faith to believe in evolution than it does to believe in a creator. A straight line is the fastest way to get from point A to point B, and sometimes the most obvious explanation is the right one.
