Inside
NCR Cloning: the bleat heard around the world
That Scottish sheep has certainly
caused a stir. The world's first cloning (story, page 3) of an adult mammal
has, like most big firsts, caused us to pause and ask who we are and where
we're going.
Caveats and admonitions abound. Sheep and monkeys may be fine, but
what about us? One biologist delighted feminists by announcing there'd be no
more need for men -- and that's just for starters. President Clinton said
biologists shouldn't play around with people the way they're doing with sheep.
The Vatican sounded similar warnings.
This, however, may be a good time for church leaders to slow down,
take a deep breath, take this whole sensational story slowly and circumspectly.
The Catholic church, for one, has a dismal record of overreaction to discovery
and innovation.
In the matter of innovation, scientists say, we're just getting
started. To take a wacky example: In a 1995 book, Nano, author Ed Regis tells
the story of K. Eric Drexler, a graduate student at MIT in the 1980s who amused
his peers with speculations about "assemblers," very tiny machines measured in
billionths of an inch -- just the right size, in other words, to manipulate
"plain old atoms into objects, substances or other assemblers; with virtually
no outlay in raw materials and no operating costs, an assembler would build any
number of anything you could imagine, from pork chops to spaceships."
Lest this sound too Disneyesque, the author points out that in the
15 years since Drexler had his brain waves, "some of the 'impossible'
technologies upon which his vision depended have begun to emerge" at places
like IBM and Du Pont.
The Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith would look plain
goofy endorsing a scenario like that. Still, we already believe some fairly
unlikely things. And who would ever have believed cloning anyway? And as for
the visionary Drexler, it turns out he wasn't even original: He learned later
that one Richard Feynman had already spelled out the basics of nanotechnology
in 1959 in an after-dinner speech later published as "There's Plenty of Room at
the Bottom." There's nothing new under the sun. It says so in the Bible.
This brings us to the other technology story of the week: the
Vatican's new guide for confessors, recommending a kinder, gentler approach to
the shriving of artificial contraception. The document is called a vade mecum,
a quaint, arcane name that somehow seems to belong to history. This more benign
approach to contraceptive sinners is a sad, late gesture aimed at Catholics who
for the most part have walked away from a sacrament discredited by the Vatican
itself with the publication of Humanae Vitae a generation ago.
Please come back, the confessors are asked to say, and we won't
beat you up with hellfire any more.
But there's a catch-22 here. A church that, when lost for a good
argument, hews as closely as ours does to infallibility, is stuck with its
history. It can't easily admit a mistake. Therefore, the artificial
contraception that presumably would send sinners to hell a generation ago can't
now be an indifferent matter. Rather, the same old contraception must again be
pronounced "intrinsically evil." In that case, the admonition to gloss over its
transgressions in confession sounds dangerously close to the relativism against
which Cardinal Joseph Ratzinger so recently warned the world.
The sheep was such a happy choice for this new scientific
breakthrough. Cute animal. And then there's the Good Shepherd, so popular an
icon in the early church, an exemplary memory to which to hark back.
William Blake in his famous poem asks the tiger, "Did he who made
the lamb make thee?" Lambs are cute, but watch out for tigers.
It's a good time to be circumspect, and even humble.
Rampant rumors that Bishop John
Leibrecht, a native of St. Louis and bishop of the Springfield-Cape Girardeau
diocese in southern Missouri, has been offered the Chicago archdiocese led one
of his admirers in Springfield to remark, "Chicago should be so lucky."
Leibrecht's name surfaced among news outlets in Chicago. The unconfirmed word
is that the 66-year-old Leibrecht, who successfully negotiated Ex Corde
Ecclesiae -- the Vatican document on Catholic higher education -- through
rough U.S. academic waters in recent years, has been offered the post but is
resisting.
-- Michael Farrell
National Catholic Reporter, March 14,
1997
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