Scientists claim that their discipline is a unique, and moreover privileged, set of skills and tools to evaluate and come to the truth. The claim is that these methods set it apart from other fields of thought. Science asserts it alone has the power to attain genuine validity. But this begs the question again and again: Where is the proof? This empty, infinitely repeated assertion has no ground beneath its feat.
“But look at what we’ve accomplished!” they say. “The marvels we’ve given to humanity.” Well, look at the Taj Mahal or the Sacre Cour. Read the poetry of Pablo Nerudin. Study the Bodhicharyavatarya by Shantideva. Or smell a rose. All marvels. There is no monopoly on the wondrous, or on the truth.
“But we understand so much more.” Then why, I ask, is love so important to us? Because it is an inexistent epiphenomenom which, though unable to affect the physical, drives the species to continue? Begging pardon, but this fails to satisfy. Or even to make sense. Never mind the inherent contradiction. Is such a dry understanding sufficient explanation for what we talk about when we talk about love? Does it solve the mystery of heartache? The lump in the throat from hoping the guy will get the girl? And if genes only wish to propagate themselves, then why do homosexuals exist? If science makes such broad claims to understand reality, then it cannot pretend these questions away. It is deceptive to say the very tiny and superposed, neither here nor there, neither wave nor particle, is real, but our own experience is not.