Evidence and the Evolution of a Closed Mind

Scientific evidence is always – always – interpreted. What happens when it’s only interpreted according to previously accepted dictums? A rigamarole of self-supporting science that really isn’t suspended from anything at all.

Remember geo-centrism? It accurately (although complicatedly) described the observed phenomena. Same with helio-centrism, although it accomplished the same functions more elegantly. The point is, identical observations were available to both theories.

When people seized upon evolution, it was rooted not in the scientific rigor of the theory, but the fact that it offered intellectual credibility to the secular mind: finally, a theory that didn’t need God. Ever since then, there has been a self-fulfilling system of
1. predetermined bias against any cosmology compatible with a deity, followed by
2. Only interpreting available evidence in terms of this secular cosmology, which becomes
3. a system where only one theory has “evidence,” due to an unwillingness to examine the evidence in any other way, rooted in #1.

So there are indeed “shreds of evidence” for theories besides evolution: the exact same shreds that exist for evolution. Evidence is observation: when you conflate evidence and the interpretation of evidence, you’ve already gone a good way towards making your science unfalsifiable, which I’ve been told is a bad thing. The evidence is there: all that’s lacking is a willingness to examine the old observations in a new light.

Now, I’m not saying this is unfair. Far from it. Everyone has their biases, and everyone has fundamental axioms which they will inevitably interpret the world by. The sticky part is when scientists claim neutrality as their demesne. No, they are human like the rest of us: and until they realize that their actions, including interpretation of evidence, spring from preconceived ideologies, their science will be fatally close-minded.

The biggest mistake a scientist can make is taking his own worldview for granted – and that includes evolution.


The poet said the world would end again in ice,
But I believe its destiny will be the fire.
When all the stars go singly to their dark defeat,
And nebulae, undone by entropy’s deceit,
No more to light’s creation can aspire,
And last among the heaven’s arched and soaring heights
Fair Sol, that bloodied giant, falls upon our sphere,
We’ll recall among ourselves the wrathful Flood
Ancient counterpart, deep quenching of our sins.
The world once burned with scorching guilt, but now begins
The final forging, metal bought with Lordly blood;
The fire summons all to judgement and to fear.


The decision was made quite simply,
In a simple waiting room,
The obligatory magazines lounging on the table,
And floral patterns melting into the light blue wallpaper.
The operation was neat and tidy:
(Carefully supervised of course by gentle nurses,
Following rules the beaurocrats kindly assented to.)
And the only black in the room
Was the quiet that filled her belly,
And even then the white penetrated there
To absolve her of inconvenient conception.
The vacuum was plied with expert hands,
And a guilt-bladed knife worked things of horror.
The remains of a torn life were quietly taken away to market,
While sorrow struggled to enter, kept at bay
By the lying calm on the face of the eyeless nurses.
The book I wanted to read is locked,
No infant cry to sever those bonds and tell me the story
Of following life.
Only a single, questing, bloody hand reaching, seeking
Out of the smothering white plastic bag.

The Van

The twelve of us shivered in an awkward, don’t-touch-me sort of penguin huddle in a parking lot, waiting to load our luggage into the vehicles. We were about to get underway on a week-long choir tour of the Northwest, and I was no longer sure that it was going to be the exciting adventure I had told myself it would be. I was also the official driver of the large white fifteen-passenger van that functioned as our luggage transport and carried six people, including myself. I had never driven one before. It felt like a Great Dane cavorting through Grandmother’s crystal when we passed through the midst of gleaming, new swathes of vehicles on the interstate. The least mis-step threatened collision, stopping took much longer than was reasonable, and the problem child that was our gas pedal only responded to abusively heavy treatment.

The wind was picking up and the sky was spitting menacingly when we scraped our piles of assorted suitcases, bags, backpacks, dufflebags, instrument cases and equipment together, loaded it in like a Tetris puzzle and then began to sort out who wanted to ride in the mini-van and who wanted to ride the dangerous looking behemoth. As people wavered, and looked longingly at the new air-conditioned, sparkling, sporty minivan, I turned to my charge and was underwhelmed. No cushy individualized seating here, just one-size-seats-all benches. No slick passing and slipping between traffic, but slow waits and oh-come-on muttering. I could see the gloomy looks settling into the faces of those around me who were considering the whole week-long trip they faced in this bottom-heavy monster. Then, out of the grey sky, a curious little mood lighted on my mind. This was going to be good. I wanted the challenge. I wanted to wrestle the behemoth and show him what I could do and make it respect me. I wanted, suddenly and oh so badly, for everyone to want to ride my bus. I could not promise comfort, but the muse was tickling, and one thing I knew I could promise: a good time. In an inspired moment, I circled my right hand high in the air like I was rounding up a squad of soldiers, and shouted “If you’re all ready, the Fun-vee is rolling out.” The muse pulled off the unlikeliest of shots, and there it was: that magical hint of a smile on one girl’s face, and then it was all over the place, like someone let loose a toddler with a marker. Everyone smiled, and in that moment, the trip was made. The individuals galvanized, grouped, and entered the van like a single unit. If I was going to be a bus driver, then I was going to be a lively one. I don’t know if the behemoth was fishing for me, or me for it: but either way, it was in for a ride.

The doors slammed as the grey sky broke and fell in on us, too late to soak us, huddled inside our van with a rear full of luggage, instruments, and expectations. It was snub-nosed, ugly as sin, and if it ever tried to twerk, we’d have needed the Richter scale to properly judge it, but beyond all reason and common sense, it was ours. I have never felt so possessive of anything in my life, except my wife: and I know that my occupants felt the same way. How did I know? Except for once, all week, not one of my passengers ever tried to switch out of the big van. In fact, we talked about the other vehicles in a tone of slight pity, as if they wished they could all be driving with us. It probably wasn’t true: really it wasn’t at all, but it was, for us. They weren’t members of the Fun-vee, which was clearly a prestigious and exclusive privilege, bestowed once, and discontinued thereafter. Whatever happened, we were a gang for a week, and Lord, but we had fun. There was a time I had to request a break from the fun because my mouth hurt from smiling too much, and my driving was clearly suffering when I laughed long and loud. Yes, that thing was a behemoth. But true to biblical prediction, we would never forget the attempt to ride him.


When Roland fought his victory
On the field of Roncevaux,
And Don John of Austria
Achieved his mighty blow,
And Martel’s iron hammer
Smote the Paynim horde,
The vanguards of a Christian Church,
They knew for what they warred.

But though the land and sea they swept
With chivalry’s dying breaths
The sky unblemished yet remained:
The air had not seen death.
But in Our Lord’s remembrance,
A thousand years had fled
Before the Paynim hosts would strike,
A second dragon’s head.

No knights, no Christendom saw they,
Only the West, corrupt.
They swore a bloody vow and bond
To meet where Mahound supped.
And in the sky at last they seized
The swords they lusted for,
To wield against the West’s strong towers;
The Paynims flew to war.

Strange thing! That in their flight,
Three of four would strike,
Flying but not fleeing,
Victory and death alike.
Three modern churches soared in flame:
Our country’s five-side shield,
Two monuments to commerce fell,
And then the fourth: a field.

For Roland’s spirit rose again
And held the common heart,
Again Don John of Austria
Would fight his valiant part.
For common men, uncommon souls
Their heritage reborn
Unarmed, unyielding, undismayed
They answered Roland’s horn.

And they the martyrs, for they took
That sword in their own breast.
They fought and died for others lives,
And joined in Roland’s geste.
The wailing of a stricken siren sounds
Flight 93 is mourned.
And yet we pause, in silent praise,
On this September morn.


A friend of mine who was a very gifted singer and musician passed away quite suddenly a day ago in a motorcycle accident. This poem is for him.

Though the melody stops suddenly,
Brought a grief to me,
The only way to rejoin the song
Is to count the measures of rest.
Against God, who will protest?
The Singer of all right will not sing wrong.
Those who would find harmony
Must bow their knee;
No suspension remains unresolved.
Although our own resolve might fail
Our voices weak, and bruised reeds be frail,
A tear is not a sin, and grief’s absolved.

Clickbait 3

Here is more inanity from the sump-pump of the interwebs! The series continues. Don’t forget to look at Part 1 and Part 2!

Ah, the old Viking strategy. "Come with us in this longboat and get ye some concubines." "Arr, sounds good."

Ah, the old Viking strategy. “Come with us in this longboat and get ye some concubines.” “Arr, sounds good.”

4 of the regrets are the people touching her. The fifth is this picture.

4 of the regrets are the people touching her. The fifth is this picture.

"Manufacturers warning: KILLS blood pressure, not just reduces. May result in death, cessation of bodily function, passing beyond the veil. Consult your doctor to see if Arsenica is right for you."

“Manufacturers warning: KILLS blood pressure, not just reduces. May result in death, cessation of bodily function, passing beyond the veil. Consult your doctor to see if Arsenica is right for you.”

Multiply by 250,000. Easy.

Multiply by 250,000. Easy.

Step 1: Kidnap UFC fighter. Step 2: Euthanize UFC fighter. Now you have the body of a UFC fighter!

Step 1: Kidnap UFC fighter.
Step 2: Euthanize UFC fighter.
Now you have the body of a UFC fighter!

Holy crap, that guy was thirty 100 feet ago.

Holy crap, that guy was thirty 100 feet ago.

No, but we're great at causing headaches.

No, but we’re great at causing headaches.