Gregory Dawes's book aims to breathe new life into the old claim that there is an irreconcilable conflict between religion and science, and that the progress of science has been, at times, hindered by its conflict with religion. This so‐called “conflict thesis” is currently unfashionable and has come under heavy criticism from historians of science in recent years. It is held to be a naive, adversarial, and simplistic view of a complicated relationship. It is a thesis that, to quote the historian Peter Harrison, “is no longer taken seriously by historians” (, 223).

Pushing against this tide of fashion, Dawes argues that theologians, philosophers, and historians of science have so far been seeking conflict in the wrong place. They have attempted to locate an irreconcilable conflict between religious and scientific communities. Therefore, since the relationship between these two communities is in fact complex and historically contingent, these writers have mistakenly concluded that the conflict thesis is false. Dawes rejects this conclusion, arguing that the conflict between religion and science is not best construed as between religious and scientific communities, but as between the differing sets of epistemic norms which apply to members of religious and scientific communities (12–17).

Dawes's book is an enjoyable and scholarly, yet not overly technical, read. It contains nine chapters, the first two of which sketch a brief history of science from Aristotle and Ptolemy through to Copernicus. In the first of these, Dawes draws the reader's attention to the efforts of early medieval Christian theologians to come to terms with the proper relationship to maintain between religion and science. The emergence of the “handmaiden thesis” is noted (36), as is the late medieval “renaissance” in natural philosophy beginning in the eleventh century (39). The condemnation of 1277 is then put forward as a paradigmatic example of the conflict in action (41), and as a bad omen of what would later befall Galileo. His discussion of Copernicus in the second chapter is more balanced, emphasizing the well‐known scientific shortcomings of Copernicus’ theory of planetary motion, as opposed to the theological objections that it also faced. In the third chapter, a history of the trial of Galileo is given, while two subsequent chapters outline the way in which differing scientific and religious epistemic norms surrounding the notions of authority and certainty were responsible for the Galileo affair. The final four chapters are more general, dealing with the relative place of critical thought in religion and science, and the importance of the distinction between faith and reason as a key to understanding the source of the conflict.

Notably in these later chapters, Dawes attacks a popular tu quoque argument that is often launched against secular epistemic systems. The argument usually runs that science, like religion, must hold certain principles above criticism. But if that is so, then science is as faith‐based as religion, in the sense that science, like religion, accepts some propositions as unassailable, yet also unjustifiable. This argument is particularly common fare among intelligent design creationists. To defeat it, Dawes argues that if there happen to be any beliefs about which the scientist cannot afford to be critical, these would have to be the kinds of beliefs that Wittgenstein dubbed “hinge beliefs.” In particular, the hinge beliefs of science, were there any, would be of a universal sort. Such beliefs could simply not be doubted as a matter of principle, since they would be the very beliefs that enable us to function as rational agents. We could not doubt them, since we doubt by using them. Dawes does not commit himself to the position that science does accept any such beliefs as always beyond criticism (171). The point that Dawes wishes to draw attention to is that scientific criticism extends to the very outer limit of our critical ability. In contrast, the sacred myths that religion holds as beyond criticism are neither logically nor practically beyond criticism. Religion is the activity of treating certain beliefs as though they were hinges.

In a nutshell, Dawes's thesis is that the conflict between religion and science is one between religious dogmatism and scientific fallibilism. In this respect, Dawes's argument has a distinctly Popperian flavor to it. In scientific communities, he says, even the most fundamental principles are regarded as open to criticism and revision (and here the problem of scientific hinge beliefs resurfaces). As far as the norms of the scientific community are concerned, there are apparently no limits to scientific criticism. He contrasts this with the situation for scriptural religions: the authority of sacred narratives is regarded as unquestionable (129). Religious communities do not allow criticism to be taken too far, and transgressions may lead to excommunication. These are two very different approaches to knowledge taken by two different communities.

To emphasize, Dawes's argument is concerned with the approved norms of scientific and religious communities, not the behavior of its individual members. Thus, it may be the case that a particular scientist is overly dogmatic with regard to her findings, or that a particular Christian is overly doubtful with regard to the resurrection of Christ. These examples present no problem for Dawes's thesis, however. Such agents would simply be violating the approved norms of their respective communities. These transgressors would just be behaving badly (16).

Throughout the book, Dawes limits his discussion to scripturally based religious traditions, and Christianity in particular, since these are the traditions that Dawes, an ex‐Catholic with twin PhDs in biblical studies and philosophy, knows best. That said, while he does not discuss other religious traditions in the book, he notes that he is inclined to imagine that his thesis holds for religion more generally conceived, because, he says, “all religions have certain texts, institutions, practices or persons that they consider ‘sacred’ and therefore unquestionable” (12).

The differing epistemic norms of religion and science are taken to be rooted in “differing epistemological views,” differing in the sense that scripturally based religions lay claim to a second source of knowledge alongside human reason (16). Faith in a divine revelation is taken to be a source of knowledge with a greater degree of certainty than anything achievable by our natural cognitive faculties alone. It is a sacred source of knowledge: unquestionable. Thus, as Dawes often stresses, if it comes down to a choice between certain faith and fallible human reason, it is clear which is going to win. Even when sacred religious beliefs are overthrown by the demonstration of some scientific discovery, the revelation itself is not shown to be in error. The revelation is regarded as inerrant. In any case in which science only gives probable or uncertain reasons, the common reading of scripture prevails. This is a description of a religious belief updating procedure that finds its origin in Augustine, and Dawes details the crucial importance of this procedure in the trial of Galileo (77–84).

I think it is clear, and Dawes has made it clearer, that there are important differences between the epistemic norms of religious and scientific communities. Dawes's book is an important guide on that matter. I do not think, however, that these differences are sufficient (although perhaps they are necessary) to explain the conflict between religion and science. If religious communities encouraged an attitude of tentativeness toward faith in a divine revelation, should we really imagine the epistemological conflict would then cease to exist? I am not so sure. Even if only tentatively advanced, divine revelation would still be propounded as a legitimate method of knowledge acquisition, and that is surely an important source of conflict in its own right. Religion claims to use epistemic methods that science does not. Certainly, religious dogmatism can be blamed for (among so many other things) souring the relationship between religion and science at times, but this seems more like a contingent historical point. Yet the epistemological conflict between religion and science seems to be the kind of thing that remains no matter how strongly either party feels about their beliefs. It is not a conflict as between two lovers with incompatible personalities, but as between two builders arguing how best to prop up a load‐bearing wall: one says use this method, the other advances a different method, and without any way to settle the dispute, an irreconcilable conflict ensues. Religion and science are like this. They remain, to borrow Victor Stenger's phrase, opposed epistemologies. With regard to the case at hand, Galileo may not have encountered such hostility if religious communities embraced tentativeness over dogmatism, but there would nevertheless have been other relevant and unavoidable epistemological differences.

Dawes's effort to rekindle the embers of the conflict thesis may not convince many skeptical historians or philosophers of science. (It will convince no contemporary academic theologians.) However, locating the conflict between differing sets of epistemic norms is a promising approach. Dawes has at least managed to show that there is a persistent disharmony in the relationship between religion and science. He identifies the roots of this disharmony, and he suggests that it cannot be mended. Yet one cannot help but feel that, with enough relationship counselling, there could always be a chance of reconciliation.