In his brief and (mostly) tightly argued book God, Freedom, and Evil, Alvin Plantinga writes:

"[S]ome theologians and theistic philosophers have tried to give successful arguments or proofs for the existence of God.  This enterprise is called natural theology… Other philosophers, of course, have presented arguments for the falsehood of theistic beliefs; these philosophers conclude that belief in God is demonstrably irrational or unreasonable.  We might call this enterprise natural atheology."  (pp. 2-3)

With all due respect for Plantinga, I’ve always found the expression “natural atheology” pretty annoying, even when I was an atheist.  The reason is that, given what natural theology as traditionally understood is supposed to be, the suggestion that there is a kind of bookend subject matter called “natural atheology” is somewhat inept.  (As we will see, though, Plantinga evidently does not think of natural theology in a traditional way.)

Start with the “theology” part of natural theology.  “Theology” means “the science of God,” in the Aristotelian sense of “science” -- a systematic, demonstrative body of knowledge of some subject matter in terms of its first principles.  Of course, atheists deny that there is any science of God even in this Aristotelian sense, but for present purposes that is neither here nor there.  The point is that a science is what theology traditionally claims to be, and certainly aims to be.

Take the Scholastic theologian’s procedure.  First, arguments are developed which purport to demonstrate the existence of a first cause of things.  Next, it is argued that when we analyze what it is to be a first cause, we find that of its essence such a cause must be pure actuality rather than a mixture of act and potency, absolutely simple or non-composite, and so forth.  Third, it is then argued that when we follow out the implications of something’s being purely actual, absolutely simple, etc. and also work backward from the nature of the effect to the nature of the cause, the various divine attributes (intellect, will, power, etc.) all follow.  Then, when we consider the character of the created order as well as that of a cause which is purely actual, simple, etc., we can spell out the precise nature of God’s relationship to that order.  (For Aquinas this entails the doctrine of divine conservation and a concurrentist account of divine causality, as opposed to an occasionalist or deist account.)  And so forth.

Even someone who doubts that this sort of project can be pulled off can see its “scientific” character.  The domain studied is, of course, taken to be real, and its reality is defended via argumentation which claims to be demonstrative.  Further argumentation of a purportedly demonstrative character is put forward in defense of each component of the system, and the system is very large, purporting to give us fairly detailed knowledge not only of the existence of God, but of his essence and attributes and relation to the created order.  Moreover, the key background notions (the theory of act and potency, the analysis of causation, the metaphysics of substance, etc.) are tightly integrated into a much larger metaphysics and philosophy of nature, so that natural theology is by no means an intellectual fifth wheel, arbitrarily tacked on for merely apologetic purposes to an already complete and self-sufficient body of knowledge.

Rather, its status as the capstone of human knowledge is clear.  The natural sciences as we understand them today (physics, chemistry, biology, etc.) are grounded in principles of the philosophy of nature, whose subject matter concerns what any possible natural science must take for granted.  Philosophy of nature in turn rests on deeper principles of metaphysics, whose subject matter is being as such (rather than merely material or changeable being, which is the subject matter of philosophy of nature; and rather than the specific sort of material or changeable world that actually exists, which is the subject matter of natural science).  Natural theology, in turn, follows out the implications of the fundamental notions of philosophy of nature and metaphysics (the theory of act and potency, etc.) and offers ultimate explanations.

Again, you don’t have to think any of this works in order to see that what it aspires to is a kind of science.  By contrast, what Plantinga calls “atheology” could not possibly be any kind of science, and doesn’t claim to be.  For the “atheologian” doesn’t claim to be studying some domain of reality and giving us systematic knowledge of it.  On the contrary, his entire aim is to show that there is no good reason to think the domain in question is real.  You can have a “science” only of what exists, not of what doesn’t exist.  Otherwise “aunicornology” would be just as much a science as ichthyology or ornithology is.  Ichthyology and ornithology are sciences because there are such things as fishes and birds, and there is systematic knowledge to be had about what fishes and birds are like.  “Aunicornology” is not a science, because there is in the strict sense no such thing as a systematic body of knowledge of the nonexistence of unicorns, or of the nonexistence of anything else for that matter.  Suppose someone denied the existence of fishes and tried to offer arguments for their nonexistence.  It would hardly follow that he is committed to practicing something called “aichthyology” in the sense of a systematic body of knowledge of the nonexistence of fish.

Note that I am not saying anything here that an atheist couldn’t agree with.  The claim is not that one couldn’t have solid arguments for atheism (though of course I don’t think there are any).  The point is rather that even if there were solid arguments, they wouldn’t give you any kind of “science” in the sense of a systematic body of knowledge of some domain of reality.  Rather, what they would do is to show that some purported domain of reality doesn’t really exist.
 
 
NOTE: Dr. Feser's contributions at Strange Notions were originally posted on his blog, including this article, and therefore lose some of their context when reprinted here. Dr. Feser explains why that matters.

An atheist invites a Catholic over for dinner. The atheist host graciously plans to serve pan fried sea bass with a sauce made of black pepper, vermouth, fresh thyme, saffron, and a delicate touch of cream for good measure. She selects some greens and tomatoes for the side. On the way over, the Catholic picks a H.R.M. Rex Goliath Free Range Red, the bomb of all wines even with bass, 2 bottles also for good measure, and grabs a bag of Lindt dark chocolate bars for dessert.

The two women prepare their meal with excitement. The Catholic recommends slightly lowering the skillet temperature after adding the thick fish, so it roasts as it sears. The atheist gives it a try and acquires a nuance in her cooking skills. The atheist recommends a vinaigrette for the greens, honey and cayenne, something bold to marry the subtle entrée with the wine. The Catholic never thought of such a combination, but discovers that it works well. They synthesize the meal, set the table, and enjoy the fruits of their labor. It is a good evening, occurring within the greater context of each woman's life.

It's no different, really, in a laboratory. Two people can work together to achieve a mutual goal, and enjoy it despite differences beyond the immediate environment. Science, like cooking, occurs in a greater context of life. I think that point gets lost in the science vs. religion debates because there's some assumption that people of faith must set it aside to do science. It's exasperated by this new age idea that the only real kind of knowledge we can have is scientific knowledge, this belief that science can solve all of the tasks we face. I'd like to address these concerns from my perspective as a former research chemist in both academic and industrial settings. I was non-religious at the time. I had no convictions either way.

I worked alongside declared atheists, practicing Buddhists, faithful Muslims, evangelical Christians, and devout Catholics. In the decade I worked, I interacted with researchers from South Korea, China, Japan, Singapore, Hong Kong, Germany, Switzerland, France, Russia, England, Canada, Mexico, and Brazil. Science is a global enterprise, but scientific work is specialized. Therefore, people don't stand around arguing over religion before they design and run experiments, collect and communicate data. No one was expected to hide his or her faith as such a demand would have been childish and inhospitable, rudely narrow-minded.

Sure, over beer and chicken wings after work on Friday, during a cook-out at the boss's house in July, or while dining on a patio in Lyon, researchers had lively arguments on such topics beyond science, but it didn't interfere with our scientific work. Scientists are naturally interested in their peers because they are curious and open-minded, and routinely work in diverse teams united toward a common goal.

As a Catholic and full-time homemaker now, I study theology. I spend a lot of time trying to make sense of this science-religion Venn Diagram because it was not something I ever considered as a scientist. I've read Stephen J. Gould's generally accepted Non-Overlapping Magisteria (NOMA) concept that holds theology and science as two separate spheres of teaching authority occasionally bumping into each other. NOMA doesn't seem accurate though, it seems like a mis-characterization, a veiled attempt to convince Catholics to check their faith at the door, which makes about as much sense as asking your dinner host to believe the kitchen is the only room in her house, or expecting your dinner guest to believe cooking is all there is to living. I don't buy it. The people I worked with were not that controlling or unreasonable.

NOMA just doesn't jive with my experience, and my doctoral research certainly begged the question of God's existence. I worked, in part, on simulating photosynthesis, and it was a given that we had to study the design in nature to design our experiments in the lab. Whether a person believed in God or not, she could still aim a Nd:YAG laser the size of artillery, generating 532 nanometer wavelength light (the sun) at a cubic millimeter quartz cuvette containing monodisperse 35 nanometer silica spheres (that she made) layered with photoreactive polymers (the leaves), and see what happened. No one demanded or forbade I profess faith in an intelligent designer, though that research played a role in my later conversion. I have poignant memories of hurling the cuvette in the trash can, gripping the windowsill next to my desk, and staring at the dogwood trees below wondering how they could possess such secrets and appear so care-free.

The NOMA diagram is not, I argue, consistent with Catholic thought either. St. Thomas Aquinas describes a hierarchy of the sciences, the highest science is the study of sacred doctrine (theology) because its object is God, and the other sciences ordered below it from the abstract and speculative to the observable and tangible. All of the sciences are an integrated search for truth, which is ultimately a search for God because God is the author of truth. No science, whether speculative or practical, occupies a conceptual sphere outside the realm of truth. Theology and science as two equal bubbles bumping around in the space of human knowledge just doesn't fit.

Catholics do everything in the context of their faith. Science, for a Catholic, is understood within the context of the theology of creation, the study of the created world, part of a greater truth. Atheists or people of other religions can operate inside that same circle of scientific truth, just as two people can cook together in a kitchen, because the material world appears to all of us as a common experience. A Catholic operating within the context of the Catholic faith keeps the dignity of the human person and the custodial responsibility as a steward of nature before her at all times. She has every motivation to seek the truth, whatever it demands -- noble goals for anyone.

This isn't to say that the NOMA diagram doesn't represent any reality. Some people do view the relationship of science and theology in this way, especially for certain hard questions regarding our moral conduct, our origins, and our place in the universe. At some point the research is not just like cooking in the kitchen because there are conflicts about which materials are ethical to use and conflicts about how to interpret the data based on one's worldview.

For instance, a non-Catholic may expect a Catholic to do research on human embryos or fetuses on grounds of subjective moral reasoning in opposition to Catholic teaching. The non-Catholic may expect the Catholic to separate her faith from her science, true to the NOMA diagram. But to the Catholic, that request would be as absurd and tyrannical as asking her to chop up children in her kitchen and cook them just because a non-Catholic thinks it's moral. We are not going to progress in knowledge by imposing injustice.

Or a non-Catholic may expect a Catholic to superimpose materialistic beliefs on evolutionary biology or neuroscience data, to deny that humans have souls, but a Catholic cannot do that. Would an atheist appreciate being told he must interpret data in the light of faith? Surely not. The NOMA diagram encourages division, and such behavior will not further our collective knowledge, which is why I argue that the harder questions don't support the NOMA diagram, not for Catholics, not for people of other faiths, not for atheists. Rather, they highlight why it is insufficient.

What the NOMA diagram reflects is our incomplete knowledge. For if we had complete knowledge the spheres would merge into one, all our knowledge coming together toward ultimate answers. As the pagan philosopher, Mortimer J. Adler, so beautifully expressed: “Ultimately there can be no disagreement between history, science, philosophy, and theology. Where there is disagreement, there is either ignorance or error.” In fact, Gould admitted mid-way through his NOMA essay that there is some "interdigitating in wondrously complex ways along [science and religion's] joint border" and by the end he even softened his definition by conceding that NOMA "enjoins...the prospect of respectful discourse, of constant input from both magisteria toward the common goal of wisdom."

Yes, that's more like it. Cross the barriers, dialogue, and strive for unity, an idea as deeply human as sharing meals. Just as cooking a culinary masterpiece is a celebration of our skills in manipulating natural resources for the common good, so too is science a celebration of our shared humanity, but on a larger scale. Nonetheless, I don't think it's impossible to gather round that table.
 
 
(Image credit: Wine Palate)