fundamental questions. It is my scientific view, verified by experiments, that God lives inside the object concealed by this box."
The neurologist was a tall, shambling man in his forties, but all his awkwardness seemed to disappear as he walked over to a cardboard box on a table next to the podium. The crowd stared at him. Everyone wanted to see. He reached inside the box, hesitated, and then took out a Plexiglas jar containing a brain.
"A human brain. Just a piece of tissue floating in formaldehyde. I have proven with my experiments that our so-called spiritual consciousness is only a cognitive reaction to neurological change. Our sense of the divine, our belief that a spiritual power surrounds us, is created by the brain. Take one last step, judge the implications of the data, and you must conclude that God is also a creation of our neurological system. We have evolved into a consciousness that can worship itself. And that is the true miracle."
***
THE DEAD MAN'S brain had provided a dramatic ending to the lecture, but now Richardson had to carry it home. Carefully he placed the jar back in the box and climbed down the steps from the platform. A few friends from the medical school clustered around to offer him their congratulations and a young surgeon escorted him out to the parking lot.
"Whose brain is it?" asked the young man. "Anyone famous?" "Heavens no. It's got to be more than thirty years old. Some charity patient who signed the release form."
Dr. Richardson placed the brain in the trunk of his Volvo and drove north from the university. After his wife signed the divorce papers and went to live in Florida with a ballroom dance instructor, Richardson had considered selling his Victorian house on
Prospect Avenue
. His rational mind realized that the house was too large for one person, but he consciously gave in to his emotions and decided to keep the place. Each room in the building was like a portion of the brain. He had a library lined with bookshelves and an upstairs bedroom filled with photographs from his childhood. If he wanted to change his emotional orientation, he just sat in a different room.
Richardson parked his car in the garage and decided to leave the brain in the trunk. Tomorrow morning he would take the brain back to the medical school and return it to its glass display case.
He walked out of the garage and pulled down the overhead door. It was about five o'clock in the evening. The sky showed a dark purple color. Richardson could smell wood smoke coming from his neighbor's chimney. It was going to be cold tonight. Perhaps he'd build a fire in the living-room fireplace after dinner. He could sit in the big green chair while he skimmed through the first draft of a student's dissertation.
A stranger got out of the green SUV parked across the street and walked up the driveway. He appeared to be in his forties, with short hair and steel-rimmed glasses. There was something intense and focused about the way he held his body. Richardson guessed that the man was a bill collector sent by his ex-wife. He had deliberately missed last month's payment after she had sent a certified letter asking for more money.
"Sorry I missed your lecture," the man said. "God in the Box sounded interesting. Did you get a good crowd?"
"Excuse me," Richardson said. "Do I know you?"
"I'm Nathan Boone. I work for the Evergreen Foundation. We gave you a research grant. Correct?"
For the last six years, the Evergreen Foundation had sponsored Richardson's neurological research. It was difficult to get the initial grant. You couldn't actually apply to the foundation; they contacted you. But once you crossed that initial barrier, the renewal was automatic. The foundation never called you on the phone or sent someone to the lab to evaluate your research. Richardson's friends had joked that Evergreen was the closest thing in science to free money.
"Yes. You've supported my work for some time," Richardson said. "Is there
The neurologist was a tall, shambling man in his forties, but all his awkwardness seemed to disappear as he walked over to a cardboard box on a table next to the podium. The crowd stared at him. Everyone wanted to see. He reached inside the box, hesitated, and then took out a Plexiglas jar containing a brain.
"A human brain. Just a piece of tissue floating in formaldehyde. I have proven with my experiments that our so-called spiritual consciousness is only a cognitive reaction to neurological change. Our sense of the divine, our belief that a spiritual power surrounds us, is created by the brain. Take one last step, judge the implications of the data, and you must conclude that God is also a creation of our neurological system. We have evolved into a consciousness that can worship itself. And that is the true miracle."
***
THE DEAD MAN'S brain had provided a dramatic ending to the lecture, but now Richardson had to carry it home. Carefully he placed the jar back in the box and climbed down the steps from the platform. A few friends from the medical school clustered around to offer him their congratulations and a young surgeon escorted him out to the parking lot.
"Whose brain is it?" asked the young man. "Anyone famous?" "Heavens no. It's got to be more than thirty years old. Some charity patient who signed the release form."
Dr. Richardson placed the brain in the trunk of his Volvo and drove north from the university. After his wife signed the divorce papers and went to live in Florida with a ballroom dance instructor, Richardson had considered selling his Victorian house on
Prospect Avenue
. His rational mind realized that the house was too large for one person, but he consciously gave in to his emotions and decided to keep the place. Each room in the building was like a portion of the brain. He had a library lined with bookshelves and an upstairs bedroom filled with photographs from his childhood. If he wanted to change his emotional orientation, he just sat in a different room.
Richardson parked his car in the garage and decided to leave the brain in the trunk. Tomorrow morning he would take the brain back to the medical school and return it to its glass display case.
He walked out of the garage and pulled down the overhead door. It was about five o'clock in the evening. The sky showed a dark purple color. Richardson could smell wood smoke coming from his neighbor's chimney. It was going to be cold tonight. Perhaps he'd build a fire in the living-room fireplace after dinner. He could sit in the big green chair while he skimmed through the first draft of a student's dissertation.
A stranger got out of the green SUV parked across the street and walked up the driveway. He appeared to be in his forties, with short hair and steel-rimmed glasses. There was something intense and focused about the way he held his body. Richardson guessed that the man was a bill collector sent by his ex-wife. He had deliberately missed last month's payment after she had sent a certified letter asking for more money.
"Sorry I missed your lecture," the man said. "God in the Box sounded interesting. Did you get a good crowd?"
"Excuse me," Richardson said. "Do I know you?"
"I'm Nathan Boone. I work for the Evergreen Foundation. We gave you a research grant. Correct?"
For the last six years, the Evergreen Foundation had sponsored Richardson's neurological research. It was difficult to get the initial grant. You couldn't actually apply to the foundation; they contacted you. But once you crossed that initial barrier, the renewal was automatic. The foundation never called you on the phone or sent someone to the lab to evaluate your research. Richardson's friends had joked that Evergreen was the closest thing in science to free money.
"Yes. You've supported my work for some time," Richardson said. "Is there
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