Abstract
Working in the area of science and religion, and more particularly on human ‘enhancement’ technologies, I found 2018 to be a Frankenstein-filled year. The 200th anniversary of Mary Shelley’s novel was marked by the release of a new edition (‘annotated for scientists, engineers, and creators of all kinds’), 1 and countless presentations and articles considered its ongoing relevance as a warning against scientific hubris. Frankenstein has become shorthand for such admonitions, and the story has embedded itself into our popular imagination. We identify with Victor Frankenstein as much as we detest his arrogance; we pity his creature even as we fear him. The promethean myth only gains in momentum with the explosive development of genetic, robotic, information technology and nanotechnologies (GRIN) and the promise they hold out for ever greater control over our own destiny.
It’s particularly easy to reach for stories when thinking about technology and the human future; science fiction suggests itself as a resource for reflection. The imagination is not only a tool for exploring possible futures but occupies a central role in our moral formation. ‘Stories seep into us—and stay there and haunt us—more than a report on the facts’, as James K. A. Smith reminds us. 2 As I lecture in theology, and train ordinands for ministry, drawing on fictional explorations of theological themes inspires deeper engagement with the course content from most of my students. How much more do questions of theodicy and moral philosophy come alive through Dostoevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov, or Ursula Le Guin’s ‘The Ones Who Walk Away From Omelas’? Eleonore Stump’s use of biblical narratives to explore these questions in Wandering in Darkness again reveals stories’ power, allegorised by her contrasting ‘Dominican’ (propositional) and ‘Franciscan’ (intuitive) approaches to knowledge. Stories show the complexity of what it means to be human more clearly than any lecture on theological anthropology and give students a window into the diversities of human experience beyond their own contexts. Many sermons that have stuck with me connected strongly with the arts—using film, music, or literature to illustrate a point imaginatively.
My conviction that stories matter, and that we should attend to the stories shaping our moral imaginary, is only now trickling down to my recreational reading life. I have an enormous appetite for fiction and the habit of making unsolicited book recommendations to everyone I know. But my reading (and therefore my recommendation) tends most often toward works written by, or about, people like me. I love the wildly fantastic but am far less varied when it comes to more ‘realistic’ literature. Yet I have been rewarded when I have ventured beyond my own preferences, increasing my understanding and empathy, challenging assumptions and illuminating blind spots. If I made New Year’s resolutions, 2019’s goal would be to travel further into new reading territory.