At the heart of the human predicament lies an uneasy—and often unexamined—relationship with science. We’ve come to treat science not just as a tool, but as a worldview. Once a method for exploring nature, it now acts as the West’s cultural compass, filling the space once occupied by religion. In a world that feels increasingly unstable, we turn to science for certainty. But that certainty is often an illusion.
Alongside the mainstream embrace of science as the engine of progress, a steady undercurrent of mistrust has grown—about climate change and particularly around health and medicine. For decades, some have linked childhood vaccinations to the rise in conditions like autism, allergies, and other chronic illnesses whose origins remain poorly understood. Though these claims have been widely discredited by the scientific community, the persistence of such concerns reveals something deeper: a growing discomfort with the distance between official science and lived experience.
That unease intensified during the COVID-19 pandemic. Public health mandates—masking, lockdowns, vaccination requirements—were rolled out in the name of science, but to many they felt imposed rather than explained. Science, in that context, no longer appeared as a guide to understanding the world but as an instrument of state authority. What had once been voluntary public health measures became lines in the sand, turning scientific consensus into cultural battlefields.
This reaction wasn’t just about facts; it was about how people experience power, control, and uncertainty. For those who already felt alienated from elite institutions, the pandemic reinforced a sense that scientific authority was distant, technocratic, and unaccountable. The result was not just resistance to one vaccine or another, but a broader skepticism toward the institutions that claim to speak in the name of science.
This mistrust isn’t new. The 20th century left deep scars: nuclear weapons, chemical warfare, and the industrial scale of human destruction made it harder to see science as an unalloyed good. The promise of progress was tainted by its cost. And while surveys show that most Americans still express confidence in scientists, that trust is increasingly fragile—and increasingly political. The divide is not just about facts; it’s about how science fits into our stories of meaning, power, and purpose.
The problem isn’t science itself—it’s how we’ve misunderstood its purpose.
From Natural Philosophy to Science
The term “science“ did not come into general use until the 19th century, gradually replacing the older term “natural philosophy.” This shift reflected profound changes not only in language, but in the nature and organization of knowledge itself.
From ancient Greece through the Enlightenment, what we now call science was inseparable from questions of meaning—a way of exploring the world that joined physical inquiry with philosophical and spiritual understanding. It included not just the study of stars or stones, but their place in a cosmos believed to have order and purpose. Figures like Aristotle, Galileo, and Newton pursued knowledge in ways that were inseparable from metaphysics, theology, and ethics. They saw no hard line between how the world works and why it matters.
The word “science” comes from the Latin scientia, meaning knowledge. But today, it’s come to mean something much narrower—empirical, testable analysis of the natural world. This shift wasn’t driven by scientists, but by the growing demands of an industrializing world shaped by coal, steam, and iron.
The early 19th-century rise of fossil fuels and industrialization created an urgent need to organize knowledge into useful, specialized domains—physics, chemistry, biology—disciplines that could feed the machine of progress. Scientific societies and journals emerged to validate and disseminate results; methods were formalized, and knowledge became a profession. As factories replaced fields and engines outpaced animals, culture tilted hard toward what could be measured, predicted, and harnessed—redefining science not as a path to wisdom, but as a tool of extraction and control.
Natural philosophy didn’t vanish—it fractured. Its empirical side evolved into modern science, while its reflective core scattered across philosophy, theology, and epistemology. What had once been a unified effort to understand the world and our place in it was fragmented—like knowledge itself—into disciplines, siloed and professionalized. The rise of science brought precision and power, but also a narrowing of vision. In trading breadth for specialization, we gained control—but we may have lost a certain kind of wisdom.
The Intent of Science
The purpose of science is not simply to explain the world, but to understand it—to participate in its mystery with curiosity, humility, and care. It seeks the patterns behind the appearances, the underlying principles that shape the visible and the invisible alike.
In doing so, science gives us tools—technologies, medicines, methods—but those are byproducts, not the heart of the enterprise.
At its best, science is a disciplined form of wonder, a way of deepening our relationship with Nature rather than reducing it to what can be measured or manipulated. It advances not just knowledge, but the possibility of wisdom—when we remember that understanding grows not only from breaking things down, but from seeing how they are woven together.
Unfortunately, we’ve elevated the analytical and mechanical while sidelining the intuitive and holistic. We’ve embraced explanation over understanding, data over meaning. We’ve adopted a worldview that sees reality as material, measurable, and controllable—a shift that has driven both ecological damage and human disconnection.
Reductionism
Reductionism lies at the core of modern thinking. It’s driven by the urge to break the world down into manageable parts—ideally just one critical part—so that problems can be fixed and utility maximized. It’s a framework shaped by action, not reflection: man against a hostile universe, with dissenters seen as distractions or threats.
The broader view gets brushed off as weakness or a luxury—something for people who don’t grasp what “really needs to get done.” It’s a mindset that prizes control over understanding, quick answers over deep thinking. Simplicity is treated as a virtue; complexity, a nuisance. Just keep it simple, and everything will fall into place.
For reductionists, certainty is sacred. Changing your mind or showing inconsistency isn’t just frowned upon—it’s a failure. They believe every problem has a fix, every question a right answer.
This isn’t about a handful of people—it’s the prevailing mindset of modernity.
This was a major force behind the public reaction to Covid measures. Faced with a new and poorly understood disease, science had to do what it always does: start with past knowledge and adapt as new information emerged. That meant trying things—masking, testing, isolation, lockdowns, vaccines—and adjusting course along the way. But the public, conditioned to expect quick fixes and clear answers, wanted certainty. Instead, they got shifting guidance and evolving strategies. To reductionist thinking, that looked like weakness, not progress. Changing your mind—an essential part of science—was seen as dishonest. So scientists, under pressure, projected confidence they didn’t always have, rather than being transparent about uncertainty. The result: confusion, frustration, and eventually, a collapse in trust.
A similar dynamic plays out with climate change. It’s a complex, slow-moving crisis with no single cause or clear-cut solution—exactly the kind of problem that reductionist thinking struggles to grasp. The public wants certainty, timelines, and fixes that fit into policy cycles or election campaigns. But climate science, like all science, is a process—one that refines its understanding over time. As models shift and predictions evolve, what should be seen as intellectual honesty is often read as inconsistency or alarmism. Under pressure, scientists and policymakers feel compelled to simplify or overstate, trading nuance for urgency. The result is public fatigue with changing models, polarized debate, and corrected projections—because we expected the science to be a crystal ball rather than a compass.
Humans have a bad habit of believing that if something isn’t entirely true, then it must be completely false—more reductionism.
Reductionism has helped humans survive by narrowing attention to what gets results. But it’s also given rise to a growing list of threats to that very survival. Iain McGilchrist uses the example of a bird: while pecking at seeds, it’s also scanning for predators. It balances focus with awareness. Humans, on the other hand, have mostly ditched that balance—choosing instead to double down on focus, then rely on technology to clean up the mess it creates.
Truth or Consequences,/p>
Progress is the defining story of modernity. We’ve come to believe that technology, markets, and science will always make life better. And for a time, they did. But progress that hides its costs isn’t progress—it’s harm dressed up as hope. We’ve outsourced the damage to nature, future generations, and the forgotten edges of society, then act surprised when it circles back.
The evidence is all around us. Forests cleared for production. Soil turned toxic for yield. Systems built for speed and scale, not for balance. We’ve traded depth for distraction, and wonder why trust and well-being unravel. Our most powerful tools—AI, synthetic biology—move faster than our ability to question where they’re taking us.
This isn’t forward motion. It’s drift without direction. Real progress begins with the courage to stop and ask what we’re actually advancing toward.
That requires more than breaking the world into parts. It asks for attention, patience, and imagination. Science, when distorted by profit or pride, becomes a tool for control rather than clarity. Its power lies in revision, not certainty—but we’ve come to treat it as dogma, not inquiry.
If there’s a path forward, it won’t come from doubling down. It will come from changing our relationship to knowledge itself. Not as a machine for answers, but as a companion to intuition, myth, ethics, and humility. We need science not to dominate the world, but to learn how to live in it.
And that shift must extend to energy and Nature too—not as resources to be extracted, but as relationships to be restored.
Seeing the Whole, Not Just the Parts
There’s no shortage of blame to go around. On one side, progress is seen as inevitable—a straight line toward utopia, if only we solve a few remaining problems. On the other, our history is cast as a slow-motion disaster, a tale of arrogance and self-destruction. Both views are steeped in reductionism. They collapse complexity into a single story: triumph or failure.
Growth appears to be evolution’s engine, and population its currency. Species rise and fall, civilizations come and go. That’s not optimism or despair—it’s just what the evidence shows. Whether there’s a deeper meaning behind it all is an open question, but not one we need to answer to live wisely.
Rather than blame ourselves or idolize our cleverness, it might be more useful to pay attention. To acknowledge that we’ve come far, but not necessarily grown up. What works in youth—speed, expansion, certainty—becomes a liability with age. The same is true for civilizations.
Maturity means seeing the whole picture, not just the parts. It means recognizing that the world is not a machine with discrete problems and clear fixes, but a web of relationships we barely understand. Progress isn’t about doing more—it’s about seeing more. And that starts with accepting that we’re a complicated species living in a complicated world. It’s time to act like it.
Who Are We?
Erwin Schrödinger saw what we’ve mostly forgotten: knowledge in isolation has little worth. Seventy years later, deep specialization has made it uncommon for anyone to connect science and philosophy. But if we brought the two back into conversation—especially around the science of mind—we might create a deeper synthesis, where each informs the other and brings us closer to understanding who we really are.
The way we’ve become damages the planet and distorts our inner lives. If all beliefs are just mechanical outcomes of a blind system, then even reductionism collapses under its own logic. What’s needed is not an adjustment in perspective but a shift in worldview. The universe isn’t made of isolated things but of relationships and processes. “Things” are secondary—temporary markers in a deeper, dynamic web of connections. Seeing them as primary blinds us to the true nature of reality.
We’ve come to idolize explanation: the apple falls because of gravity. But ask what gravity is, and the limits of explanation become clear. Understanding is broader. It resides in context, metaphor, and felt experience. Explanation is a subset of understanding. Humans have become very good at “what” but not so much at “how” and “why.” Explanation breaks things down; understanding weaves them together.
It’s hard to imagine any human problem or situation whose outcome isn’t fundamentally a question of psychology.
Science is human. It’s driven by curiosity, intuition, and accident as much as method. Its history is full of missteps, half-truths, and lucky guesses. And yet it’s often packaged as a pristine engine of progress. It’s critical to learning how to live in the world but, like us, it’s complicated. Learning to accept our difficult relationship with science is the first step toward change.
Modern physics reminds us that everything is connected. Even the act of observation alters what’s being observed. This isn’t just theory—it’s a reflection of our place in the web of life. We affect what we study because we’re part of it. That’s as true for ecosystems and societies as it is for particles. Humans, nature, and the planet are bound together in ways we’re only beginning to understand.
The core issue humanity faces is a deep misunderstanding of reality itself. We have progressively devalued the intuitive and holistic part of thought in favor of the more analytical—one focused on control, on bending the world to our will. In its essence, it’s a predatory way of thinking.
The result has been widespread harm—physical, psychological, moral, and spiritual—to both ourselves and the natural world. If we are to survive, we must begin to transform not just our actions, but the way we see ourselves and the world around us.
We won’t survive without science, but science on its own won’t be enough. As Thinley Norbu pointed out, ordinary logic works with the parts—but life isn’t made of parts, it’s a whole. Knowledge can guide us, but it cannot change us. That takes reflection, humility, and an openness to transformation. Philosophy and spirituality are not in conflict with science—they are what give it meaning and purpose. They help us ask the harder question—not what we can do, but what we should.
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Nothing I’ve written here is original. I’ve simply drawn connections between the insights of others, and credited them where due. I’m deeply humbled by the contributions of thinkers like Iain McGilchrist, David Bohm, and Daniel Schmachtenberger, among many others, whose work continues to shape how I understand the world.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Art Berman is Director of Labyrinth Consulting Services, Sugar Land, Texas, and a world-renowned energy consultant with expertise based on over 40 years of experience working as a petroleum geologist. Visit his website, Shattering Energy Myths: One Fact at a Time, and learn more about Art here.
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