Stacy Trasancos, PhD, Chemist and Science-Faith Promoter
- PhD in Chemistry, Penn State University
- MA in Theology, Holy Apostles College and Seminary
- Adjunct Professor at Seton Hall University and Holy Apostles College
- Senior Research Chemist, DuPont Corporation, VA
- Co-Founder of Catholic Stand and Ignitum Today (Internet Sites)
- Speaker on Science and Faith issues
I am passionate about the faith and science relationship because I’ve been on both sides of this fence. Before I became Catholic, I was a non-religious chemist. I was more atheist than atheists and call myself by no theistic name at all. To me, atheism was like the boyfriend who breaks up with the girl but follows her around reminding her that he did so. When I was done with religion, I was done.
I was logical though, following logical paths to their end. You learn to do that studying science and deriving equations. You know that if you get any step along the way wrong, even the tiniest detail like a positive or negative sign, a decimal out of place, or the wrong subscript on a variable, you can mess up the whole conclusion. I know that to really test a system of thought, you must go all the way with it. It is like trying on a dress in a department store. It’s not enough to hold it up and sway around in the mirror or even try it on in the dressing room. You really don’t know how much you like the dress until you own it and wear it. I walked around in godlessness for fifteen years, and I didn’t stop until I saw where it leads.
In graduate school, I worked on a project to produce an alternative energy source by simulating photosynthesis. Saving the planet seemed like a noble pursuit, even if I did not have the words to express it as such.
I joined Professor Thomas E. Mallouk’s Chemistry of Nanoscale Inorganic Material Research Group at Penn State University and was assigned to the artificial photosynthesis project. My first research team was trying to simulate electron transfer in the light dependent reactions.
We were trying to simulate photosynthesis on nanoscale materials because those biological processes harvest light energy from the sun using a system of molecular machinery to make the precursors for many biological molecules. Photosynthesis happens in plant cells, in organelles called chloroplasts, in the membrane of thylakoid disks. In those membranes resides precisely positioned pigment molecules, called chlorophyll, that absorb certain wavelengths of sunlight.
The double bonds in the carbon rings of the chlorophylls provide, basically, a place for electrons to hang out, like a shopping mall, and the metal ion provides extra electrons, so some of them want to get away. They are easily oxidized, we say. The light energy (captured as photons) gets the already enthusiastic electrons even more excited, and they are like, “I’m out of here.” They leave the chlorophyll.
The electron is transferred to another protein molecule, and then to another and another and another and so on, much as people might toss a hot potato down a line. Each passing of the potatoes, so to speak, allows some energy to be lost, but not wasted. The controlled release of energy is used to power other reactions. Chlorophyll and the accessory pigments and proteins are the solar batteries that keep life pumping. Therefore, if you are a nanoscale materials chemist trying to make alternative energy sources, it makes sense to try to design molecular machines that replicate photosynthesis.
We were trying to simulate only one electron transfer – one. We were not trying to design an electron transfer chain. We were not trying to do anything useful with the energy or the electrons. We were merely trying to get excited electrons to jump from one randomly oriented polymer layer on our composites to another polymer layer and stay there long enough to measure a charge-separated state.
Our nanocomposite designs were intelligently designed for sure, and I remember how that thought struck me. Again, I must explain some of the details. We grew concentric monolayers, roughly one molecule thick, of photosensitive (like the chlorophyll) redox-active (able to accept and lose electrons) organic polymer layers on high-surface-area silica particles.
We grew layers on the silica by charging the surface and immersing them in successive solutions of negative inorganic sheets and cationic polymers. We visualized our composite assemblies of polymers grown on these silica particles somewhat like lasagna noodles coated on squashes.
The process of building the composites and analyzing them took weeks. We used a transmission electron microscope to see if we had grown the lasagna layers on the silica squashes as we were trying to do. It took some hard staring to convince ourselves to proceed with the next phase of the experiment – the attempt to simulate that one measly electron transfer.
That phase required going into the basement and setting up our sun – the second harmonic from an Nd:YAG laser that produced 532-nanometer light – so that it would hit a pinky-sized quartz cuvette of our polymer-coated silica particles and excite the electrons. We split the beam to time the mechanical shutters to detect the excitation and electron transfer. It was honestly like trying to thread a needle with a wet noodle behind your back in the span of time it takes brain cells to tell your eyes to blink. I look back now and wonder if we were crazy.
Nevertheless, we determined that our experiment worked. About 30 percent of the electrons transferred to another polymer layer, staying there for a half-life of about 21 microseconds. We published a paper in the Journal of the American Chemical Societyand a chapter in an advanced textbook series about photochemistry. But that only set the stage for my comeuppance.
Following that initial project, it then became my lead project to do twoelectron transfers. I tried everything. But nothing worked. I tried and tried. After a year, I was actually worried I might not graduate. Imagine the panic that started to pile up in me.
One day, I decided to consult my Voet and Voet Biochemistrytext to see if I could spur an idea for my project. While turning to the photosynthesis chapter, I saw a full-sized page insert that detailed not only the major photosynthetic pathways, but also the major metabolic pathways connected to photosynthesis in organisms. Right there on one page were the basic chemical reactions that show how life on the entire planet for all time is interconnected precisely at the molecular scale. I had the strange and overwhelming sense staring at those life-sustaining reactions that that I was surely missing something I would never discover in my graduate work, regardless of how badly I wanted to find out the truth of nature’s mechanisms.
It is hard to describe the emotions a chemist feels when allowing herself to glimpse the chemical orchestration in the universe outside the usual isolated system of beakers and test tubes on the lab bench. I remember thinking of the futility of my work, realizing that no matter how much I wanted my project to work, no matter how much I wanted to graduate and become a scientist, no amount of passion would make my molecules do what I wanted them to do. They followed their laws; I was but a puny manipulator of them, except I barely could figure out how to do it.
I very distinctly remember turning to the window next to my desk that day and gripping the ledge, hiding tears. My eyes fell on an old Ginkgo bilobaat the end of the building, a big tree I had never really noticed before. With trepidation, I fixated on the funny-shaped leaves. There were thousands. And they flapped in the wind carelessly, mindlessly achieving what I never would. My brain started clicking through the process.
In every square millimeter of every leaf, there were a million or so chloroplasts, five microns long. In those little factories, there were thylakoid membranes containing chlorophyll molecules – highly conjugated cyclic tetrapyrrole molecules with Mg2+ ions in the center, and each with slight chemical differences in the side groups such that together the pigments absorbed the full spectrum of visible light reaching the earth from the sun. Protein complexes oriented these antenna systems in the thylakoid membrane with exactly the right angstrom-scale (tenth of a nanometer) spacing so that they would be oxidized. And the antenna system was transferring that energy to a reaction center in less than 10-10seconds (a tenth of a nanosecond) with an efficiency of greater than 90 percent. That was only the beginning.
Excited electrons were entering the Z-scheme of photosynthesis, a dual system of electron transfer pathways that happen simultaneously. Some electrons were going to a Photosystem II complex, moving to a bound plastoquinone (QA), then to a second plastoquinone (QB) to a pool of plastoquinone molecules (Qpool), so that the resulting plastoquinol reduced the cytochrome b5f complex and translocated protons into the thylakoid lumen before the electrons were transferred to plastocyanin (PC), which was reducing another photooxidized chlorophyll in Photosystem I.
Then, through another chain of transmembrane units the electrons were reducing nicotinamide adenine dinucleotide phosphate (NADP+) to NADPH, thereby generating a transmembrane proton gradient, which supplied the energy for the synthesis of adenosine triphosphate (ATP) from adenosine diphosphate (ADP) and a phosphate group donor (Pi).
And all the while the oxidized pigment molecules were being reduced by water (H2O) to generate oxygen gas (O2), which we breathe. In the light-independent reactions, NADPH was simultaneously reducing ATP to produce CO2and fixing carbon into the three-carbon precursors of carbohydrates – sugars, starch, and cellulose, which play many roles in living organisms such as the storage of energy, formation of structural components, not the least of which is dietary fiber and the 5-carbon monosaccharide ribose, an important component of the backbone of the genetic molecules ribonucleic acid (RNA) and deoxyribonucleic acid (DNA).
And photosynthesis was globally consuming about six times more energy than the human race each year, fixing some 100 billion tons of carbon to make biological molecules, using some quintillion (1018) kilojoules of energy. The chloroplasts? They evolved from photosynthetic bacteria, over the eons generating all the oxygen gas in the earth’s atmosphere. It struck me: Life on this planet is interconnected at the atomic level with the entire cosmos all the way back to the beginning of time.
For a moment, I stood on a cliff and looked out at a chasm that held the answer to the biggest question a scientist can ask. Who created this?You might think I fell to my knees that day in the lab, accepted the gift of faith, and wept for joy right there on the spot, but I didn’t. I was not ready to face God. I was focused on a narrowly defined scientific project and on graduating. I did the only thing I could do at the time. I cursed the tree for all its impossible mysteries, hurled my vial of intelligently designed artificial photosynthesis, world-saving nanotechnologies, data included, into the metal trashcan behind me, tightened my ponytail, and got back to work. I never got two electrons to jump on inorganic-organic multilayer composites.
To fast forward the story, I moved on to another project, published in Sciencejournal, was granted a PhD after all, got a job at DuPont in the Lycra® business, met my husband, became pregnant, realized godlessness was not the path to truth, left my career, read the Catechism, was received into the Catholic Church in 2006, became open to life, gave birth to five more highly complex multicomposite assemblies with rational souls, and completed a MA in Dogmatic Theology from home while nursing the last newborn into toddlerhood. Now I teach, write, and can hardly stop talking about the truth I have found.
My leap of faith was tangible. I flung myself into the unknown, having no idea what the truth would demand of me, and I was afraid at first. You know in Luke 12:7 where the Bible says even the hairs of our heads are all numbered? Well a chemist hears that she thinks, “And so are all the electrons and quarks that make up the atoms that make up keratin.” I remember thinking that if I accept this personal God as my savior, then I must face the fact that He knows everything about me. I was so ashamed of my sins.
However, as I participated in the sacraments and studied theology and philosophy, it was as if grace lifted me over the chasm. I didn’t fall; I soared. I saw more of reality. I saw how science fits into the bigger picture. I saw purpose. It was similar to the feeling you have the first time you fly and see your house from the sky. It’s the same house, but in a vastly larger landscape. As I say in my book, Particles of Faith, “Granting assent to the articles of faith was the most intellectually satisfying leap I ever dared to take as a scientist and, more importantly, as a person. Now I see science as the study of the handiwork of God. And I see so much more.”
I learned about something called “scientism”. Step with me out from my story to a bigger story, the history of this word.
“Scientisim” is the belief that only knowledge obtained from scientific research is valid, and beliefs deriving from religion should be discounted. It is an extreme or excessive faith in science or scientists. “Scientism” comes from the word “science,” which derives from the Latin scientia, meaning “knowledge.” Knowledge refers to understanding, learning, and erudition. In the thirteenth century, St. Thomas Aquinas began his Summa Theologiæby asking, in the very first questions, whether theology is a science—that is, a body of knowledge. One objection was that there is no need of any science higher than the philosophical sciences because we cannot “know” what is above reason. Since the philosophical sciences go as far as reason can go, the objection goes, then philosophy is the highest science. St. Thomas argued that we must also study scripture and divine revelation, citing 2 Timothy 3:16: “All Scripture, inspired of God, is profitable to teach, to reprove, to correct, to instruct in justice.” In that sense, when we study scripture and divine revelation, we gain knowledge of it. We study what has been revealed by God and is, therefore, not accessible purely by reason. Theology is a science inspired by God and whose object is God, therefore, theology is the highest science. It is doubtful that many would claim theology as a science today, much less the highest science, but St. Thomas’ explanation shows to the broader definition of science and its unity with theology.
Since Aquinas’ lifetime during the 13th century and onward as the medieval universities became established up into the 15th century, the meaning of scientiaevolved, from “knowing and understanding” to “learning in a particular area of knowledge, such as a recognized branch of learning or discipline.” The medieval Christian universities specifically defined the seven subjects for study—the seven liberal arts—that form the trivium(grammar, logic, and rhetoric) and the quadrivium(arithmetic, geometry, music, and astronomy). The four subjects of the quadriviumwere called mathematical sciences. Theology and other areas of learning, including research into the mysteries of nature, were understood to be organically linked.
Likewise, it was understood, particularly by St. Albert and his student, St. Thomas, that different disciplines had their own autonomy and way of conducting themselves to answer their own questions.
Starting from the sixteenth century, scholars accumulated knowledge of how mathematics can describe the physical laws of nature. This rise in mathematical understanding of the natural world in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries is taken as the scientific revolution, which encompassed rapid and far-reaching developments into new branches of knowledge, such as physics, biology, and chemistry. These new discoveries of physical laws fundamentally changed the way people viewed nature and their place in the cosmos. Old ways of gaining knowledge gave way to wide-ranging and fascinating new ways, and this new knowledge had a great impact on European intellectual culture.
In the seventeenth century, philosopher and scientist René Descartes published his work Discourse on the Method of Rightly Conducting the Reason, and Seeking Truth in the Sciences. Descartes saw physics as practical because by knowing the “force and action of fire, water, air, the stars, the heavens, and all the other bodies that surround us” people might apply them to improve conditions for humanity. But he went further. He wrote that knowledge of physics would allow us to “render ourselves the lords and possessors of nature.”
It became a widely held view that metaphysical or philosophical learning was not a suitable method for acquiring new knowledge, and this distinction led to the separation of the physical sciences from the philosophical and metaphysical sciences. Francis Bacon, a contemporary of Descartes, showed this evolution in thinking in his The New Organon or: True Directions Concerning the Interpretation of Nature. He wrote in the preface: “In short, let there be one discipline for cultivating the knowledge we have, and another for discovering new knowledge.” This is the divide that has continued into our time, promoted by empiricism, the idea that knowledge comes only from sensory experience, of others from the sixteenth to eighteenth centuries, including Thomas Hobbes, John Locke, Baruch Spinoza, and David Hume. The logical conclusion of strict empiricism is that the scientific method is the only method suitable for the search for truth.
According to the OED, the word “scientism” was first used in the late nineteenth century to refer to the method of conducting modern science, not at all a depreciative word. But that word changed from a method to a belief. The definition of modern scientism is that it is the belief that only knowledge obtained from scientific research is valid.
And that had been me. Scientism gave me a mechanical view of the universe and of my own existence. I know firsthand about the empty dead end of scientism. But we can’t stop the story here. The scientific revolution occurred around the 16th– 17thcenturies. If the span of recorded history is 5,000 years, then modern science comprises less than a tenth of that time.
Step with me now to an even larger picture, the history of science itself.
But really, to understand the relationship between Christ and science, you have to go back before the scientific revolution and ask what led to it, all the way back to Genesis 1:1: “In the beginning God created heaven, and earth.”
Compared to paganism and other ancient religions of India, China, pre-Colombian America, Egypt, Mesopotamia, Greece, and Arabia, the worldview of Christianity is radically different, though we tend to forget that today. In fact, even the atheist scientist must adopt a Christian worldview to do science, a worldview that there is an absolute beginning in time and a distinction between Creator and creation.
This worldview is expressed throughout the Old Testament and throughout the Bible. Just think of the periodic table of the elements in the light of these eighth century B.C. words from the prophet Isaiah: “Lift up your eyes, and look at the heavens; who was it that made them? Who is it that marshals the full muster of their starry host, calling each by its name, not one of them missing from the ranks?” Isaiah 40:26
Jeremiah from the sixth century B.C. saw the order in nature as evidence of God’s faithfulness. “Thus saith the Lord, who giveth the sun for the light of the day, the order of the moon and of the stars, for the light of the night: who stirreth up the sea, and the waves thereof roar, the Lord of hosts is his name.” Jeremiah 31:35
The poetry of the psalms and proverbs is evidence of the same worldview: “When he established the sky above, and poised the fountains of waters: When he compassed the sea with its bounds, and set a law to the waters that they should not pass their limits: when be balanced the foundations of the earth; I was with him forming all things: and was delighted every day, playing before him at all times; Playing in the world: and my delights were to be with the children of men.” Proverbs 8:28-31
The Book of Wisdom, a Jewish work composed in Alexandria (Egypt) around the 1st century AD, could be a modern day prayer of a working scientist: “For he hath given me the true knowledge of the things that are: to know the disposition of the whole world, and the virtues of the elements, The beginning, and ending, and midst of the times, the alterations of their courses, and the changes of seasons, The revolutions of the year, and the dispositions of the stars, The natures of living creatures, and rage of wild beasts, the force of winds, and reasonings of men, the diversities of plants, and the virtues of roots, And all such things as are hid and not foreseen, I have learned: for wisdom, which is the worker of all things, taught me.” Wisdom 7:17-21
Likewise, the early Christians refuted pagan beliefs including the pantheistic concept of a Great Year and an eternally cycling cosmos.
St. Justin Martyr from the first and second centuries rejected pantheism in favor of the Creator. “Stoics teach that even God Himself shall be resolved into fire, and they say that the world is to be formed anew by this revolution; but we understand that God, the Creator of all things, is superior to the things that are to be changed.”
Athenagoras, also from the first and second centuries, taught that Christians, not the pagans “. . . distinguished God from matter, and teach that matter is one thing and God another, and that they are separated by a wide interval, for the Deity is uncreated and eternal. . .”
Clement of Alexandria of the third century, in his Exhortation to the Greeks, taught that a result of idol worship was the mental chaining of the intellect to the blind forces of nature. “Why, in the name of truth, do you show those who have put their trust in you that they are under the dominion of ‘flux’ and ‘motion’ and ‘fortuitous vortices’? Why, pray, do you infect life with idols, imagining winds, air, fire, earth, stocks, stones, iron, this world itself to be gods?”
“Let none of you worship the sun,” he wrote. “Let no one deify the universe; rather let him seek after the creator of the universe.”
Origen, also from the third century, noticed the impossibility of eternally repeating worlds. “For we know that even if heaven and earth and the things in them pass away, yet the words about each doctrine, being like parts in a whole or forms in a species, which were uttered by the Logos who was the divine Logos with God in the beginning, will in no wise pass away.”
St. Augustine of Hippo, in his fourth century work The City of God, taught that the physical universe had its origin in the sovereign act of creation by God. He rejected eternal cycles, just as his predecessors had: “. . . far be it, I say, from us to believe this. For once Christ died for our sins; and, rising from the dead, He dies no more. Death has no more dominion over Him; (Romans 6:9) . . . The wicked walk in a circle, not because their life is to recur by means of these circles, which these philosophers imagine, but because the path in which their false doctrine now runs is circuitous.”
John Philoponus was a fifth century convert to Christianity who studied at the Museum in Alexandria. His belief in creation prompted him to attack major tenets of Aristotelian physics.
Into the Middle Ages as Christian scholars combed through the Greek works saved in the monasteries and received from the Muslim world, they continued to refute the errors of paganism.
When Adelard of Bath’s (1080–1125) nephew asked if it were not “better to attribute all the operations of the universe to God,” Adelard defended reason: “I do not detract from God. Whatever this is, is from Him and through Him. But the realm of being is not a confused one, nor is it lacking in disposition which, so far as human knowledge can go, should be consulted.”
Thierry of Chartres (1155) had no illusion about the difference between the Creator and creation. He explained the circular motion of the firmament and the stars as a projectile similar to how a “stone is thrown; its impetus is ultimately due to the hold of the thrower against something solid.”
Albertus Magnus (St. Albert the Great, 1193–1280), was an enthusiastic proponent of the investigative approach to nature. In Western Christendom, he was the first to comprehensively interpret Aristotle’s philosophy. Albertus also wrote a complete encyclopedia of philosophical disciplines based on the Aristotelian texts for his students of the Dominican Order. He began the extensive part on natural sciences praising “Almighty God, who is the fountain of wisdom and the creator, ordered and governor of nature.”
St. Thomas Aquinas (1225–1274) reasoned as far as possible with a generous acceptance of the Aristotelian system to show respect for the scholarship of the time. His first major synthesis was the Summa Contra Gentiles(1257), which brought the authority of reason to bear on Muslim philosophy. Aquinas departed from Aristotelic orthodoxy only where the Christian Creed allowed no compromise.
St. Thomas expressed in the Summa Theologiæthat the rejection of the eternity of the world was a matter of faith in divine revelation and not a matter of demonstration or reason. “The articles of faith cannot be proved demonstratively . . . ‘In the beginning God created heaven and earth’: in which words the newness of the world is stated. Therefore the newness of the world is known only by revelation; and therefore it cannot be proved demonstratively. By faith alone do we hold, and by no demonstration can it be proved, that the world did not always exist.”
In 1277, Étienne Tempier, the Bishop of Paris, issued a list of 219 condemned propositions relating to the Aristotelian texts that were irreconcilable to the Christian worldview. They largely dealt with the eternity of the world and creation.
So, as the Aristotelian texts, unchallenged by Greek or Muslim scholars, were accepted into Christendom, theologians and philosophers of that time would seek to reconcile the contradictions.
Undeniable evidence that medieval faith in the predictability of nature was rooted in the theology of the Maker of Heaven and Earth. It was not just a single belief, but a climate of shared belief nurtured by an educational system comprised of universities, cathedral schools, and monasteries that consistently taught Christian theology.
Jean Buridan (1300–1358) was a French priest who further developed the concept of the impetus, paving the way for Isaac Newton’s first law of motion. Like his predecessors, Buridan rejected the doctrine of the Great Year and eternal cycles of the universe. In thinking scientifically, he necessarily had to ponder the cause of motion for heavenly bodies, which in turn meant he had to ponder the cause of motion for terrestrial bodies. He noted that the Bible does not claim that God had to keep his hand on the celestial bodies to maintain their motion but could have “impressed in them impetuses which moved them without His having to move them any more except by the method of general influence whereby He concurs as a co-agent in all things which take place.”
Buridan became the rector of the University of Paris in 1327 and taught there until about 1360.
In 1377, his theory was formally proposed by Nicole Oresme (1320–1325) and was destined to be adopted by Albert of Saxony (1316–1390), Nicolaus Copernicus (1473–1543), Galileo Galilei (1564–1642), and Sir Isaac Newton (1642–1727).
There is a certain scientific significance in the beginning of St. John’s gospel.
“In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. The same was in the beginning with God. All things were made by him: and without him was made nothing that was made. In him was life, and the life was the light of men. And the light shineth in darkness, and the darkness did not comprehend it.” John 1: 1-5
As we all know, I could list many more such quotes from Pope St. John Paul II, Pope Emeritus Benedict XVI, and modern theologians. This worldview forms an unbroken thread for all of Judaism and Christianity.
In Lumen Fidei, Pope Francis tells us to see science in the light of faith. “By stimulating wonder before the profound mystery of creation, faith broadens the horizons of reason to shed greater light on the world which discloses itself to scientific investigation.” (34)
As my mentor, Fr. Jaki wrote: “There had to come a birth, the birth of the only begotten Son of the Father as a man, to allow science to have its first viable birth.”
All of this to situate us in our present time. It’s time for another scientific revolution, a return of the prodigal son that science has grown to be, to its mother Christianity. That is why Christians must become the leaders of scientific progress. We have the correct vision for true progress.
It’s not enough for Christian leaders to refute the tired faith and science conflict myth, or to reject scientism. It’s time to evangelize through science—as the Church to be the parent that guides. My little son put it simply and perfectly.
Like many mothers, I cook up systems of atoms in my domestic laboratory and serve them to the living analytical machines I call my family. My son shares my enthusiasm for science. When he was four, he heard me say that everything is made of atoms, and he took it seriously. “Mom, are trees atoms? Mom, is my arm atoms? Wait. Am I eating atoms?” Those questions were soon followed with, “Move! I have to pee atoms!” A few days after his litany of questions probing the extent that atoms comprise the physical world, I served him a plate of spaghetti and meatballs, his favorite. Where a lesser materialist would say, “Bless us O Lord and these thy gifts,” he went one step more specific.
“Bless us O Lord and,” with a self-satisfied grin, “these thy atoms.”
That is how we should approach science in the light of faith. We should gratefully approach the scientific table in the light of faith as a form of worship to know and love God. Whether another person sees the atoms as gifts from God or whether the other person prays some other way, we should never set aside a confident faith in Christ and His Church, not before meals and not before science. We start with our prayer of thanks. We see the material realm for the beauty that it is, and our radiant faith illuminates the discourse about all those atoms. These gifts, this lobster, this wine, this bread, are all made of atoms, which were made in the stars since the beginning of time, circulating throughout the universe and the planet, God only knows where.
And actually, contrary to the conflict myth, science has united the global community into one big discussion about our future, and I am happy to announce that philosophers and theologians are indeed taking their rightful seats at that table to guide the way. As for me, I am first and foremost a mother. For now, I am work from my helm at home as an educator and a writer to inspire as many young Christians as I can. I teach them to confidently assert what the Church has always known. Science is the study of the handiwork of God.