PINNACLE OF CREATION

This article was previously published in our print magazine and I consider it should have a wider circulation because Phillip Adams makes the point so well.

PINNACLE OF CREATION

Despite the harsh lessons of Darwin—that we are but a twig on the tree of life—we see ourselves as the pinnacle of creation.

Do ants believe themselves to be the centre of the universe? Are bees convinced the apiary is the apotheosis of civilisation? Are termites persuaded they are created in the image of God? If so, these worthy and industrious insects are not alone in having a high opinion of themselves. Humans are far more hubristic.

Despite the revelations of Galileo—that our planet revolves around the sun, and not vice versa—human beings believe everything revolves around them. Despite the harsh lessons of Darwin—that we’re but a twig on the tree of life—we see ourselves as the pinnacle of creation. Indeed, we regard ourselves as its purpose. Despite the revelations of cosmology, we see our planet as being on Broadway and ourselves as the stars among the stars—in their countless billions.

Remember astronomer Carl Sagan’s “cosmic calendar”? Sagan made an interesting analogy of the universe in terms of a “12 month” timeline. The Big Bang was on the 1st January. Here we are (“we” being all the suns, planets and life forms) 365 days later, on New Year’s Eve as the clock chimes and we burst into Auld Lang Syne.

And when did the human choristers join the party? Very late arrivals, we turned up at one second to midnight.

Yes, dear reader. The planets formed in the first few months of Sagan’s epic year. Life was sparked a few weeks later and the dinosaurs had come and gone by November. We turn up as a happy accident as December disappears—and if we follow evolutionary precedent we’re doomed to disappear ourselves in the not too distant future, if not by war or pestilence then thanks to climate change.

But we seem convinced that everything is for us and about us. Forget the lessons of DNA—that we are just another incarnation of the insatiably energetic genetic code. We’re here because God intended it.

We’re his favourites. We may have come last but we’re his first and foremost. When the great director called “Let there be light, camera, action” he had us in mind. The ants, bees, termites, bacteria, elephants and fish were just the extras. The flowers, trees and so on—set dressing.

The same thing applies to anything extra-terrestrial. The trillions of life forms that seem statistically inevitable on the billions of other planets are also afterthoughts. We can think of them as a “secondary creation”, to use a term applied to the Aboriginal worlds discovered by European explorers.

The world’s religions—that’s this world’s religions—drive much of human self-importance. God help those also-ran planets where Christ wasn’t crucified, or where Mohammed didn’t take the dictation that gave us the Koran. If members of other terrestrial faiths are in error (and Pope Benedict has recently reminded us that there is only one True Church), heaven help the heathen in the heavens.

Human lives are so important that they don’t end with death. We can live forever in paradise or suffer eternal torment in hell. Or we can be recycled in other life forms via Hinduism’s reincarnation (which is closer to the reality of DNA).

No other living creature enjoys such privileges. Only us. Extra special, state-of-the-art humans. Oh, we might eat, defecate and fornicate like lesser animals, but as Shakesdeare—plagiarising the Bible—reminds us, “how like an angel”.

We know that we’re an opportunistic life form, granted the chance by the asteroid that murdered the denizens of the Jurassic Eden—but we don’t really believe it. The science goes against our instinct. We’re not just special. We’re it! And we’re mightily impressed with our efforts.

With ant-like effort we spent millions of hours pushing rocks around to build a pyramid—far smaller than a small hill—and call it Great. We take a leaf from the termites and erect mounds which we arrogantly call skyscrapers—although in scale they’re less impressive than the efforts of the termites. We copy the beehive, call it a corporation, and pay its human queen bee a preposterous salary.

On and on it goes: our awesome egotism, our wondrous vanities. We make funny noises and marvel at our music. We paint our faces and orate on wooden platforms and bow graciously as lesser beings slap their palms together in noisy approval. We surround our beehives with arbitrary lines, call them “nations” and wage brutal wars in their defence, which we justify with mental illness known as patriotism.

Everything we do impresses us enormously, no matter how eccentric or insane. And the fact that existence got on very well without us for 99.9 per cent of the time, and will again in the future, doesn’t begin to penetrate the tiny minds we see as the greatest force in the universe—with the possible exception of God. Who, after all we created.

Bees are better. They pollinate and make honey.
Phillip Adams. The Weekend Australian Magazine. 25-26 August, 2007.