I hadn’t read much of Bertrand Russell until recently, when I came across a very short essay called The Theologian’s Nightmare. Mind! it’s less of an essay and more of a short story. In it, the esteemed theologian finds himself on the way to Heaven only to be subjected to greater inquisition than he was expecting. You see, he’d lived his life devoted to the glory of God, and so he was surprised to encounter a strange alien figure who had no idea what he was talking about. He said that he was a planet called Earth, which rang no bells. He was asked to elaborate, saying that the Earth was a part of the Solar System, which was a part of the Milky Way. It took several years to locate a record of this planet in the archives, years which gave the theologian great distress, but it was eventually found, and the archivist remarked:

“I have at last discovered the particular star concerning which inquiries have been made, but I am quite at a loss to imagine why it has aroused any special interest. It closely resembles a great many other stars in the same galaxy. … After minute investigation, I discovered that some, at least, of these planets have parasites, and I think that this thing which has been making inquiries must be one of them.”

At this, the theologian was aghast and lamented:

“Why, oh why, did the Creator conceal from us poor inhabitants of Earth that it was not we who prompted Him to create the Heavens? … You tell me that I am an infinitesimal animalcule on a tiny body revolving round an insignificant member of a collection of three hundred billion stars, which is only one of many millions of such collections. I cannot bear it, and can no longer adore my Creator.”

To which the others responded, “Very well, then you can go to the Other Place.” The theologian then shot out of bed, having had a dreadful nightmare and reflected on the power of Satan over our dreams.

This story, I think, raises an interesting line of thought. Religions (with several notable exceptions) typically androcentric in their understanding of the Theo-drama that unfolds. Man is somehow God’s special creation that stands above the other living creatures. Man, after all, is endowed with rationality, an immortal soul, and (in some instances) the image of God himself. Understand, this notion of God is not disinterested nor impersonal like that of the Deists. This is a God who is exceptionally concerned with human endeavour, so much so that he is said to have acted in history through special revelations, covenants with nations, and even sacrificed himself for the remission of their numerous sins.

Why would the planets, stars, and galaxies terrify the theologian, then? They do so because their very existence challenges the idea of human exceptionalism, or supremacy, especially when one considers the prospect of life on other worlds, as some suppose there might be. On this planet, we are accustomed to feeling special, but what of when—or if—we meet another intelligent species, perhaps one that is more intelligent? Would we recognise something of ourselves in them? Would we feel unique?

You know, some time ago, Pope Francis stated that he would baptise aliens. He didn’t see it as a problem at all. However, though it is entirely possible this was said to generate controversy (and make headlines), I believe his statement was rash. For instance, consider what baptism means: one is reborn as part of the Church, that is, the body of Christ. Christ, however, was a human being, so what would it mean for an alien to be baptised into this communion? Is the body of Christ to be part-Martian, or Gallifreyan, or Saturnite? Did Jesus die for them, too? Are girls from Venus made in the image of God? These are all well-established questions of the fundamentals of Christian theology, albeit we have only ever asked them with respect to humans. I say this not out of prejudice but to illustrate how the vastness of space (and its potential diversity of life) challenges many of the narratives that occupy some of the world’s largest faiths.

Still, it is entirely possible that none of this presents a problem. One may go on with their religious convictions unperturbed by what one may find amongst the trillions of stars. Nevertheless, I’m not sure avoidance is our best strategy. Typically, the human difference has been thought of as rationality. Man is a “rational animal”, as Aristotle put it; but if there is other rational life out there, what then? What’s the human difference? More interestingly, what might this say about how we relate to other life even on this planet?

One is bound to ask this since we anthropomorphise animals all the time. Just a couple of months ago, I was sucked down the YouTube rabbit-hole and ended up watching videos of odd inter-species friendships. I’ve watched primates and humans embrace one another for the first time in years (a real tear-jerker), and I’ve seen lions, tigers, and bears live with one another as brothers (look up Baloo, Shere Khan, and Leo). The wild operates on competition amidst scarcity, yet when needs are met we can see other species show similar signs of connection and empathy that we might see in humans. And need I add? that humans are not always the most rational bunch. Perhaps this is not our defining trait, and we are wrong to make an exception of it. It’s easy to giggle, for example, at the monkey-god of the Hindus, but why couldn’t a monkey be an image of divinity? After all, we are not the only ones to be clever or silly.

In many ways, it is arrogant to think we have an absolute understanding of such things so far removed from our everyday experience, and so we may find that humanity has a lesser role in the cosmic story than we once thought. Is this so terrifying as the theologian supposed? Should we be bitter towards a god that could love other creatures as much as ourselves? It is just so in our interaction with others of our own species as well. The only narration of your life going on is the one in your own head: you are not the centre of the universe; or, because the universe is infinite, perhaps everyone is at their own centre. Humility is key. I think, ultimately, that the suggestion that the story is about us is excessively egotistical and a bit drab. After all, just because the world is larger, more egalitarian than we supposed it was that does not mean we should not marvel at it.