Arthur Petersen’s Climate, God and Uncertainty presents an account of science as a practice that is open to wonder. Because wonder is a topic that has interested me for many years, my own point of entry to Petersen’s book revolves largely around the way in which wonder figures as a key component of his transcendental naturalism. In particular, my line of inquiry takes up questions of how wonder is experienced and by whom, in Petersen’s account, and to what extent the forms of wonder he describes remain distinct from the more “scientistic” brand of naturalism his work (rightly, I think) eschews. Additionally, I consider the usefulness of wonder as Petersen defines it for encouraging active engagement with environmental concerns like climate change.

A few relevant points drawn from Petersen’s overall argument help set the stage. In Petersen’s account of transcendental naturalism, values exist but are “unreal” (in the sense of being “ideal”). They are not mere creations of judgments. “It is the valuations in judgement that are real (and uncertain),” Petersen (2023, 4) writes, “and that determine which values get realized.” Wonder as he describes it,¹ is a positive form of doubt, a creative type of uncertainty, pointing to or expressing an ineffable reality that science cannot adequately model. In this respect, Petersen’s definition bears some resemblance to what the poet John Keats (1899) famously called negative capability, that is, a willingness to dwell in uncertainty and ambiguity, resisting the urge to categorize all phenomena into a system of knowledge. Petersen’s account of wonder is also sometimes expressed (following Bruno Latour) as a quality of “remain[ing] open to the dizzying otherness of existents” (Latour [2015] 2017, 36). This version of wonder is very appealing to me and suggests wonder entails a confrontation or firsthand encounter with something or someone that has transformative impact. I will return to this notion of encounter.

Petersen’s (2023, 10) book offers a detailed argument for transcendental naturalism that seeks, on the one hand, to avoid scientistic naturalism, defined as “an assumption against supernaturalism and for natural science as the basis of all knowledge,” while also steering clear of an “unreflexive” embrace of metaphysics on the other. His transcendental naturalism is more open—though “tentatively so”—than Latour’s or William James’s naturalism is to “big” metaphysical transcendence (e.g., notions of God or the transcendent) (Petersen 2023, 37). In its ability to intimate these big metaphysical notions, science viewed in a transcendental, naturalistic light may involve or evoke emotions of wonder. A key claim, at least for my purposes, is that transcendental naturalism can usefully address climate change and encourage climate action and environmental engagement. Petersen (2023, 23) argues that wonder “based in transcendental naturalism can be used philosophically to underpin ecological action in the context of climate change.”

How might wonder do this and for whom? We find a few suggestions throughout the book of where and how wonder as a kind of creative uncertainty or positive doubt might emerge or persist. One of the first hints we have regarding the place of wonder in transcendental naturalism comes in chapter two, where Petersen references a passage from my own arguments about wonder in my book Consecrating Science (Sideris 2017). To provide some context: here I am making the claim (which I draw from Lorraine Daston and Katherine Park (2001)) that in the history of wonder, a shift occurred over the course of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries such that wonder came to be a response to a puzzle solved rather than to the puzzling phenomenon itself. “Lisa Sideris,” Petersen (2023, 27) writes, “pleads for keeping the two notions analytically distinct, since wonder about objects may disappear and/or does not necessarily lead to awe.” That is to say, wonder in the form of puzzlement is easily eradicated by knowledge acquisition, which puts the mystery to rest. Knowledge itself—and the one in possession of such knowledge—may then displace the mysterious phenomenon as a thing of wonder in its/their own right, encouraging self-referential wonder that tends toward arrogance and shifts wonder away from the natural world. More generally, my claims about wonder are also motivated by concerns about the inaccessibility of certain forms of wonder for the average (nonexpert, nonscientist) person.

The kind of knowledge-based wonder I critique is problematic not only because it is wonder about something (puzzlement replaced by wondrous knowledge). Also at issue in this dynamic is that, when such puzzles are replaced by knowledge, we nonscientists are then in the position of being informed by scientists what we should wonder at, when, and why. One implication of this dynamic, in other words, is that we must wonder at the knowledge science produces, the solution to the mystery or puzzle, even if we did not participate in creating or “discovering” that knowledge and cannot fully apprehend it.

This arrangement potentially puts scientists in a priestlike role, handing down revelations about wonder that may only be fully interpreted and evaluated by the priests themselves. It is this sort of wonder, I have argued, that certain patently scientistic, self-appointed spokespersons for wonder—notably, Richard Dawkins—have advocated. Dawkins suggests that the average nonscientist can develop a kind of science appreciation, much as a nonmusician might cultivate music appreciation, without being able to play or even read a note of music.² Dawkins is content to maintain this two-tiered system, with scientists accessing what is truly wondrous and encouraging the broader public to direct their wondering response accordingly. Meanwhile, a potential casualty of this arrangement, beyond the loss of any directly accessible form of wonder for the nonscientist, is appreciation for nature as a legitimate source of wonder (unmediated, or relatively so, by scientific knowledge). This is not to deny that solutions to scientific puzzles—scientific theories, mathematical formulas, etc.—may be elegant, beautiful, and surprising, of course, but those features may not readily present themselves to the nonexpert.

Petersen returns to my concern about knowledge-based wonder at the conclusion of his second chapter. There, he suggests that even if “one thinks that one has solved an important piece of the puzzle,” a feeling of mystery and uncertainty can remain. The remaining uncertainty has to do, as I understand him, with the inability of models to fully capture an underlying reality. But more than this, the experience of uncertainty can generate a kind of metaphysical transcendence, both small and sometimes “big” transcendence (e.g., intimations of God or the transcendent). These vestiges of uncertainty, Petersen suggests, can take on a distinctly positive register “where even when one thinks that one has solved an important piece of the puzzle, this can go along with feeling a sense of mystery and associating remaining uncertainty with the super-rational.” He continues: “Analogous with religious practices, the emotion of wonder and the metaphysics of experience can play an important role in science” (Petersen 2023, 55). I might add here that I agree with Petersen’s assessment that this remaining element of uncertainty or mystery may indeed persist; and, at least for those inclined toward Keats’s negative capability, the possibility of dwelling in mystery even after a puzzle has largely been “solved” may well have a positive register. Dawkins however—and others for whom mystery and the unknown are frightful states to be avoided at all cost (my book mentions additional examples)—are intolerant of negative capability. For these thinkers, we might say, the “super-rational” simply does not exist.

To return to my larger concern: it is still a little unclear to me who, in Petersen’s account, has access to these intimations of transcendence gained in or through science, since such intimations often seem to depend upon a high degree of expertise. For example, when discussing, as Petersen does, Stephen Jay Gould’s or Alvin Plantinga’s ideas about design or lack thereof in nature (Gould does not believe nature is designed; Plantinga does), it appears a certain depth of knowledge of biology or paleontology or geology is needed to experience the kind of wonder he describes—knowledge, for example, that “the basic physical constants must fall within very narrow limits for intelligent life to develop,” as Plantinga believes (Petersen 2023, 51). While the wonder that arises from such insights has experiential and perhaps even affective dimensions, the experiences depend upon some level of sophisticated knowledge. My point is not to impugn or dismiss expertise but rather to question whether, how, and for whom such knowledge (and therefore wonder and the transcendent) is accessible, and how it might translate into wider action on climate change and other environmental issues.

In ways that echo some of my own inquiries into wonder, Petersen explores the question of whether a science-based myth that functions like classical religious myths (either amending those narratives or replacing them in order to achieve a common science-based myth for all) can re-enchant the world.³ Referencing my work, Petersen (2023, 147) notes that “it is a central present-day question in the field of science-and-religion . . . whether a science-compatible modern myth can be construed—atheistic, agnostic or theistic in kind—that replaces or amends classical religious myths and can ‘re-enchant’ the world.” This inquiry falls under the general topic of poetics in Petersen’s book. Poetics, as he describes it, is broader than poetry (Petersen 2023, 147–48) and can “trigger the experience of wonder” (Petersen 2023, 160). He asks whether poetics might provide an “evolutionary epic,” and further inquires whether it “is possible for poetry fed largely by science to bring re-enchantment of nature and motivate action against the ecological crisis” (Petersen 2023, 170; emphasis added). In order to flesh out what is meant by poetics beyond mere poetry, Petersen discusses how models in science, which involve metaphor, “thrive on poetic expression” and help advance science even though they are not to be taken “literally.” Moreover, science-in-the-making (in Latour’s sense) involves “modern myth making” as well (Petersen 2023, 163). A new hypothesis, for example, bears tantalizing similarities to a “mythos” insofar as “the observation of new phenomena and the development of new techniques” create intrigue and perhaps an aura of something mysterious. Until a hypothesis is validated, it retains this mythic quality (Petersen 2023, 163). Other examples of wonder-inspiring poetics are given in the book, drawing from Johannes Kepler and Copernicus—e.g., notions of celestial harmony, ellipses as assuring musical perfection; note too Petersen’s (2023, 169) intriguing reference to the “frightening poetics” of Gaia. In the realm of religion, models can also evoke religious responses (Petersen 2023, 161). Religion involves “poetically expressed models” that “appeal to the imagination and are necessary for evoking religious response.” By whatever means it arises, poetry or poetics must remain tethered to “human experience in order to fulfil its role,” Petersen (2023, 161) argues.

Petersen’s claims about religion involving models or metaphors that engage imaginative and experiential dimensions seem clear enough. But when it comes to wonder in science, again, my impression from Petersen’s examples is that these glimmerings of “mythos” in science are perhaps available primarily to the practicing researcher engaged in hypothesis creation or other practices restricted to the working scientist. Indeed, my reason for highlighting the phrase “poetry fed largely by science” in the earlier quote is also to underscore this potential danger. Returning to my whipping boy Dawkins, a consistent preoccupation through much of his writing is the idea that science should inspire poetry—that is, it should be acknowledged as a superior source or inspiration for poetry. For Dawkins, the claim that science ought to inspire poetry means science rightly claims its poetic credentials and power over against nature and its muddle-headed mystics and admirers. Only a fool marvels at nature’s mystery and waxes poetic in response, he believes. Science is where it is really at. Dawkins, in this context, goes after William Blake, chiding the famous poet for expounding on the “mystery” of a grain of sand or a wildflower when he could instead turn to science to make sense of these phenomena and thereby experience real wonder: “The mystic [Blake, in this case] is content to bask in the wonder and revel in a mystery that we were not ‘meant’ to understand,” Dawkins (1998, 17) derisively observes. The scientist too feels wonder, Dawkins explains, but then gets to work solving the mystery rather than wallowing in it.⁴ Indeed, Dawkins argues, science is not only the basis for better poetry; science is—already, without putting it into verse—the one, true “poetry of reality.”⁵

My point is not to conflate or equate Petersen’s reflections on poetry and poetics (poetics again being a more capacious category) with those of the scientistic, mystery-abhorring Dawkins but rather to identify some features of a clearly scientistic naturalistic form of wonder as a standard against which to assess Petersen’s (2023, 160) own transcendental account. Petersen’s (2023, 161) welcoming attitude toward mystery and his perception that poetics “play a fundamental but varied role in the practices of science and religion” clearly distinguish his understanding of mystery and wonder from Dawkins’s, as does his emphasis on the importance of human experience: “[M]odels [in science or religion, I take it] that rely solely on science and that do not allow for peoples’ individual experiences will find difficulty in providing meaning and motivating action.” And yet, especially in light of the emphasis he places on experience as critical to meaning making and motivation, I was eager for more examples of what this experience entails and whether or how it is available to the broader human experience more generally, apart from that of experts.

What seems to be missing or downplayed in Petersen’s description of wonder is an element of encounter one readily finds in the work of Alister McGrath, with whom Petersen engages. McGrath makes for an interesting point of comparison, given his devotion to demolishing the claims of the so-called New Atheists, and Dawkins in particular. McGrath’s version of wonder takes seriously what Martin Buber calls an I–Thou encounter. Petersen (2023, 171) quotes McGrath as arguing “we must encounter nature, not simply experience it.” That is, nature needs to be regarded as a Thou in possession of mystical dimensions that confront us in an immediate sense, where immediate means unmediated by knowledge. McGrath does not leave it there, however; he also believes that understanding, as through scientific knowledge, can add to appreciation of nature (or “Creation”), and he endorses a certain form of “blessed” ignorance inspired by the idea that nature “points beyond itself to the glory of God, the Other, or the Unknown” (Petersen 2023, 171). My own (nontheistic but not anti-theistic) account concurs with McGrath’s in that this unmediated encounter, this confrontation with a Thou, is a critical part of wonder. In fact, like McGrath, I defend in Consecrating Science a form of “virtuous ignorance,” a positively valanced appreciation of the “Unknown,”⁶ not simply as a temporary state of knowledge deficiency but a condition of our very being as finite humans, as well as a potential disposition to be cultivated (Sideris 2017).

Petersen acknowledges some similarities between my view and McGrath’s (explicitly theistic) account. But it is unclear to me whether or to what extent he—Petersen—also shares these views, particularly the significance of encounter (not merely experience—recall the “dizzying” encounter with “otherness” cited earlier). Without some such encounter, dizzying or otherwise, wonder seems too narrowly circumscribed, too vulnerable to the kinds of scientistic constraints imposed by Dawkins. Ultimately, then, I remain unsure whether the wonder and uncertainty Petersen endorses has much to do with “nature” per se, as distinct from knowledge, or science, about nature. Even if one’s appraisal of science is not scientistic (and Petersen is careful to avoid that), a gap still exists between what such scientists experience and what others can access. Broader access to wonder is important for broader motivation on behalf of the environment—motivation being an important part of Petersen’s claims on behalf of transcendental naturalism. Encounters with nature that do not depend on scientific mediation or sophisticated knowledge seem critical for sparking widespread engagement on environmental issues.

One clear instance I located in Petersen’s book where he seems to embrace something closer to unmediated encounter with nature’s Thou-ness—à la McGrath, Buber, or myself—appears almost as an afterthought or throwaway line near the conclusion of chapter six. There, Petersen (2023, 174) writes: “In response to the scientistic naturalistic approaches to ecological conservation observed by [that is, critiqued by] Sideris, I agree with Jane Goodall” in her advocacy of “alternative approaches” that enable young people to “experience wonder in hands-on projects focused on real people and real animals in real encounters.” I am intrigued here by the turn to and repeated use of the word real which, I take it, is meant to contrast with the forms of “abstract knowledge” Petersen (2023, 174) here suggests “may not do the trick” in terms of inspiring wonder and action. Thus, he concurs with Goodall’s method of direct exposure to real nature, combined with poetic references to such experiences, as a way of creating meaning and motivating action. How does this encouragement to engage with what is real in nature fit with the general arguments about wonder in science his book presents?

Moreover, I am curious as to why hands-on experiences in nature—which is also the approach my own work recommends, with extensive reference to Rachel Carson, who argued for unmediated encounters with nature before Goodall⁷—seem limited to young people. Surely wonder through encounters with the “real” natural world present an avenue that is open, potentially, to people of all ages who may not be in a position to appreciate or participate in the details and methodology and models, or hypotheses, of science and the space these activities preserve for creative uncertainty. To be sure, encouraging “hands-on” encounters and the wonder they can foster is not a universal panacea. The degree to which wonder is open to the average person may vary depending upon individual circumstances and cultural context. For example, individuals who live in highly polluted, industrialized, or degraded environments have fewer opportunities to experience nature in positive ways, or even to form strong bonds with the natural world that might serve as a foundation for experiences of awe. The natural environment may well be a source of fear and dread, owing to the presence of toxins and the attendant injustices that shift the burden of environmental harms onto marginalized populations, while environmental benefits accrue disproportionately to wealthier, often white, communities buffered from pollution and degradation (O’Dell-Chaib 2019). Similarly, experiences of wonder are often associated in an American context with “wilderness” conceptions, where awe is felt in the presence of large expanses of supposedly pristine nature (think of the National Parks system in the United States). Other nations and cultures rarely maintain such sharp divisions between nature (as supposedly wild) and human culture.

Nevertheless, wonder at nature need not take place only in these so-called wild places, however we might define them. Carson, for example, urges that wondrous encounters are equally possible in seemingly ordinary and familiar places—a backyard with chirping crickets or singing birds, a common roadway lined with wildflowers, a suburban summer sky strewn with stars. One of the points of cultivating wonder is that one might be able to experience it in the day-to-day world, as an orientation on life, a habitual disposition, not simply as a fleeting response to rare, vast, anomalous, or unexpected phenomena. These everyday “unstructured” experiences in nature can facilitate feelings of nature-connectedness that make people more likely to behave in pro-environmental and even pro-social ways (Yang et al. 2018). Indeed, as I write this, I am witness to the daily routine of a hummingbird who has constructed an impossibly tiny and heartrendingly perfect nest in a tree just beyond my window. In California, where I live, hummingbirds are readily spotted year-round. But there is something miraculous even in the everydayness of this encounter. On many recent days, the sight of this little creature living her purposeful and busy life in her own mysterious world—tending to her young, venturing out in search of food, and returning to rest in the evening—has given me a little more strength to carry on with my own world, in the midst of intensified environmental disaster and political chaos. In times of great climate (and other) anxiety, these encounters, in their peculiar mix of ordinariness and radical otherness, can help people cope with stress and worry and rededicate themselves to environmental causes (Reynolds 2020).

Ultimately, Petersen’s book offers a painstakingly detailed and persuasive defense of transcendent naturalism that retains a privileged place for wonder, mystery, and uncertainty in the practice of science. More attention to the role of direct experience with nature and the awe-inspiring, ecologically motivating potential of encounters with real creatures and real environments would be welcome. Elaboration on such encounters—how they happen, who can have them, how to encourage them more broadly—might fortify his account of wonder against the encroachment of scientistic appropriations of wonder that reduce it to knowledge of nature over and above nature itself—or what Carson (1998) would call “the real world around us.”

Notes

1. Unlike some scholars, Petersen’s discussion throughout is focused on wonder rather than awe; however, some of the debates in which he (and I) engages tend to use the term awe or fail to distinguish awe and wonder (awe is sometimes seen as a fear-tinged or overpowering experience of wonder, and it tends to be the focus of empirical studies). I follow him in using the term wonder, which I see as an umbrella term, even while some of the points raised here could apply equally to awe. [^{^}]
2. I examine this analogy in greater detail in Sideris (2017). [^{^}]
3. See, for example, such movements that create an Epic of Evolution or a Story of the Universe, or even Big History, which proffer a common scientific myth for all in the hopes of creating a shared sense of purpose and meaning, including a common focus on addressing environmental crises. [^{^}]
4. See especially Dawkins (1998). [^{^}]
5. The claim that science is the “poetry of reality” is a recurring theme in Dawkins’s writing and lectures, and most recently is the name given to a podcast featuring his lifelong work as a ferocious advocate for science and critic of all forms of religion and superstition. See https://thepoetryofreality.com/. [^{^}]
6. I have no objection to capitalizing the Unknown, for what it is worth. [^{^}]
7. See especially Rachel Carson ([1965] 1998). [^{^}]

References