The search is on for planets around nearby stars. In only the last decade or so have astronomers begun to find so-called extra-solar planets around other stars. Prior to that, they felt pretty confident that planets must be out there, but the difficulties of verifying their presence were beyond the tools at hand. More powerful telescopes and more powerful computers are now allowing these discoveries to be made.
How do astronomers detect planets circling other stars? There is as yet no telescope capable of adequately zeroing in on a planet in another solar system—a star is just too bright and the planets too small and dim to see them. But if the planets are there, they will exert the tiniest gravitational pull on their star, causing it to wobble a minute amount, as they circle. Today’s big telescopes, backed up by super computers, have the sensitivity to discern this miniscule quavering of a star and even infer what kinds of planets are causing the tremble. In fact, the planetary motion laws that Newton gave us can be used to determine how many planets are there, their masses, and the size of their orbits. It’s amazing what the laws of physics will allow us to discover indirectly!
So the search for extra-solar planets has kicked into high gear in the last several years. Different teams of astronomers using different facilities feed off of and compete with each other and keep the enthusiastic juices flowing. New telescopes and techniques are coming on line all the time and are racking up impressive findings.
Until a few years ago astronomers strongly suspected, but had no direct evidence of, planets beyond our solar system. The discoveries are now piling up quickly—on the order of 400 hundred planets or more have been found to date. (I give a rough number, because the tally mounts almost daily.) Last year NASA sent up the Kepler Space Telescope—especially designed to ferret out extra-solar planets. The Kepler team has already announced locating several more worlds out there. A formal NASA report is imminently due, that will likely add dramatically to the total.
So what has been found so far? The vast majority of recently discovered planets are huge—the size of Jupiter and more. The tools available thus far are not yet sensitive enough to find smaller worlds, like Earth, but Kepler will undoubtedly change that. Super Jupiters are nice to find, but they hold little chance of harboring life of a type anything like us—their gravity is too great, their atmosphere is too thick, and their temperatures are usually too high.
On to the Goldilocks planet next time…
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Friday, January 28, 2011
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Meek Heirs
The Beatitudes are one of the more enigmatic passages of the Bible. In fact, they sometimes seem downright oxymoronic. For example, the verse: “Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth.” It’s probably one of the more puzzling of the Beatitudes, and certainly goes against the popular thinking of today. “Nice guys finish last” is the trendier perception. Virtually nothing one sees in either the entertainment or political world suggests that anyone but the tough guys will triumph in the end.
Given that this Beatitude is such a riddle, it has spawned endless interpretations and explanations. I have no intention here of entering either the philosophical or theological arenas and getting mired down in speculation, or even try to guess what Jesus meant by this statement. Many of his biblical quotes pose paradoxes for us, and the true meaning of these statements probably has many layers and varying interpretations—depending on our particular circumstances. One of the beautiful attributes of Semitic languages—such as Aramaic and Arabic—is that they can have multiple meanings, depending on a given situation. Their relevance continues to speak to us, even as times change.
A similar paradoxical statement is found in the Tao Te Ching, the scripture of Taoism. Two example partial verses are:
“The hard and stiff will be broken. / The soft and supple will prevail.”
“The soft overcomes the hard, / The gentle overcomes the rigid.”
In contrast to popular interpretation, the dictionary definition of meek is to be quiet, gentle, and soft—not weak and frightened. Thus the Tao suggests—as does Jesus—that it is the gentle and soft people who will eventually triumph, that they will ultimately “inherit the earth.”
What started me thinking along this line recently was pondering the fact that mammals—once the meek critters skittering among the feet of the huge dinosaurs—eventually came to inherit their earth. For nearly 200 million years the dinosaurs ruled the planet. Think of that: 200,000,000 years! That’s a thousand times longer than we humans have been a separate species! During the dinosaurs’ realm the mammals were relegated to the shadows—meekly scurrying about the edges. The dinosaurs were big and powerful. Mammals were small (more diminutive than a kitty cat) and indeed quite weak.
In time, however (and aided by a crashing meteorite), mammals came to take control. Why did they (the “soft and supple”) prevail, while the dinosaurs (the “hard and stiff”) disappeared? How is it that the mighty dinosaurs, who were superbly fit at the time, did not survive this celestial catastrophe? The main reason is that the dinosaurs had evolved to a very static state of equilibrium, wherein they were no longer being tested and didn’t need to struggle to survive. They were boss! They could afford to become set in their ways, fat and happy, and not worry about any challenges that they could see on the horizon. Those puny little mammals were effectively sidelined and forced to scramble for the scraps. No competition.
Things worked fine (for 200 million years!) for the big guys, until the game suddenly changed. When times got tough in the wake of the meteorite crash (the planet went into a deep freeze and food nearly vanished), the entrenched, overconfident creatures couldn’t cope, while the humble and flexible (the meek) little mammals who were used to tough times, persevered. Mammals could roll with the climatic punches and better deal with adversity. They came to inherit the earth and Homo sapiens came to be the main heirs.
What might this meek inheritance issue mean to us today—other than maybe being an interesting puzzle? It seems quite possible to me that one of the key advantages the meek have is their patience—their ability to withstand and accept suffering. They have no choice, if they want to survive. The powerful hold the trump cards—no need for them to suffer. Those who are patient also tend to be gentle and humble—no sense in acting belligerent if you hold the short straw. Sooner or later, however, conditions always change. The current balance will be upset and the meek just might then be favored—especially if they have learned how to be flexible and nimble.
We are in a situation today wherein the meek are once again being ruled by the powerful—the masses of people who are being controlled by the very rich. Our culture tends to look upon the meek as weak and cowardly, and that is why they are easily manipulated by the powerful, and even thought to deserve their plight. But what if, instead, they are really gentle, soft, supple, and humbly patient? Might their time be coming, to inherit the earth? Even more interesting, that same reasoning might also apply to all of the human species—currently the dominant player on the planet. We humans tend to shove around many meek species—insects, birds, frogs, etc.—who may simply be waiting for their inheritance, while we are busy upsetting the environmental applecart and just possibly our earthly dominance with it.
Given that this Beatitude is such a riddle, it has spawned endless interpretations and explanations. I have no intention here of entering either the philosophical or theological arenas and getting mired down in speculation, or even try to guess what Jesus meant by this statement. Many of his biblical quotes pose paradoxes for us, and the true meaning of these statements probably has many layers and varying interpretations—depending on our particular circumstances. One of the beautiful attributes of Semitic languages—such as Aramaic and Arabic—is that they can have multiple meanings, depending on a given situation. Their relevance continues to speak to us, even as times change.
A similar paradoxical statement is found in the Tao Te Ching, the scripture of Taoism. Two example partial verses are:
“The hard and stiff will be broken. / The soft and supple will prevail.”
“The soft overcomes the hard, / The gentle overcomes the rigid.”
In contrast to popular interpretation, the dictionary definition of meek is to be quiet, gentle, and soft—not weak and frightened. Thus the Tao suggests—as does Jesus—that it is the gentle and soft people who will eventually triumph, that they will ultimately “inherit the earth.”
What started me thinking along this line recently was pondering the fact that mammals—once the meek critters skittering among the feet of the huge dinosaurs—eventually came to inherit their earth. For nearly 200 million years the dinosaurs ruled the planet. Think of that: 200,000,000 years! That’s a thousand times longer than we humans have been a separate species! During the dinosaurs’ realm the mammals were relegated to the shadows—meekly scurrying about the edges. The dinosaurs were big and powerful. Mammals were small (more diminutive than a kitty cat) and indeed quite weak.
In time, however (and aided by a crashing meteorite), mammals came to take control. Why did they (the “soft and supple”) prevail, while the dinosaurs (the “hard and stiff”) disappeared? How is it that the mighty dinosaurs, who were superbly fit at the time, did not survive this celestial catastrophe? The main reason is that the dinosaurs had evolved to a very static state of equilibrium, wherein they were no longer being tested and didn’t need to struggle to survive. They were boss! They could afford to become set in their ways, fat and happy, and not worry about any challenges that they could see on the horizon. Those puny little mammals were effectively sidelined and forced to scramble for the scraps. No competition.
Things worked fine (for 200 million years!) for the big guys, until the game suddenly changed. When times got tough in the wake of the meteorite crash (the planet went into a deep freeze and food nearly vanished), the entrenched, overconfident creatures couldn’t cope, while the humble and flexible (the meek) little mammals who were used to tough times, persevered. Mammals could roll with the climatic punches and better deal with adversity. They came to inherit the earth and Homo sapiens came to be the main heirs.
What might this meek inheritance issue mean to us today—other than maybe being an interesting puzzle? It seems quite possible to me that one of the key advantages the meek have is their patience—their ability to withstand and accept suffering. They have no choice, if they want to survive. The powerful hold the trump cards—no need for them to suffer. Those who are patient also tend to be gentle and humble—no sense in acting belligerent if you hold the short straw. Sooner or later, however, conditions always change. The current balance will be upset and the meek just might then be favored—especially if they have learned how to be flexible and nimble.
We are in a situation today wherein the meek are once again being ruled by the powerful—the masses of people who are being controlled by the very rich. Our culture tends to look upon the meek as weak and cowardly, and that is why they are easily manipulated by the powerful, and even thought to deserve their plight. But what if, instead, they are really gentle, soft, supple, and humbly patient? Might their time be coming, to inherit the earth? Even more interesting, that same reasoning might also apply to all of the human species—currently the dominant player on the planet. We humans tend to shove around many meek species—insects, birds, frogs, etc.—who may simply be waiting for their inheritance, while we are busy upsetting the environmental applecart and just possibly our earthly dominance with it.
Sunday, January 23, 2011
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Things Like Us
There’s a natural propensity for all creatures to be more sensitive to and aware of things that are similar to them—in size or appearance. Evolution has taught us to pay greater attention to other beings and objects that are like us than those who are greatly different. A spider, for example, focuses on insects that are similar in size—since its survival depends on trapping and eating them. Bacteria are far too small to interest a spider (let alone even be aware of) and an automobile is far too big to do anything about. Spiders thus remain oblivious to either microorganisms or Buicks.
This limitation of only perceiving things like us makes a lot of evolutionary sense—since they are more likely either to be enemies or friends (or even mates). A lion prowling on the African savanna cares little about a grasshopper on a nearby bush, nor does it pay much attention to a baobab tree (unless it provides some shade on a blistering afternoon). Our restricted attention saves us from sensory overload. If that lion became fixated on every bug or bush, it would surely miss an opportunity for its next meal.
Humans—being just another animal—also ignore dissimilar things. Even when we know about them, we often still tune them out. In addition, our propensity to think in a binary manner often causes us to label things as good or bad, based on whether they are like us or not. People who appear like us (of similar color and dress) are more likely to be perceived as friendly, while someone from a different culture or race may be classified as suspicious or even a threat.
This inclination for ignoring or discounting things outside our narrow view (even when we know they are there) is an interesting peculiarity of Homo sapiens. In fact, our greater cognitive ability and memory often add an exceptional dimension to our selective perceptions, most of which never occur to other animals. Although the spider or lion remain completely ignorant of things outside the normal range of their senses, we humans can become aware of them, but still choose to put our attention to more immediate sensations.
For example, our ability to extend our visual sense by using a telescope or microscope makes us aware of the presence and role of things as large as galaxies and as small as atoms. We know they are there, and some of us spend lifetimes investigating the very large and small, but for most of us they remain abstract images that are beyond our pale. We may hear the descriptions of particle physicists and astronomers and see the impressive images they capture, but our heads cannot seem to wrap themselves around the true significance of them. What does the immensity of a galaxy or the tiny scale of an atom really mean to us? Not much—maybe because we just can’t go there.
In a similar manner, we may know about the vast range of time scales—such as the billions of years that define the age of the universe or the tiniest fragments of a second that describe the vibrations of an atom. We can sit placidly and listen to a physicist describe these vastly different time scales. We may even be able to comprehend the abstract mathematical extremes of them, but can we really encompass their outrageous dimensions in our minds? Can we open our heads to the breadth?
Our eyes are sensitive to only the narrowest range of the electromagnetic spectrum. It’s probably necessary, so that we don’t become overloaded with visual information. Yet we are blind to the vast majority of the radiation that emanates from many things. A bee reacts to ultraviolet information that we are unaware of. A snake picks up on infrared signals that we miss.
As scientists are beginning to realize that the possibility of life elsewhere in the universe may be expressed in ways that are very alien to us—possibly not needing to be carbon based or inhaling oxygen or even needing water—the possibilities become mind-blowing. The nature of other worlds and other (possible) creatures out there just might be way beyond our current ability to guess. Our vision is earth-centered and very limited.
Things do not need to be like us to be real or relevant. The more we learn about this magnificent universe, the more we see that the possibilities are limitless. We could use more experiences that rattle our narrow perceptual cages and open us up to promises and potentials that are far beyond our existing confines. We need to grow up and understand that alien things are not necessarily a menace or unworthy, but can be as important as us and even serve to expand our consciousness.
This limitation of only perceiving things like us makes a lot of evolutionary sense—since they are more likely either to be enemies or friends (or even mates). A lion prowling on the African savanna cares little about a grasshopper on a nearby bush, nor does it pay much attention to a baobab tree (unless it provides some shade on a blistering afternoon). Our restricted attention saves us from sensory overload. If that lion became fixated on every bug or bush, it would surely miss an opportunity for its next meal.
Humans—being just another animal—also ignore dissimilar things. Even when we know about them, we often still tune them out. In addition, our propensity to think in a binary manner often causes us to label things as good or bad, based on whether they are like us or not. People who appear like us (of similar color and dress) are more likely to be perceived as friendly, while someone from a different culture or race may be classified as suspicious or even a threat.
This inclination for ignoring or discounting things outside our narrow view (even when we know they are there) is an interesting peculiarity of Homo sapiens. In fact, our greater cognitive ability and memory often add an exceptional dimension to our selective perceptions, most of which never occur to other animals. Although the spider or lion remain completely ignorant of things outside the normal range of their senses, we humans can become aware of them, but still choose to put our attention to more immediate sensations.
For example, our ability to extend our visual sense by using a telescope or microscope makes us aware of the presence and role of things as large as galaxies and as small as atoms. We know they are there, and some of us spend lifetimes investigating the very large and small, but for most of us they remain abstract images that are beyond our pale. We may hear the descriptions of particle physicists and astronomers and see the impressive images they capture, but our heads cannot seem to wrap themselves around the true significance of them. What does the immensity of a galaxy or the tiny scale of an atom really mean to us? Not much—maybe because we just can’t go there.
In a similar manner, we may know about the vast range of time scales—such as the billions of years that define the age of the universe or the tiniest fragments of a second that describe the vibrations of an atom. We can sit placidly and listen to a physicist describe these vastly different time scales. We may even be able to comprehend the abstract mathematical extremes of them, but can we really encompass their outrageous dimensions in our minds? Can we open our heads to the breadth?
Our eyes are sensitive to only the narrowest range of the electromagnetic spectrum. It’s probably necessary, so that we don’t become overloaded with visual information. Yet we are blind to the vast majority of the radiation that emanates from many things. A bee reacts to ultraviolet information that we are unaware of. A snake picks up on infrared signals that we miss.
As scientists are beginning to realize that the possibility of life elsewhere in the universe may be expressed in ways that are very alien to us—possibly not needing to be carbon based or inhaling oxygen or even needing water—the possibilities become mind-blowing. The nature of other worlds and other (possible) creatures out there just might be way beyond our current ability to guess. Our vision is earth-centered and very limited.
Things do not need to be like us to be real or relevant. The more we learn about this magnificent universe, the more we see that the possibilities are limitless. We could use more experiences that rattle our narrow perceptual cages and open us up to promises and potentials that are far beyond our existing confines. We need to grow up and understand that alien things are not necessarily a menace or unworthy, but can be as important as us and even serve to expand our consciousness.
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Fine Tuned Just for Me?—Conclusion
There is another group of people who feel they have the answer for why the universe is as it is; why all those physical parameters have precisely the value they must have, if life was to have come about. These folks have put forth an explanation called the “anthropic cosmological principle.” There are several versions of this principle, but they all state that the laws of nature must allow for the creation of beings who are then capable of studying the laws of nature. This point of view has never settled well with me, as it seems to contain circular thinking: “I am, therefore the world must have been fashioned in a way that I could be.” I don’t believe that explanation really solves anything.
Different factions have stated the anthropic principle in various ways. One argument is the notion that there are an infinite number of universes, that the cosmos we know is, in fact, just one part of the so-called “Multiverse.” The countless other universes may indeed possess alternate versions of physical laws; thus only some of them have developed anything like the cosmic structures of our universe, and none of them likely resulted in life (at least as we know it). The result is that those other universes might exist but would be unknowable to us, or us to them. There is something inherently unsatisfactory to me in this explanation, since it’s beyond our ability to test this hypothesis. It is another fantastical explanation. There is no way to prove or disprove it.
Furthermore, I believe that the anthropic principle is too close to being a mythical explanation clothed in scientific terms. The word anthropic is defined by the dictionary as “having to do with mankind or with the period of man’s existence on Earth.” And it is uncomfortably close to being anthropocentric, which the dictionary defines as “considering man to be the central or most significant fact of the universe.” Is the anthropic principle really that much better than the fable given in Genesis—that places humans at the center of the universe? I don’t think so.
So I don’t feel satisfied with either the church’s explanation or the anthropic cosmological principle. As another way of looking at the issue, let me go from all of life to just one individual: myself. How did I come to be? Why am I alive?
I know that I am the result of a long line of ancestors. I came into existence after the occurrence of an uncountable string of incidents and decisions made by those forebears. My very existence depends upon history having unfolded exactly as it did. If any one of my ancestors (all the way back to the first single-celled creature?) had done anything different—in any way—I may not be here. If any one of them had mated with a partner other than the precise one they chose, I’d not be here. If any one of them had perished before they mated, I would not exist. If any one of them had eaten something nasty and gotten too ill to procreate exactly when they did, I wouldn’t have been born. My existence is the result of an essentially endless string of coincidental events. It all led to me. Wow! Therefore, it all must have all been designed just for me!
But wait. Did God (or any other power) design all this, just for me to be here? Did God guide all those ancestors to do precisely what they did, just so I’d be born? Isn’t it the epitome of hubris to suppose that it all happened just for my sake? What humongous self-centeredness to think that I’m the culmination—the be-all and end-all—of this long, complex process!
OK, maybe that line of thinking is stretching it a bit. Alternatively, I could posit the Personal Anthropic Principle to explain my existence: the long string of ancestors must have been set up for me, because here I am! Or better yet, the principle of multi-me’s: there are an infinite number of other me’s out there, in parallel existences, who cannot see each other, each one born out of a slightly different sequence of events. OK, maybe I’ve gotten carried away again.
It seems to me that what causes people to invent ideas and beliefs like a God-designed, fine-tuned universe or an anthropic-principle explanation, is that they cannot live with the mystery. There appears to be a deep human drive to have answers, and even to want the answers to be definitive—something that one can count on, forever.
We don’t want simply to understand things—in fact, for many people, understanding is not nearly as important as simply knowing. We want to be knowledgeable about things, to be certain. We want to “put the question to bed.” Living with uncertainty is very uncomfortable, if not terrifying for many people. Our culture admires those who know—whether that knowledge comes from reason, from myth, or from a powerful institution that forces its beliefs on people. We tend to regard knowledge as something we collect and own. Understanding is not really our intent, it’s the possession of knowledge—he who possesses the most is the best.
I draw much comfort from being able to admit that I don’t know; that no matter how much I strive to understand, it’s only a partial comprehension, and tomorrow’s understanding may bring a wholly new (and more valid) viewpoint. I can live with the mystery and give truth the time to reveal itself. I can look at this universe and be filled with wonder and amazement about why it is as it is. In fact, the harder I work to understand it, the more I see that I don’t know—and never will (nor will any human). The qualities of the universe may be due to this possibility, or that possibility, or maybe a new possibility that will surface tomorrow.
I don’t need to posit a reason for why things are the way they are—especially if it’s beyond my ability to come up with an answer today. If I delude myself into believing in a particular answer—when there is no basis to do so—I lock myself into a particular mindset that excludes other possibilities that may be closer to the truth. If I do so, one of them may later show itself to be closer to the truth than my belief and I’ll find myself fighting to hold on to the false story I’ve latched onto—much like the church did, when Galileo spoke up to say the Earth was not the center of the universe. Meanwhile, I’ll let the mystery be.
Different factions have stated the anthropic principle in various ways. One argument is the notion that there are an infinite number of universes, that the cosmos we know is, in fact, just one part of the so-called “Multiverse.” The countless other universes may indeed possess alternate versions of physical laws; thus only some of them have developed anything like the cosmic structures of our universe, and none of them likely resulted in life (at least as we know it). The result is that those other universes might exist but would be unknowable to us, or us to them. There is something inherently unsatisfactory to me in this explanation, since it’s beyond our ability to test this hypothesis. It is another fantastical explanation. There is no way to prove or disprove it.
Furthermore, I believe that the anthropic principle is too close to being a mythical explanation clothed in scientific terms. The word anthropic is defined by the dictionary as “having to do with mankind or with the period of man’s existence on Earth.” And it is uncomfortably close to being anthropocentric, which the dictionary defines as “considering man to be the central or most significant fact of the universe.” Is the anthropic principle really that much better than the fable given in Genesis—that places humans at the center of the universe? I don’t think so.
So I don’t feel satisfied with either the church’s explanation or the anthropic cosmological principle. As another way of looking at the issue, let me go from all of life to just one individual: myself. How did I come to be? Why am I alive?
I know that I am the result of a long line of ancestors. I came into existence after the occurrence of an uncountable string of incidents and decisions made by those forebears. My very existence depends upon history having unfolded exactly as it did. If any one of my ancestors (all the way back to the first single-celled creature?) had done anything different—in any way—I may not be here. If any one of them had mated with a partner other than the precise one they chose, I’d not be here. If any one of them had perished before they mated, I would not exist. If any one of them had eaten something nasty and gotten too ill to procreate exactly when they did, I wouldn’t have been born. My existence is the result of an essentially endless string of coincidental events. It all led to me. Wow! Therefore, it all must have all been designed just for me!
But wait. Did God (or any other power) design all this, just for me to be here? Did God guide all those ancestors to do precisely what they did, just so I’d be born? Isn’t it the epitome of hubris to suppose that it all happened just for my sake? What humongous self-centeredness to think that I’m the culmination—the be-all and end-all—of this long, complex process!
OK, maybe that line of thinking is stretching it a bit. Alternatively, I could posit the Personal Anthropic Principle to explain my existence: the long string of ancestors must have been set up for me, because here I am! Or better yet, the principle of multi-me’s: there are an infinite number of other me’s out there, in parallel existences, who cannot see each other, each one born out of a slightly different sequence of events. OK, maybe I’ve gotten carried away again.
It seems to me that what causes people to invent ideas and beliefs like a God-designed, fine-tuned universe or an anthropic-principle explanation, is that they cannot live with the mystery. There appears to be a deep human drive to have answers, and even to want the answers to be definitive—something that one can count on, forever.
We don’t want simply to understand things—in fact, for many people, understanding is not nearly as important as simply knowing. We want to be knowledgeable about things, to be certain. We want to “put the question to bed.” Living with uncertainty is very uncomfortable, if not terrifying for many people. Our culture admires those who know—whether that knowledge comes from reason, from myth, or from a powerful institution that forces its beliefs on people. We tend to regard knowledge as something we collect and own. Understanding is not really our intent, it’s the possession of knowledge—he who possesses the most is the best.
I draw much comfort from being able to admit that I don’t know; that no matter how much I strive to understand, it’s only a partial comprehension, and tomorrow’s understanding may bring a wholly new (and more valid) viewpoint. I can live with the mystery and give truth the time to reveal itself. I can look at this universe and be filled with wonder and amazement about why it is as it is. In fact, the harder I work to understand it, the more I see that I don’t know—and never will (nor will any human). The qualities of the universe may be due to this possibility, or that possibility, or maybe a new possibility that will surface tomorrow.
I don’t need to posit a reason for why things are the way they are—especially if it’s beyond my ability to come up with an answer today. If I delude myself into believing in a particular answer—when there is no basis to do so—I lock myself into a particular mindset that excludes other possibilities that may be closer to the truth. If I do so, one of them may later show itself to be closer to the truth than my belief and I’ll find myself fighting to hold on to the false story I’ve latched onto—much like the church did, when Galileo spoke up to say the Earth was not the center of the universe. Meanwhile, I’ll let the mystery be.
Saturday, January 8, 2011
Thursday, January 6, 2011
Fine Tuned Just for Me?—Part 1
Anyone who takes a close look at our universe and examines its physical laws and properties, will be struck by the long string of “coincidences” that had to occur in order for life to appear on this planet Earth. If any of nature’s physical parameters or quantities were even the slightest bit different, life could never have begun.
There is no fundamental reason why the properties of our universe are exactly as they are. Any one of them could be the tiniest bit different. For example, there is no reason we know of that the four basic forces of nature—the weak and strong nuclear forces inside each atom, the electromagnetic force controlling interactions between atoms, and the gravity that defines the attraction between large bodies—have either the absolute qualities or the relative values that they do. If the comparative strengths of these four forces were even slightly different, it would have resulted in a universe unimaginably unlike the one we inhabit—indeed, if it could have even existed at all.
Here are just a few possible consequences: Atoms may never have formed. Hydrogen—the vital element in everything—may never have lasted more than a nanosecond, after it was formed. Any elements heavier than the most basic (including life-essential carbon) may never have had a chance to form. We’ve needed these elements to hang around for billions of years, stable and enduring, for them to become components in the slow, difficult evolution of life.
As another example, our universe possesses a delicate balance between visible matter, dark matter, and dark energy. The three of them must be in precisely the equilibrium they are, or things would be very different. If the balance had tipped slightly another way, the universe would have lasted only a few million years before it collapsed back on itself—far too short a time for life to have evolved. Tipped slightly the opposite direction and the universe would have expanded so rapidly that galaxies, stars, and planets never would have had a chance to form. That universe would simply have been a dilute soup of elementary particles.
Here’s another mystery: water is a very peculiar molecule—with hydrogen and oxygen atoms aligning themselves in such a fashion that ice (the solid form of water) floats on liquid water. For virtually every other element or molecule, the solid form is more dense and sinks. If it weren’t for the unique shape and nature of the water molecule, lakes and oceans would freeze solid from the bottom up in cold weather, rather than “freeze over” and allow life to flourish beneath the surface ice. No one knows why water behaves this way, but if it didn’t, life could never have survived on Earth.
As a final illustration, there are numerous basic constants of nature—for example, the speed of light, the mass of elementary particles, and the electrical charge of elementary particles. If any one of these constants was the slightest degree different, our universe could not be as it is. Either life could never have evolved or the universe itself may never have been able even to get started, following its big bang.
Thus, as we look at our universe, we can see that it is extremely fine-tuned, to allow the necessary evolution of galaxies, stars, planets, and ultimately leading to life on this planet. Change any one parameter by the tiniest amount and we wouldn’t be here. It’s as if all the physical laws have been precisely set to allow, or even compel, humans to exist (at least on this Earth).
What does this mean? If we know of no reason why some of the properties couldn’t have been slightly different—and we don’t—why did the universe get set up this way? What made it so life friendly?
Some people will say that God set all the parameters, on our behalf. He knew exactly what they needed to be, in order to create humans (which, by the way, he had also decided must be in his image). This line of thought, however, not only relies on a supernatural explanation, but places humans at the center of the universe created by a meddling deity. It’s the same kind of thinking that had the Church teaching that Earth was at the center of the universe and that God set all the other heavenly bodies rotating about our planet, just for our pleasure. In this church-supported viewpoint, we humans are the epitome of creation—the end-all and be-all. God did it all for us, planning every tiny detail so that we’d become the final product of the cosmos. I don’t think so. The cosmos is continuing to evolve and the future is still very much up in the air—including our longevity.
Anyone who is not influenced by mythical and simplistic beliefs, however, knows there must be more to the story than that God made it so. We know that Earth is not the center of the universe. We live on a pretty typical rocky world, circling a pretty typical star, on the outer regions of a pretty typical galaxy. We know that there are many billions of such galaxies in the cosmos. To believe that we are any different from or in any way superior to another planet (or living organisms) in this vast universe is nothing more than self-centered, presumptuous, and insular thinking. It is the same kind of thinking that leads to religious pogroms and racial hatred.
No, today we understand enough of the real workings of the cosmos to discard these dangerous beliefs. We know that the firmament is not a rotating sphere of points of light around the Earth. We know that we fly through space in a complex dance, swinging around by the sun, nearby stars, the galaxy, and a collection of several nearby galaxies. There is nothing that obviously places us above any other rocky orb in the cosmos. We as yet have no confirmation of life anywhere else in this vast universe, but all signs tell us it’s likely we’re not alone—and certainly not superlative.
So what is the meaning of all this fine-tuning? More next time…
There is no fundamental reason why the properties of our universe are exactly as they are. Any one of them could be the tiniest bit different. For example, there is no reason we know of that the four basic forces of nature—the weak and strong nuclear forces inside each atom, the electromagnetic force controlling interactions between atoms, and the gravity that defines the attraction between large bodies—have either the absolute qualities or the relative values that they do. If the comparative strengths of these four forces were even slightly different, it would have resulted in a universe unimaginably unlike the one we inhabit—indeed, if it could have even existed at all.
Here are just a few possible consequences: Atoms may never have formed. Hydrogen—the vital element in everything—may never have lasted more than a nanosecond, after it was formed. Any elements heavier than the most basic (including life-essential carbon) may never have had a chance to form. We’ve needed these elements to hang around for billions of years, stable and enduring, for them to become components in the slow, difficult evolution of life.
As another example, our universe possesses a delicate balance between visible matter, dark matter, and dark energy. The three of them must be in precisely the equilibrium they are, or things would be very different. If the balance had tipped slightly another way, the universe would have lasted only a few million years before it collapsed back on itself—far too short a time for life to have evolved. Tipped slightly the opposite direction and the universe would have expanded so rapidly that galaxies, stars, and planets never would have had a chance to form. That universe would simply have been a dilute soup of elementary particles.
Here’s another mystery: water is a very peculiar molecule—with hydrogen and oxygen atoms aligning themselves in such a fashion that ice (the solid form of water) floats on liquid water. For virtually every other element or molecule, the solid form is more dense and sinks. If it weren’t for the unique shape and nature of the water molecule, lakes and oceans would freeze solid from the bottom up in cold weather, rather than “freeze over” and allow life to flourish beneath the surface ice. No one knows why water behaves this way, but if it didn’t, life could never have survived on Earth.
As a final illustration, there are numerous basic constants of nature—for example, the speed of light, the mass of elementary particles, and the electrical charge of elementary particles. If any one of these constants was the slightest degree different, our universe could not be as it is. Either life could never have evolved or the universe itself may never have been able even to get started, following its big bang.
Thus, as we look at our universe, we can see that it is extremely fine-tuned, to allow the necessary evolution of galaxies, stars, planets, and ultimately leading to life on this planet. Change any one parameter by the tiniest amount and we wouldn’t be here. It’s as if all the physical laws have been precisely set to allow, or even compel, humans to exist (at least on this Earth).
What does this mean? If we know of no reason why some of the properties couldn’t have been slightly different—and we don’t—why did the universe get set up this way? What made it so life friendly?
Some people will say that God set all the parameters, on our behalf. He knew exactly what they needed to be, in order to create humans (which, by the way, he had also decided must be in his image). This line of thought, however, not only relies on a supernatural explanation, but places humans at the center of the universe created by a meddling deity. It’s the same kind of thinking that had the Church teaching that Earth was at the center of the universe and that God set all the other heavenly bodies rotating about our planet, just for our pleasure. In this church-supported viewpoint, we humans are the epitome of creation—the end-all and be-all. God did it all for us, planning every tiny detail so that we’d become the final product of the cosmos. I don’t think so. The cosmos is continuing to evolve and the future is still very much up in the air—including our longevity.
Anyone who is not influenced by mythical and simplistic beliefs, however, knows there must be more to the story than that God made it so. We know that Earth is not the center of the universe. We live on a pretty typical rocky world, circling a pretty typical star, on the outer regions of a pretty typical galaxy. We know that there are many billions of such galaxies in the cosmos. To believe that we are any different from or in any way superior to another planet (or living organisms) in this vast universe is nothing more than self-centered, presumptuous, and insular thinking. It is the same kind of thinking that leads to religious pogroms and racial hatred.
No, today we understand enough of the real workings of the cosmos to discard these dangerous beliefs. We know that the firmament is not a rotating sphere of points of light around the Earth. We know that we fly through space in a complex dance, swinging around by the sun, nearby stars, the galaxy, and a collection of several nearby galaxies. There is nothing that obviously places us above any other rocky orb in the cosmos. We as yet have no confirmation of life anywhere else in this vast universe, but all signs tell us it’s likely we’re not alone—and certainly not superlative.
So what is the meaning of all this fine-tuning? More next time…
Saturday, January 1, 2011
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