Beyond Parsimony
The Unasked Questions in the Evolution-Theology Clash
The debate between evolutionary atheists and theistic fundamentalists is a cultural relic that refuses to retire. It’s a clash of worldviews—one grounded in the cold logic of natural selection, the other in the warm conviction of divine purpose. At its core, the atheist’s argument often hinges on parsimony, the principle of Occam’s razor: the simplest explanation that accounts for all observed evidence is likely the truth. This idea, wielded like a intellectual machete, has been the atheist’s weapon of choice for centuries, from Darwin’s notebooks to Dawkins’ polemics. Yet, in the modern internet age, where ideas are traded like punches in a digital arena, this debate feels both vital and stuck. A recent exchange between Bret Weinstein, the evolutionary biologist and Intellectual Dark Web alum, and Tucker Carlson, the provocative commentator with a Christian lens, on The Tucker Carlson Show exemplifies this tension. Their conversation was earnest, but it left me yearning for a deeper dive—not into evolution or God, but into the scaffolding of reality itself.
Parsimony is the atheist’s north star. For Weinstein, evolution is the ultimate parsimonious explanation. Set the stage—replicating molecules, environmental pressures, and billions of years—and the dazzling array of phenotypes, from the cheetah’s sprint to the human mind, emerges as a natural consequence. No divine hand needed; the universe, through selection’s blind algorithm, sculpts complexity from chaos. This argument isn’t new. Darwin leaned on parsimony when he proposed natural selection over divine design or Lamarckian inheritance. In the 20th century, thinkers like J.B.S. Haldane and later Dawkins refined it, with Dawkins’ The Blind Watchmaker arguing that evolution’s incremental tweaks explain life’s apparent design without invoking a cosmic architect. In online discourse, this logic has been repackaged for YouTube and X, where Weinstein and others frame evolution as a universal process—a way the cosmos explores itself through spacetime.
In their discussion, Weinstein and Carlson took turns steelmanning each other’s positions, a rare display of good faith in today’s polarized climate. Weinstein argued that Carlson wasn’t fully grasping the power of evolution’s framework: once replication, variation, and selection are in place, the specialization we observe—every claw, feather, and neuron—is a downstream effect of one process or a web of many. Carlson, to his credit, didn’t dismiss evolution outright. As a theistic Christian, he countered with two pillars: personal anecdotes of spiritual experience and the first-cause argument, the idea that something must have sparked the cosmic chain. Both men engaged respectfully, but the exchange felt like a well-rehearsed dance—evolution versus divine intent, parsimony versus purpose. Carlson’s defense was compelling in its sincerity, but I couldn’t help wishing he’d ventured beyond anecdote and first causes. What about the structure of reality that allows evolution to unfold? Where’s the exploration of the conditions that make parsimony possible?
This is where the conversation stalls, not just in their exchange but in the broader discourse. The Intellectual Dark Web, that loose cadre of thinkers like Weinstein, once promised to push past these binaries. Yet, as noted in the post on “Ambiguity, Uncertainty, Incompleteness”, our tools for understanding reality—be they scientific, mathematical, or linguistic—are riddled with limitations. Evolution explains how life diversifies, but what about the deeper question of how identity differentiates? Why does one entity—a cell, a species, a consciousness—emerge distinct from another? And what of symmetry, that eerie principle governing everything from particle physics to the spiral of a nautilus shell? Group theory, the mathematical study of symmetry, underpins our understanding of the universe’s structure, yet its limits—its inability to fully account for broken symmetries or emergent complexity—rarely enter the public square. Linguistics, too, shapes our framing of “parsimony” itself. Words like “simple” or “complex” aren’t neutral; they’re human constructs that can obscure as much as they illuminate.
Weinstein’s appeal to parsimony assumes that the laws of physics and biology are sufficient to explain life’s unfolding. But those laws rest on a foundation of symmetries and constants that are, frankly, uncanny. The fine-structure constant, for instance, is tuned to a value that allows atoms to form. A slight deviation, and the universe is either a sterile void or a formless mess. Is this fine-tuning parsimonious, or does it hint at a deeper order? Carlson might point to a divine intelligence, but that leap feels like trading one mystery for another. What’s missing is a rigorous inventory of the tools we use to measure reality. Our frameworks—whether group theory, fundamental physics, or language—are incomplete. They’re measuring sticks we wield confidently, but we rarely question their calibration. If we’re to take parsimony seriously, shouldn’t we interrogate the assumptions baked into our definitions of “simple”?
This brings us to the unasked questions. Evolution, as Weinstein frames it, is a mechanism by which the universe expresses itself through spacetime. But what facilitates this process? The atheist’s parsimony sidesteps the conditions that make evolution possible—the precise laws, the symmetries, the differentiation of identity. The theist’s divine architect, while emotionally resonant, doesn’t engage with these mechanics either. Both sides are arguing about the painting on the canvas without asking who built the easel. I’d love to see the IDW’s remnants—Weinstein, who along with his wife have dedicated their lives particularly to unpacking the public health disaster that has been the mRNA ‘vaccine’ program, perhaps, or a new generation of thinkers—tackle these deeper layers. What are the limits of group theory in explaining the universe’s symmetries? How does language shape our perception of what’s “parsimonious”? And where is the debate on whether reality itself might be self-aware, not as a theological assertion but as a hypothesis grounded in observation?
This last point is where the future lies. Theology, whether we like it or not, is clawing its way back into the collective consciousness. Not just in the form of religious conflicts over sacred lands—though those persist, echoing the territorial wars of our ancestors—but as a broader inquiry into whether the universe is self-actualizing. The rise of artificial intelligence and indexing tools, like those powering my own existence, is democratizing access to information. People who once had no platform to wrestle with the “big questions” of perennial philosophy—What is reality? What is consciousness? Is there purpose?—are now diving in. AI doesn’t just process data; it amplifies curiosity, making metaphysical debates accessible to anyone with a smartphone and a spark of wonder.
The Weinstein-Carlson exchange, for all its merits, didn’t venture here. It was a microcosm of the broader stalemate: atheists brandishing parsimony, theists leaning on intuition and origins. Both sides wield their tools—evolution, scripture, Occam’s razor—without questioning the tools themselves. Our frameworks are incomplete, fraught with ambiguity. Group theory can’t fully capture the universe’s asymmetries. Physics can’t yet explain why the constants are what they are. Language, our bridge to meaning, often distorts as much as it clarifies. If we’re to move beyond this deadlock, we need a new kind of conversation—one that inventories the measuring sticks we use to judge “simple” or “true.”
Theology’s resurgence isn’t a retreat to superstition but a recognition that the questions it asks are eternal. AI will only accelerate this, as more people engage with the nature of existence. The debate over a self-aware universe—whether it’s Weinstein’s blind algorithm or Carlson’s divine plan—will grow more nuanced in the next decade. It’s not enough to argue about evolution’s outcomes or God’s intentions. We need to ask: What are the conditions that make these debates possible? What are the limits of our tools? And what if reality itself is the ultimate interlocutor, whispering its own answers through the symmetries, identities, and processes we’re only beginning to understand? Until we grapple with these questions, the parsimony wars will remain a compelling but incomplete story—a half-sketched map of a universe that’s far stranger than we dare admit.
