The expression "nature, red in tooth and claw" is so well known that it has become virtually proverbial. It comes from the 56th stanza of Tennyson's "In Memoriam." I will put it in its immediate context, though he has much more to say:
Who trusted God was love indeed
And love Creation's final law
Tho' Nature, red in tooth and claw
With ravine, shriek'd against his creed
Tennyson cries in despair at the futility of human life, and he pinpoints the threat of an evolutionary view of nature to theology. In face of the heartless indifference of nature, which carries humans to dust along with the millions of extinct species, how can one believe that love is creation's final law? There can hardly be a theology of nature, if nature is such an amoral, purposeless, irresistible power.
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COMMENTARY: ’Nature, Red in tooth and claw’
Keith Ward asks ’Can there be a theology of nature?’
The expression nature red in tooth and claw is so well known that it has become virtually proverbial. It comes from the 56th stanza of Tennyson's In Memoriam. I will put it in its immediate context, though he has much more to say:
Who trusted God was love indeed
And love Creation's final law
Tho' Nature, red in tooth and claw
With ravine, shriek'd against his creed
Tennyson cries in despair at the futility of human life, and he pinpoints the threat of an evolutionary view of nature to theology. In face of the heartless indifference of nature, which carries humans to dust along with the millions of extinct species, how can one believe that love is creation's final law? There can hardly be a theology of nature, if nature is such an amoral, purposeless, irresistible power.
The story that evolution has to tell, at least as it is usually told, is of a ruthless competition for survival, in which a constant battle against rivals is necessary for existence. Tennyson wrote his poem a few years before Darwin's theory appeared, and his pessimism is supported by the fact that the list of species that have been extinguished by the natural processes of evolution, or by natural catastrophes, is exceedingly long.
T. H. Huxley, in a lecture on Evolution and Ethics, held that we have no moral lessons to learn from nature and indeed are bound to oppose its insensitivity to all the particular forms of life it indiscriminately and inconsiderately spews forth.
This evolutionary story has been examined theologically many times. I do not want to do more here than remark that what a theist cannot accept is that the process is blind, accidental or morally unjustifiable. However the world is, God planned it that way, for a good purpose.
It is difficult to say that in the past nature was perfect but became corrupted as a result of human sin. Suffering and death have been parts of the evolutionary story long before human life existed, and if destruction and pain are ever to be abolished from nature, it will be in the future and as a result of human effort. While we might not be very optimistic about this possibility, it does hold the possibility of a change in orientation from looking sadly back at lost perfection to looking hopefully to future perfectibility.
In Tennyson's case, there is not much hope around, since the whole process is without direction or purpose, and we will eventually all be blown about by the desert dust. Christians are committed to thinking that a good God created the universe for a purpose. The cosmic optimism that things might get better is rooted originally in the Jewish prophetic hope for the coming of a society of justice and love and for a renewed creation, so clearly adumbrated in Isaiah.
Oddly enough, it was probably early Christian belief in an imminent end of this world which qualified that optimism to such an extent that the world was sometimes seen as doomed to destruction, and any hope there was became focussed on the after-life. It is not accidental that Malthus, by whom Darwin was greatly influenced, was a Christian minister of a very pessimistic sort.
If we could take evolution in an optimistic way, we might find a restoration of that cosmic optimism which was the original context of Jewish Messianic hope. It does not matter that nature was perfect in some remote past. What matters is human responsibility to make it better in the immediate future. God's promise is that there is a good purpose to be fully realised by the existence of this universe, and humans have a positive part to play in realising it.
The Messianic hope for the coming of Christ in glory would need to be clearly reconfigured as the hope for a fulfillment of the purpose God has in creating the universe. Christ has been manifest in humility and hope in the person of Jesus. But the full manifestation of Christ in glory and fulfilled love has to be the completion of the potential goodness of all created things. Therefore, there is good reason to hope that the universe will continue to exist so all the good things God plans to bring forth will be actualised.
Many of the first Christians were overwhelmed by their experience of Jesus' resurrection and influenced by their expectation that universal resurrection would follow immediately. They did not realise God's will would be known by peoples and generations far away and as yet unborn. In consequence, their Messianic hope became curiously foreshortened and impossibly limited in its range.
The change in orientation from renunciation of a doomed world to positive action and hope for a divinely intended future is a restoration of true Messianic expectation. The coming of the Christ whom we have seen as the suffering servant in the glory of a completed purpose for the whole cosmos speaks of a return of Christ within one generation.
Such passages stress that salvation is not a matter of humans being taken out of the realm of nature into a different, heavenly world, leaving this cosmos to decay. God's purpose is in Christ to reconcile to himself all things, whether on earth or in heaven (Colossians 1:19). God's plan is to unite in him all things in heaven and on earth (Ephesians 1:9).
It is the whole creation, which groans in travail, waiting for redemption, and God's plan is to create a new heaven and earth, which will be this universe. In this view, the universe is acknowledged to be imperfect and alienated from God, but its destiny is to be united in and reconciled to God.
In that way, Christ's work is not concerned only with saving human souls. It is concerned with renewing the whole of nature. Nature is to be brought to its proper perfection through the work of those who are filled with the Spirit of Christ. We must respect the earth as owned by God, as suffering to a great extent from humans' alienation from God, as waiting for redemption, and as calling for human responsible action to liberate it from frustration and bring it to its intended fulfillment.
All this is predicated on the thought that there is a purpose in the cosmic process. Many biologists would reject that view, but there is nothing that contradicts the findings of the biological sciences in the view that there is an inborn propensity in the natural order to the development of complex, integrated, intelligent life forms.
The process by which the flickering and transient energies within the atom give rise to stable atomic compounds, then to self-replicating molecules of immense and organised complexity, to the formation of central nervous systems which enable organisms to react consciously to their environment, and finally, on this planet at least, the emergence of the neo-cortex, making possible abstract understanding and responsible freedom, is readily interpretable as directed towards the genesis of intelligent agency.
A creator who wishes intelligent life to be formed by such a process could well have set the process up so that it would sooner or later result in such intelligent life. And those who think there is a creator are committed to viewing the process as purposive in this sense.
But it is not plausible to see every detail of the process, as we now know it to be, as personally designed by a loving God. There have been so many blind alleys in evolution, so many genetic mutations which have not proved conducive to survival, and so many dispositions built up over millennia which are now counter-productive to the sustenance of life, that it is unconvincing to take nature, as William Paley did, as the perfect contrivance of a God who designs every detail for the best. Chance, accident and competition are integral parts of the process, and many things that happen are not choosable for their beauty or goodness. As Stephen J. Gould says, in combatting a Paley-type view, We need only think of the ugliness of Sacculina or a bladder worm, the stupidity of a rhinoceros or a stegosaur, the horror of a female mantis devouring its mate, or a brood of ichneuman flies slowly eating out a caterpillar (Non-moral Nature, in The Sacred Beetle, ed. M. Gardner, OUP, 1985).
It has to be said that none of these things are really horrific if we do not think of caterpillars and mantises as being sensitive to pain, of rhinoceri as bemoaning their lack of intelligence, and of bladder worms as striking artistic poses. There is plenty of beauty in the molecular structure of a bladder worm, plenty of wisdom in the moulding of fizzing electrons into relatively organised rhinoceri, and plenty of goodness in a system which brings emergent intelligence out of the same natural process which generates a world of flies and caterpillars.
Nevertheless, there is enough pain and frustration in nature, even if only in conscious animals, to lead us to say that not all its details are specifically designed by God. The system may be designed, its goal and the goods it realises. But a great many of its particular causes are due to other factors whether free choices, random events, or simply unwelcome by-products of a whole system of probabilistic interactions between created entities.
I would expect Christians to reject an interpretation of natural selection, which is such that it is a matter of sheer chance which organisms survive the Gould idea that if we ran the process of evolution on earth again, we would probably get a quite different result. There is little difficulty in rejecting such an interpretation, since if all that happens does so as a result of the operation of laws of nature, then the author of those laws can know and ensure exactly what the result of natural selection will be.
The process can be set up to ensure the eventual genesis of rational sentient organisms, even of human beings if the conditions are specified closely enough. In that sense, one can speak of a purpose in nature a goal intended by God, in which God devises laws to be realized in time.
If the process is one of trial and error, of experimentation with possibilities, of deploying varying strategies of interaction with environment, then many particular sub-processes are going to fail to achieve the goal.
Where mutations are very often deleterious to organisms, because they are experiments, which do not work in adaptive fitness terms, there seems little reason to refuse to adjust them. In other words, we can often frustrate the way in which nature acts, in order to achieve goals, which are those of nature in a broad sense, but not of all the sub-processes of nature. Indeed, since we are part of nature, our interventionist action may be a proper way of attaining those general goals.
Of course, humans should not frustrate God's purpose. But if God's purpose is the genesis of rational sentient life, we might frustrate that more by not interfering with nature when we have the chance to do so. God may choose natural selection as the means to the divine purposes, but if we can make it more efficient and less wasteful, it seems sensible to do so.
In short, the normal evolutionary view undermines the theory that God plans each part of the cosmic process in detail, replacing it with the theory that God plans the general direction and goal, but leaves many of its elements to chance, or to random mutation and natural selection.
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Keith Ward has recently been named a fellow of the British Academy. He is the Regius Professor of Divinity and head of the faculty of theology at the University of Oxford and a priest of the Church of England and Canon of Christ Church, Oxford. He holds doctor of divinity degrees from Cambridge and Oxford Universities. Formerly dean of Trinity Hall, Cambridge, and professor of history and philosophy of religion at the University of London, he has lectured at the universities of Glasgow, St. Andrew's and Cambridge. He is a member of the Governing Council of the Royal Institute of Philosophy and has taught at Drake University, Claremont Graduate School and the University of Tulsa. He is also a prolific author.
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