Reductio ad absurdum

Today I was standing at the binding machine at the printing press where I work, staring at a piece of a 3rd grade reading textbook that would soon be bound, trimmed, cut, and packaged onto a pallet with several hundred others just like it.

I saw concrete floors, metal walls, and gray German-made machines. I heard the rhythmic sounds of hydraulic machinery moving and the buzz of the bells in the background. After about five hours of stacking paper on the binder, my thoughts disintegrated. Then I started thinking about theology. Go figure.

Once I read that the probability of the human eye evolving is even more unlikely than my Complete Works of Shakespeare textbook suddenly coming into existence, given time, ink, and paper.

Given what I now know about bookbinding, I couldn’t help but wonder about the way Shakespeare’s plays–if they did indeed come into existence without an author–could even be printed and glued together into a book.

Perhaps it would be printed and bound by a spontaneously-existing printing press run by solar power, its engine ever-greased by the boundless reservoir of oil upon which it sits, belts automatically replaced and fitted by rubber from the gum acacia tree conveniently growing nearby. New editions every year.

So, if you find a book sitting in a forest, you’re automatically going to assume it put itself together by chance, right? Because concluding that something like a Shakespeare play might have an author is just toooo much of a leap.

And my ancestors were all children of an ape named Bananarama. Right.

Scientists are continually turning over new information that reinforces something Creationists have always believed: that evolution requires as much, if not exponentially more, faith than Christianity.

Perhaps the saddest part? The millions who buy into this evolutionary system have absolutely no hope. C.S. Lewis put it bitingly well in his satirical “Evolutionary Hymn“:

Lead us, Evolution, lead us
Up the future’s endless stair:
Chop us, change us, prod us, weed us
For stagnation is despair:
Groping, guessing, yet progressing,
Lead us nobody knows where.

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