Science and magic meet again in the public square, this time heralding the return of dire wolves. These great beasts, once extinct, have been resurrected by magicians in lab coats – necromancers with PhDs. Using DNA extracted from fossils and bones, scientists replicated the wolves and grew them in a lab.
We’re quick to praise this bioengineering feat, and in a sense, rightfully so. After all, it takes immense scientific prowess and a strict work ethic to accomplish such a task. In recent years, similar feats include lab-grown meat, half-human-half-monkey-mutant “chimeras,” and the cuddly Dolly the Lamb (the genetic clone of a sheep). Yet so many of these so-called “science-fiction” breakthroughs seem far more like fantasy.
Resurrection, mutation, cloning – once the domain of spellcraft – are now the products of science. Now, they’re the results of science. Yet perhaps “science” is simply the name we give to materialist magic. There is no spellcraft; the Enlightenment “proved” there are no spirits. However, as we learned from Bacon and Nietzsche, there is great power in controlling nature.
The process of dissecting to understand is called “Science.” Or, as Wordsworth put it, “We murder to dissect.” What sometimes follows is Scientism: the belief that all things can be explained by scientific procedures. It functions as a kind of religion. Spellbooks are replaced with lab journals. Cauldrons are replaced with Bunsen burners. Ironically, the dissections have largely remained unchanged. This hypothesis becomes quite interesting in light of transhumanism (the ideological push to transcend human limitations through technology), artificial intelligence, and (of course) our resurrected dire wolves.
C. S. Lewis is one of the most prolific writers on the overlap of science and magic, and he’s by far the most digestible. Consider his series, “The Chronicles of Narnia.” The first book is famously titled “The Magician’s Nephew.” Here, the “magician” is no cave-dwelling wizard or tower-bound sage. Instead, it’s Uncle Andrew, a deranged uncle dwelling in an attic. He’s a scientist. His goal is to enlighten the world with a set of powerful rings that grant the wearer special abilities.
Throughout the novel, Uncle Andrew shows himself to be a ruthlessly ambitious man, driven almost entirely by utilitarian motives. He wants only what will give him more power. Science is his means to power, culminating in the arrival of a witch he’s effectively summoned from another world. His magic was a scientific conquest.
Lewis further addresses science and technology in his lecture, “The Abolition of Man,” and its accompanying fiction, “That Hideous Strength.” In both these works, Lewis tackles the connection between materialist science and magic. He notes in The Abolition of Man that Science and Magic are shoots from the same vine. They are both endeavors to control nature via power. He explained, “For magic and applied science alike the problem is how to subdue reality to the wishes of men: the solution is technique; and both, in the practice of this technique, are ready to do things hitherto regarded as disgusting and impious — such as digging up and mutilating the dead.” Or perhaps resurrecting sleeping dogs.
“That Hideous Strength,” allegedly a work of “science fiction,” features Merlin, the Pendragon, and spirits. It reads much more like fantasy than anything else. Materialist science, according to Lewis, neglects the confines of morality.
Yet for whatever reason, when we have breakthroughs in biotech, we’re quick to say, “That’s out of a science fiction movie!” When AI threatens to control us, we’re reminded of sci-fi thrillers, not spells and hypnosis. Paul Kingsnorth addressed this very problem in his short story, “The Basilisk.” What if instead of science fiction, we thought in terms of fantasy? What if instead of “The Terminator,” we thought of “Beowulf?”
Interestingly enough, science fiction is a quasi-inversion of fantasy. It takes the premises of “Fairy Tales” and turns its head. Tales that used to occur on land, either in the seas or in the forests, occur in “space.” Even that word, “space,” drains the term of wonder from its usage. Fantasy evokes wonder, mythos, and extravagance. You expect reality to be a bit more wonderful in a fantasy world.
This is often not the case in the world of science fiction. Space, as Lewis notes in “Out of the Silent Planet,” simply insults the Heavens. A cosmos, in which stars, spirits, and galaxies abode, cannot be shrunk down to such a term. “Outer Space” is far too puny and nominalist a term for such a majestic world. But this is the jargon of science fiction. It is a fiction of science. There is no polarized, good and evil magic that battle as in the fantasy stories. There is often only neutral technology. Morality is a concept often left by the wayside, or at least not expressly addressed.
Technology is not evaluated in terms of good or evil forms, as opposed to its counterpart, magic. It is based on its function. Which technology gives me the most power? – that becomes the measure of good. But even then, the materialist world of science fiction often bars us from thinking in terms of good and evil. It compels us to think in terms of utility or emotion, not objective morality.
Far too often, we find ourselves living in the world of science fiction, wrought with dangerous “aliens.” Creatures from outside our normal. We ought to flock to fantasies where we romp about with woodland creatures, fairies, and stags. The Earth is our home. These creatures about us are not aliens, and neither are we. There is good and evil. And good wins.
Understanding modern bioengineering through the lens of fantasy provides much-needed insight. If we see science as the latest magic, then it follows that there are good and evil scientists in this world. This is true in a personal sense. There are good people and evil people.
Yet perhaps this distinction is just as true symbolically. Certain scientific experiments and projects are good, and others are outright evil. Don’t misunderstand me – within this analogy, there is such a thing as good science. After all, science can be a very Christian endeavor. Understanding the Cosmos allows us to see the Creator better. By attuning ourselves to reality, via scientific studies, we can better identify the craftsmanship of our Heavenly Father. My concern, however, is that there is evil science just as present, one seeking to conquer the very nature we’re created to adore.
Necromancers are afoot, gathering with witches and warlocks, crafting potions to alter our biology and offering their gingerbread houses to wayward children. They’re summoning creatures from the dead and growing limbs in their lair. Their goal, as it has always been, is to become God. And they’ll say as much. Nor are these warlocks estranged from the city. They are in the king’s court. To be consistent with this analog, evil biotechnology is the perversion of good biotechnology.
Close to a year ago, I wrote a piece analyzing the modern Transhumanist movement. I classified two types of biotechnology that are helpful for this conversation: restorative and transgressive. Restorative biotech could be things like prosthetic limbs, glasses, or facial reconstruction surgery. The body is restored as the good magic (restorative technology) redeems. Transgressive biotech perverts that narrative. It seeks to go beyond the standard of Imago Dei. It doesn’t redeem. It’s Black magic. It is recreated in the image of transhumanism. The world heralded the return of the dire wolves as some new scientific feat. While the technology may be new, man’s futile conquest over nature has been present since Genesis.
Looking to the old stories can give us great hope. The magic men always get their due. Indeed, this is the wonderful nature of fantasy: Good always conquers evil. The dragon is slain. The princess is rescued. The kingdom is restored. This is the arc of the Gospel.
This is fantasy — and I’ll grant, it’s the plot of a good sci-fi story too. Fantasy allows us to name the moral forms of modern science. It gives us categories – good and evil – that science fiction, with all its technological flair, often neglects. In fantasy, there is space for wonder, for virtue, for final victory. And in the end, the world becomes far more magical.
