The dwindling refuges of creationism:
Nobody here is a candidate for Fetish Night. But nobody seems horrified by it, either, just as nobody really doubts evolution. What used to be shocking is now just fun or silly, even to those of us who think of ourselves as believers. Fundamentalists have lost the media, the colleges, and the science academies. The battleground has been reduced to public schools, and creationism has been reduced to intelligent design—a pathetic, agnostic, empty shell. Creationists can't teach a dogma, so they "teach the controversy." They accept more and more of Darwin's theory, narrowing the dispute to isolated systems—the eye, the flagellum, the blood-clotting system—that they say Darwinism can't explain. They just want science to stop short of denying God's possibility. A little bit of mystery, a parcel of unspoiled divine wilderness, is all they ask.
I think about that as I bike around the perimeter of the island that evening. I think of all the territory that's been mapped, drawn, and quartered. This island, the last of the stepping stones into the tropics, now covered with concrete, tchotchkes, and thongs. In the dimming light, I pass a band of tall, white birds prancing offshore, their long necks craning forward majestically. They look for all the world as though they're walking on the water. I know that's the mirage of the Keys: What looks like the sea is really wet flatland, and the birds' long legs are touching the ground. But if I can just put that out of my mind, I can hold on to my beautiful illusion till darkness comes.
10:35 AM
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