Why the Science-Faith Dialogue Needs Souls, Not Just Syllogisms

In a recent post, I argued that the future of the science-faith dialogue depends less on physicists and more on theologians—those trained to grapple with Scripture, tradition, and the existential dimensions of belief. One reader, in a rather cheeky tone, urged me to “catch up” on philosophers like Bas van Fraassen, Hans Halvorson, Alex Pruss, Hud Hudson, and Meghan Page, whose technical work, they suggested, holds the key to progress.

As an intellectual historian and teacher in the Great Books tradition, I’m no stranger to interdisciplinary engagement—I read widely, and yes, I’ve read these thinkers. Their contributions are impressive. Nevertheless, they exemplify a broader problem: the analytic turn in philosophy. With its hyper-specialization and ahistorical method, this tradition “lets the cat out of the bag,” so to speak. It often operates within the very modern, scientifically conditioned parameters it seeks to analyze. The result is that the science-faith dialogue risks being reduced to a narrow, technical exercise.

The Analytic Turn: Rigor Without Roots

The philosophers in question exemplify the strengths of the analytic tradition: logical precision, formal modeling, and metaphysical creativity. These thinkers are brilliant. But too often, their work operates in a vacuum—disconnected from the historical, communal, and existential contexts that animate theology. In that sense, they ultimately serve as a dead end.

Constructive Empiricism

Bas van Fraassen, in The Scientific Image (1980), introduces “constructive empiricism,” insisting that science aims not at truth but at “empirical adequacy.” A theory, for van Fraassen, need not be true in any robust sense—it merely needs to “save the phenomena.” Science, he argues, is a tool, not a mirror.

Unlike scientific realists, van Fraassen holds that acceptance of a theory doesn’t require belief in its claims about unobservable entities. Instead, scientists need only affirm that the theory is empirically adequate. This anti-realist position avoids metaphysical speculation while preserving science’s practical success. Microscopes may extend perception, he concedes, but they don’t redefine what counts as observable in any deep, metaphysical sense.

In Scientific Representation (2008), van Fraassen develops this further: scientific models are pragmatic and partial, shaped by human interests rather than deeper ontological truths. Scientific explanations, he claims, are context-dependent answers to “why-questions,” not disclosures of metaphysical reality.

Yet in his humility, van Fraassen concedes too much. By accepting the empirical as the final court of appeal, he baptizes the very scientism he aims to resist, relegating religion to a shadow realm of “non-observables.” While his emphasis on empirical adequacy may defuse conflict—religion and science no longer vie for truth in the same domain—it also sidelines theology. Science, in his view, can make truth claims about observables; religion cannot.

There are echoes here of nineteenth-century liberal theology—Schleiermacher, Ritschl, and later, Stephen Jay Gould’s “non-overlapping magisteria.” All seek to avoid conflict by dividing domains. But van Fraassen’s view is even more agnostic. Liberal theologians often retained metaphysical commitments—God as the “ground of being,” for example. Van Fraassen brackets metaphysics entirely. His “humility” applies equally to quarks and to divine action.

This agnosticism risks making theology irrelevant to the real world. If theological claims cannot speak meaningfully to history, cosmology, or biology—say, the Resurrection or the fine-tuning of the universe—then theology becomes untethered from lived experience. This was precisely the charge leveled by Barth and other neo-orthodox thinkers against nineteenth-century liberalism. Van Fraassen doesn’t forbid science-religion dialogue, but he doesn’t encourage it either. His framework renders theology optional, even ornamental.

In the end, van Fraassen’s “constructive empiricism” may be more nuanced than older demarcation strategies, but it echoes their underlying logic. And so the risks remain.

The Measure of All Things

Hans Halvorson, an alchemist of category theory, wields mathematical tools to reveal hidden symmetries within scientific theories. He shows how frameworks as distinct as Newtonian mechanics and general relativity might be “equivalent” under the right formal transformations—undermining the realist’s boast that science converges on the true structure of the world.

Like van Fraassen, Halvorson critiques scientific realism and emphasizes empirical adequacy. But he goes further: where van Fraassen draws a line between observables and unobservables, Halvorson questions the coherence of that very distinction. His formal analyses suggest that theories cannot be cleanly divided into “observational” and “theoretical” components. Even our most basic intuitions about evidence, he argues, are shaped by the frameworks we inhabit.

In his work on the pedagogy of quantum mechanics, Halvorson critiques historical approaches—such as starting with Bohr’s model—as obscuring the logical structure of the theory. He advocates instead for axiomatic approaches grounded in contemporary mathematics, revealing a deeper coherence that historical narratives sometimes conceal.

But for all their elegance, Halvorson’s models are cathedrals of abstraction. They hover above the mud and marrow of history, where scientific theories are born not from logic alone but from the anguish of Galileo, the ecstasy of Faraday, the imagination of Kepler. Halvorson’s formalism refines older debates—underdetermination (Duhem, Quine), theory-ladenness (Hanson, Kuhn), and pluralism (Feyerabend)—but offers little in terms of existential stakes.

This is his strength and his limitation. He provides a more rigorous, mathematically precise version of familiar arguments, much like a logician recasting a philosophical problem with sharper axioms. His work can serve as a tool in the science-religion dialogue—but it rarely becomes a participant. It opens conceptual space for religious frameworks without directly engaging them.

Indeed, Halvorson’s underdetermination arguments create a “negative space” for theology. They suggest that science does not exhaust the real, but they do not say what else might be true. The result is a pluralism that might accommodate a process-theological or deistic God, but not the God who parts seas, raises the dead, or makes covenantal promises. The God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob acts in history. Halvorson’s framework, by contrast, treats religion as a parallel explanatory model—not as revelation, not as liturgy, not as transformative encounter.

Even claims like the Resurrection—empirically entangled, historically grounded—risk being reframed as speculative metaphysical postulates. Halvorson’s structural pluralism may tolerate these claims but struggles to engage them on their own terms. By treating theology as just another model, he risks flattening its distinctiveness—its insistence that God’s self-disclosure is not a hypothesis but a history.

To be fair, Halvorson does not ignore theology altogether. In his recent essay, “What Philosophy of Science Has to Offer to Theology” (Philosophy, Theology and the Sciences, 2023), he acknowledges that theology—not just philosophy of science—can help redress problems within scientific discourse. That distinction matters. In this article, Halvorson credits the work of theologian Adam Neder, who stands in the tradition of Barth, Kierkegaard, Bonhoeffer, Webster—and Pannenberg.

Amen to that.

Still, Halvorson’s gesture toward theology remains suggestive rather than substantive. His category-theoretic worldview may allow theology to enter the conversation, but it rarely invites it to speak as theology. His framework is best read as a prolegomenon—a rigorous preface to a dialogue that still waits to unfold.

A Principle of Sufficient Reason

Unlike van Fraassen and Halvorson, Alex Pruss charges headlong into metaphysics with a sword forged in Bayesian probability and modal logic. A committed theist and metaphysical realist, Pruss does not bracket theological questions—he tackles them directly. His work stands out in the analytic tradition for defending the doctrines of classical theism: divine infinity, providence, the Resurrection, and the Principle of Sufficient Reason.

In this sense, Pruss is well-positioned to aid theologians and contribute constructively to the science-faith dialogue. His arguments are logical yet unapologetically theological. For example, in his defense of the Resurrection, Pruss uses Bayesian analysis to argue that the best explanation for the historical evidence—empty tombs, astonished apostles, rapid religious expansion—is that a supernatural event occurred. If God exists, then miracles are not intrinsically improbable. The resurrection is not a violation of natural law, but a divine act within a contingent natural order. Pruss thus sidesteps the tired “miracle vs. science” binary by reframing God’s action as primary causation, with science describing secondary causes.

His work on cosmology and fine-tuning similarly offers a theistic alternative to naturalistic multiverse theories. Unlike van Fraassen, who refrains from ontological commitments, or Halvorson, who frames them as structural models, Pruss affirms robust metaphysical realism. For him, God is not a placeholder for ignorance but the necessary ground of all being and explanation.

This makes Pruss a true asset to theologians. He doesn’t merely defend the possibility of theological claims—he affirms their truth. Where analytic approaches often leave theology in a holding pattern of plausibility, Pruss presses on to affirmation.

Yet his work is not without limitations. It remains deeply analytic—abstract, logic-driven, and largely detached from history. While his commitment to classical theism aligns with many religious traditions, his methodology seldom engages with historical scholarship, biblical studies, or lived religious practice. Where I approach the science-faith dialogue through contextual, narrative-driven history, Pruss approaches it through a rationalist metaphysics.

Bridging those approaches requires careful dialogue. We must ensure that the living Christ of Paul’s ecstatic vision—the “firstfruits of those who have fallen asleep”—is not reduced to a statistical anomaly in a forensic lab. The Resurrection is not merely probable; it is a cosmic mystery, a world-turning event that resists reduction to numbers.

Still, Pruss’s philosophical rigor offers real promise for interdisciplinary collaboration. When combined with theological depth and historical insight, his work could help construct a science-faith dialogue that is not only coherent, but also spiritually alive.

The Metaphysics of Hyperspace and the Fall of Hypertime

Hud Hudson, metaphysical architect of hypertime and hyperspace, builds bold conceptual scaffolding to reconcile traditional Christian doctrine with modern science. His work proposes higher-dimensional frameworks that allow doctrines like the Fall and Resurrection to be mapped onto speculative metaphysical terrain. In Hudson’s telling, a hyperdimensional temporal structure—complete with multiple timelines or “time streams”—could make room for a literal Adam and Eve without conflict with evolutionary history, or for a bodily resurrection consistent with physical laws.

This is creative theology by way of theoretical physics. In his speculative cosmology, God may inhabit a higher-dimensional “bulk,” acting without disrupting the apparent laws of spacetime. The Fall could occur in hypertime; resurrection could be a reassembly across temporal stages. Theologically daring, conceptually dazzling—and deeply problematic.

For all its ingenuity, Hudson’s project verges on Gnostic salvation. His metaphysical innovations, while technically sophisticated, risk turning theology into a puzzle-solving exercise—something to be decoded in modal logic and reconciled through ontological extravagance. But positing hyperspace or hypertime to save traditional doctrine from scientific embarrassment is, at best, ad hoc—and at worst, a betrayal of theology’s historical and pastoral grounding.

Doctrines like the Fall and the Resurrection are not abstract metaphysical problems; they are historical, liturgical, and existential claims. They arise from Scripture, tradition, and lived religious practice—not from theoretical physics. The ancients knew that sin is not a paradox to be solved but a wound to be lamented, a condition chanted in Lenten liturgies and confessed in trembling. The Resurrection is not a metaphysical “reassembly” but a world-reversing event, grounded in the crucified and risen body of Jesus.

Hudson’s work, for all its technical power, remains detached from these dimensions. It treats theology as if it were metaphysical engineering—a discipline of models and possibilities, not mystery and revelation. His lack of engagement with biblical-theological frameworks, liturgical traditions, or the historical unfolding of doctrine limits his usefulness for theologians concerned with fidelity to the faith once delivered to the saints.

This is not to deny the creative value of Hudson’s work. His speculative metaphysics shows what is logically possible—but it does not tell us what is theologically faithful. Theology is not merely a sandbox for metaphysical ingenuity. It is a way of life shaped by encounter, covenant, suffering, and hope. Without attention to these lived, historical, and spiritual realities, Hudson’s hypertime becomes less a resolution and more a retreat into abstraction.

The Unquestioned “Scientific” Baggage

These thinkers are not wrong. They are, in fact, too right—too faithful to the analytic creed that shrinks the cosmos to a grid of propositions. Indeed, even when arguing for God, analytic theists often mimic scientific evidentiary standards, reducing religious claims to hypotheses competing in a marketplace of empirical “proofs.” The analytic tradition often uncritically adopts scientific modes of thinking (e.g., formal logic, probabilistic reasoning, model-building) as the default framework for philosophical inquiry. This risks circularity, as these very methods are products of the scientific worldview whose limits, assumptions, and metaphysical implications are ostensibly under examination.

Their error, then, is not intellectual but spiritual. The analytic, technical, and often metaphysically speculative approaches of thinkers like van Fraassen, Halvorson, Pruss, and Hudson, represent a mode of philosophy that diverges radically from the ancient Greek model as interpreted by Pierre Hadot, who famously characterized philosophy in antiquity as a “way of life” aimed at spiritual transformation, existential reorientation, and the cultivation of wisdom (sophia) through lived practices. They have forgotten that philosophy was once a training for death. The goal was not abstract theorizing but achieving eudaimonia (flourishing) through alignment with cosmic reason (Logos) or divine order. The Stoics practiced philosophy as a discipline of virtue, not just speculation. Analytic philosophy, by contrast, often brackets these dimensions, privileging clarity over contemplation, precision over participation. Even when positing God or hypertime, analytic philosophers often treat the cosmos as a value-neutral puzzle to be solved, stripping it of the sacred, teleological, or participatory qualities central to ancient Greek and many religious worldviews.

The thinkers we’ve discussed exemplify a modern analytic tradition, which emerged in the 20th century and prioritizes logical precision (problems are dissected into discrete, formalizable components), metaphysical speculation (technical constructs aimed at resolving paradoxes or defending coherence, not guiding lived practice), bracketing of metaphysical commitments (focusing on what we can say or model rather than how we should live), and disciplinary specialization (philosophy siloed into subfields—philosophy of science, philosophy of religion—with little emphasis on holistic wisdom or existential transformation).

This contrasts starkly with Hadot’s vision of philosophy as an existential project integrating ethics, metaphysics, and spiritual practice. Of course, they are not all guilty of this confusion, but, in general, the analytic tradition has traded the banquet of wisdom for a bowl of axioms. This is the great irony. By adopting these norms, analytic philosophy risks presupposing the validity of scientific rationality, even when critiquing scientific realism or defending theism. This creates a paradox: it uses tools forged in the scientific workshop to question science’s metaphysical reach, all while reinforcing science’s epistemic hegemony.

Perhaps this is the curse of specialization: the fracturing of knowledge into fiefdoms, each guarded by technocrats blind to the whole. Theologians, too, have succumbed, retreating into jargon or relevance. But the Great Conversation—the real science-faith dialogue—demands more. It demands historians who trace the fingerprints of providence in the rise of quantum mechanics, theologians who hear in the cosmic microwave background the echo of Fiat Lux, and poets who glimpse in DNA’s helix the artistry of the Logos. Ancient philosophy was communal and transformative, but analytic philosophy prioritizes solitary, dispassionate analysis—a stance inherited from the Enlightenment’s “view from nowhere.”

Thus, when analytic philosophers engage science and religion, they often replicate the very power dynamics they aim to critique. Religion is forced to defend itself on science’s turf. This cedes ground to scientism, as theology becomes reactive rather than visionary. By framing religion as a set of truth-claims, analytic approaches sideline ritual, sacrament, and mysticism—elements that resist formalization but are central to lived faith. Ancient philosophy asked, “How should I live?” Analytic philosophy often asks, “What can I coherently believe?” The latter reduces spirituality to an intellectual game.

The Cat is Out, But the Game Remains

The analytic tradition, even in its critiques of scientism, often remains trapped within the scientific worldview’s epistemic and methodological confines. This doesn’t invalidate its contributions—Pruss’s arguments or Hudson’s models are intellectually formidable, even dazzling—but it does highlight a crisis of purpose in modern philosophy. For the science-religion debate, this means analytic philosophy can clarify, defend, and reconcile—but it struggles to transcend the scientific framework. When Hudson reimagines the Fall through hyperspace, for example, he sidesteps two millennia of theological wrestling with Genesis—from Irenaeus’ recapitulation theory to Augustine’s original sin. When Pruss calculates resurrection probabilities, he mirrors forensic science, reducing a cosmic mystery to a hypothesis. This risks what historian Jaroslav Pelikan called “the bankruptcy of academic theology”: ideas dissected, but their soul lost. By adopting scientific methods, these philosophers inadvertently reinforce scientism’s hegemony. 

A fuller dialogue, therefore, requires returning to philosophy as spiritual exercise (Hadot) or existential commitment (Kierkegaard), where science and religion are not competitors but complementary paths to understanding a reality that exceeds formalization. The analytic tradition, for all its rigor, has reduced the mystery of existence to a series of logic puzzles, severing philosophy from the blood-and-breath wisdom of the ancients. Let us honor their contributions—then ask why, in the shadow of their syllogisms, we still hunger for something more.

Is There a Way Out?

Can philosophy engage science critically without replicating its presuppositions? There are signs of hope. We might draw on Platonism, Thomism, or Eastern traditions that integrate metaphysics, ethics, and cosmology without reducing them to analytic formulas. We can learn from thinkers like Paul Ricoeur or Charles Taylor, who treat science and religion as distinct yet complementary languages of human experience.

We need historians to trace how concepts like “natural law” or “creation” evolved alongside scientific shifts. We need theologians like Karl Barth or Sarah Coakley, who root doctrine in prayer, suffering, and desire—realms where hypertime and Bayesian proofs fall silent. We need the Great Books tradition—Augustine, Aquinas, Pascal, Dostoevsky—to show us how metaphysics, ethics, and imagination can cohere into wisdom.

When van Fraassen critiques realism, or Halvorson rejects structuralism, they’re not wrong. But their critiques lack the urgency of Pascal’s “God-shaped vacuum” or Bonhoeffer’s “religionless Christianity.” The future of the dialogue will not be built by technicians—but by saints and scholars who see science as liturgy, the universe as sacrament, and the mind’s longing for truth as a homing instinct for the divine.

Let van Fraassen, Halvorson, Pruss, Hudson, and Page keep their calculations and category theories—but let us also reclaim the desert fathers, the medieval scholastics, the mystic physicists like Pascal and Faraday, who knew that every equation is a love letter to the Mind behind the cosmos.

The future of the dialogue belongs not to those who dissect, but to those who kneel.