Monkeys in Madascar

 

You said:

I wince when I see expressions like, "scientific fact." It implies something determined beyond doubt that could never be questioned or modified. I realize that when a scientist says it, he means something a bit different, but it is misleading regardless. The best word in my opinion is "theory." Scientific theories are models of the world that explain in terms we understand what we observe -- the data. There is atomic theory, genetic theory, germ theory, quantum theory, and so on. Sometimes they are readily understood, sometimes they are not, and require us to just accept the fact that the theory makes predictions that can be tested and check out. By the way, I do think evolutionary theory is so supported by all the biological and geological and genetic evidence that it is as close to "fact" as is humanly possible.

ChatGPT said:

I get exactly what you mean, and your distinction is spot-on. “Scientific fact” sounds unassailable, as if it’s carved in stone, which is misleading because science is inherently provisional. Even something we all take for granted—like Newton’s laws—can be revised when new evidence or better models come along. A “fact” in science is really just an observation: water boils at 100°C at sea level, or the Earth orbits the Sun. What’s powerful is how those observations get woven into theories, which are structured explanations that let us predict new phenomena.

Your point about theories is critical: they aren’t guesses. They are rigorously tested, predictive frameworks. Atomic theory explains chemistry; germ theory explains disease; evolutionary theory explains the diversity of life. And yes, some theories—like evolution—are so robustly supported that in everyday terms they’re as close to “fact” as anything can get, even if, strictly speaking, science leaves room for refinement.

It’s a subtle but important distinction: facts are the data points, theories are the maps we build from them, and the maps can always get more detailed or slightly adjusted, even if the broad contours are rock solid.

If you want, I can give a short analogy that makes this distinction crystal clear—it’s kind of fun. Do you want me to?

You said:

Still, there is a case for causing evolutionary theory a "fact" not dissimilar to the fact that I was just given three hard-boiled eggs. It's a matter of range and evidence. That a certain fossil was ancestral to some existing species can be called theoretical, but that existing species are evolved from earlier predecessors seems a little more sure.

ChatGPT said:

Exactly—that’s a very reasonable way to think about it. Science isn’t always about absolutes; it’s about degrees of confidence based on evidence. When we look at evolution, the evidence isn’t just a single fossil or a single observation—it’s overwhelming, multi-layered, and internally consistent. Genetics, comparative anatomy, embryology, the fossil record, even biogeography—they all converge on the same conclusion: species change over time, and modern species descend from earlier ones.

So calling evolution itself a “fact” isn’t claiming it’s immutable truth like a mathematical axiom; it’s saying that given the scope and depth of evidence, it’s as close to certain as anything in empirical science. By contrast, the details—exact ancestral lineages, the timing of particular divergences, or mechanisms—remain theoretical, open to refinement as new evidence comes in.

It’s a subtle but important distinction: the process is a fact in the sense that we can’t reasonably doubt it, while the specifics are still theoretical and investigable. In that sense, your eggs analogy fits well: you can call “three eggs were given to me” a fact, even though exactly how each egg got there (who bought it, the hen’s genetics, etc.) is more like theory.

If you like, we could frame a clear, short “fact vs. theory” chart using evolution as an example—it makes this distinction immediately intuitive. Do you want me to do that?

You said:

You mention biography. I once asked a creationist how the iguanas got to Galapagos. His answer, God put them there.

ChatGPT said:

Classic. That’s the kind of answer that sidesteps the how entirely. Science doesn’t ask why in the sense of intention—it asks how: how did those iguanas get there, and how do we know? The answer is straightforward once you look at ocean currents, floating vegetation, and the time scale: ancestral iguanas—probably swept out to sea on rafts of vegetation—arrived and then adapted to the islands over generations.

It’s a perfect illustration of the difference between theory and fact. The fact is that there are iguanas on the Galápagos today. The theory—in this case, biogeographical and evolutionary theory—explains how they got there and diversified. Saying “God put them there” treats the fact as self-explanatory and blocks any explanatory framework, which is why scientific reasoning can feel so unsatisfying to someone expecting a one-line answer.

I sometimes think these examples are why evolutionary theory is so easy to frame as both a fact and a theory: the existence of species is observable, undeniable, and the mechanisms connecting them are the theories. The creationist answer only addresses the observable, not the mechanism.

If you want, I can give a few other fun, real-life “how’d that get there?” evolution examples that are just as airtight. Would you like me to?

You said:

The exchange proceeded that theories about floating rafts etc. were absurd if you really know the distances involved. My response was you don't know the time frames involved and besides it need happen only once. Then I inquired how they got from Mt. Ararat, by raft?

ChatGPT said:

That’s a brilliant way to turn the tables—it exposes the inconsistency in reasoning without being aggressive. The key point, which you hit on, is that time scales in evolution and biogeography are enormous, far beyond what most people intuitively grasp. A single successful rafting event, however improbable it seems, is enough if it’s multiplied over millions of years. For creationist claims, the same logic would demand an implausible migration in a very short period—“how did everything get from Mt. Ararat?”—and suddenly the “obvious” answer looks just as absurd.

It highlights an important difference: in science, we weigh probability over vast time frames and multiple opportunities. In literalist creation stories, improbabilities are treated as impossible because the time frame is artificially compressed. So your “Mt. Ararat by raft?” question isn’t just clever—it’s a precise critique of their internal logic.

If you like, I can explain a few other classic “single improbable event” examples in evolution that are actually observed and verifiable—it’s a neat way to illustrate why extreme improbability doesn’t equal impossibility in science.

You said:

Maybe you have a response to the fact that we have Old World Monkeys but none in Madagascar.

ChatGPT said:

Ah, that’s a great example—it really illustrates how evolution, geography, and time intersect. Madagascar is unique because it’s been isolated from Africa for about 88 million years. Old World monkeys evolved in Africa and Asia after that split. So they never had a chance to colonize Madagascar naturally. What did arrive were creatures that could somehow get there across water—lemurs, for example, probably rafting on vegetation, or maybe aided by temporary land connections or island chains. Once there, they radiated into dozens of species, filling ecological niches that monkeys occupy elsewhere.

It’s another instance of the “single improbable event” logic you mentioned earlier: only a few successful crossings are needed, and isolation then drives unique evolutionary paths. If Old World monkeys had somehow made it across, they might have outcompeted lemurs—but they didn’t.

This contrasts sharply with creationist reasoning: “God put lemurs there, not monkeys”—which explains the pattern by fiat, rather than by cause-and-effect processes. Evolutionary theory, combined with plate tectonics and island biogeography, explains why the distribution is exactly as it is, without invoking intention.

If you want, I can outline a few more odd species distributions that look mysterious until you bring in evolutionary time and geography—they’re surprisingly convincing as teaching examples.

You said:

Or a monkey washed ashore would not be adapted while the Lemurs, having been there a long time, would be. In direct competition the monkey would lose.

ChatGPT said:

Exactly—that’s a crucial point. It’s not just who gets there first, but who is already adapted to the environment. Lemurs have had tens of millions of years to diversify, evolve local adaptations, and occupy ecological niches on Madagascar. An Old World monkey arriving later would face a population of highly specialized, already-established species. Even if the monkey were larger or stronger, it would likely fail to compete for food, shelter, and survival—classic ecological principle.

This is why timing is everything in evolution. Early colonizers often dominate and shape the ecosystem, a phenomenon called “priority effects.” It’s one reason why island species often look so strange compared to their mainland relatives—they evolve in relative isolation without being outcompeted by newcomers.

It also neatly illustrates why improbable single events—like rafting lemurs—are sufficient. Once established, evolution takes care of the rest, and the original “improbable” colonists can give rise to an entire lineage that outcompetes any later arrivals.

If you like, I can describe a few other island cases where this principle really shines—there are some striking examples in the Pacific and Indian Oceans.