---
I am a materialist. As Don Cupitt explained on TV the other night, everything we experience—from the tiniest speck of dust to the vast and starry sky—is accounted for by science. Lawrence Krauss says the whole show probably started as a quantum fluctuation in unstable nothingness. Imagine that. Nothing kinda flickers and suddenly, boom—the universe.
And all the politics, the economics, the moral dilemmas, the habits and deliberations of thoughtful people like me—it’s all explained by Darwinism. More science. It all fits together, neat as clockwork.
But when I say I am a materialist, I can’t help but quibble over the ‘I’. Science tells me that rocks, flowers, and I are just different arrangements of the same raw stuff. But unlike me, rocks and flowers don’t seem to sit around wondering about it. They don’t argue with themselves at three in the morning about free will or feel slightly uncomfortable about being nothing more than glorified chemical reactions.
So I suppose I’m a materialist about everything except the ‘I’ part.
Not that I’m saying there isn’t a materialist explanation—it’s just that nobody’s been able to show me how that would work. Nobody seems to know. And only last year, I still thought scientists knew everything.
I’m not drawing any conclusions. I’m not sneaking a ‘God of the Gaps’ in through the back door. I’m just saying: it feels like a mystery. A real, solid, uncracked mystery. Just like how nobody truly understands what reality is, underneath all that quantum weirdness.
Maybe our brains, locked inside our skulls, just invented everything—from time to space to physics—out of pure, floating ideas!
Wow.