Einstein’s Theory Of Absolutism & The Biblical Connotations Of Absolute Light.
Einstein’s work on relativity was still unfolding when a popular—but ultimately misguided—interpretation began to take hold. Many people, both in academic circles and the general public, began to claim that everything is relative, and that Einstein’s Theory of Relativity was definitive proof of this worldview. Over time, this interpretation became not just a misreading, but a dominant climate of thought—a philosophical attitude that has shaped much of modern thinking.
A striking example of this can be found in the September 24, 1979 issue of TIME magazine, which ran a full-page advertisement featuring a portrait of Einstein alongside the bold claim: "EVERYTHING IS RELATIVE." The very fact that such a slogan could be used in a major ad campaign illustrates how widespread and culturally embedded this interpretation had become. And it’s worth remembering: advertising often appeals to what is already culturally accepted—to common assumptions, popular hopes and fears, and the dominant intellectual mood.
Yet, the idea that Einstein’s theory might actually contain absolute elements may seem surprising to some—though it is not at all new. As early as 1924, Max Planck delivered a lecture titled “From the Relative to the Absolute”, in which he explicitly argued that Einstein’s theory of relativity included implications that were absolutist in character. His remarks gained international attention and pushed back against the growing misconception that Einstein had dismantled the very notion of objective truth or metaphysical reality.
Einstein himself, around this time, had also begun making philosophical statements that deeply unsettled the positivists and empiricists—those who maintained that all knowledge must be derived from sensory experience and who rejected metaphysics as meaningless. Einstein, by contrast, began to emphasize the indispensability of metaphysical reflection in understanding the natural world.
In 1929, at a gathering of German physicists in Prague, the philosopher Philipp Frank delivered a lecture on relativity, asserting the relative aspect of this theory. Yet, it is vital to recall that Einstein himself believed that the laws of physics describe a reality independent of the perceiving subject—a view closely aligned with Planck’s. Einstein would later reinforce this metaphysical realism in his 1931 contribution to the commemorative volume on James Clerk Maxwell, opening with his now-famous declaration:
"Belief in an external world independent of the perceiving subject is the basis of all natural science."
Despite this, Einstein’s stance did not align with the Vienna Circle, a group of logical positivists who, two decades later, attempted to solicit his endorsement for their relativist reading of his work. But Einstein didn’t offer them support. He was fully aware that if he affirmed his belief in metaphysical realism, they would accuse him of committing the cardinal sin—being a metaphysician.
In fact, Einstein would later write, in what became one of his final essays, that:
"Every true theorist is a kind of tamed metaphysician, no matter how pure a positivist he may fancy himself."
Einstein embraced what is called metaphysical realism—a belief that physical reality exists objectively, independent of our perceptions. This position stands in stark contrast to many contemporary interpretations of his theory, which often downplay or outright reject any notion of the absolute. Einstein, however, consistently maintained that beneath the so-called relativity of time and space, there existed something fundamentally absolute.
Unfortunately, Einstein’s own words on this matter have often been ignored or glossed over by later interpreters, including positivist thinkers like Frank. The reason is as ideological as it is intellectual. The positivists saw their movement not just as a methodology, but as a kind of crusade—an effort to reshape the foundations of thought itself. And like many crusades, it sometimes involved bending or even inventing facts to suit the cause.
As Herbert Feigl, one of the key figures of logical positivism, candidly admitted more than a decade ago:
"Confession, it is said, is good for the soul. Undoubtedly we [logical positivists] made up some facts of scientific history to suit our theories."
The reason for sharing this backstory is that I’ve come to notice some striking parallels between Einstein’s theory of relativity—which, in truth, might be more accurately described as a theory of the absolute—and the structure of biblical cosmology. This parallel, while requiring careful consideration, offers a fascinating framework to hold in mind.
It seems particularly peculiar to me that the absolute nature of Einstein’s theory has been largely overlooked in public discourse. Instead, the concept of relativism, as it pertains to space and time, has been mistakenly extended into the ethical and societal domains. This is a clear category error. Einstein’s scientific claims—that space and time are relative to frames of reference—have been misinterpreted and applied to areas far beyond their scope, often to justify a form of moral or cultural relativism. Such extrapolations fundamentally misunderstand both the nature of science and the boundaries of its applicability.
Science, by its very nature, is confined to the quantitative realm. It is concerned with measurement—nothing more. This is not to diminish its value. Science is extraordinarily powerful in describing the measurable aspects of the physical world. But its power ends where the quantitative ends. It cannot speak to the qualitative, the symbolic, or the ontological.
For instance, science cannot tell us what a thing is in its essence. It can describe the properties of a table—its mass, its dimensions, its atomic composition—but it cannot affirm the simple yet profound statement: this is a table. That statement involves an act of naming, of recognizing being, of assigning identity. This is not within the purview of science. It is a uniquely human act—an ontological act. As we see in the Genesis narrative, the naming of things in the Garden of Eden is the task of man alone. The responsibility of naming, of drawing meaning from the world, belongs to man, not to scientific measurement.
This commentary will explore the biblical cosmological understanding of light and its spiritual significance. As discussed in previous reflections, our contemporary culture is deeply entrenched in a narrow materialist worldview. We have been thoroughly conditioned to see all things merely as matter, interpreting reality through a utilitarian lens rather than the traditional biblical framework, which understood the world spiritually and symbolically.
In the biblical cosmological tradition, reality was not reduced to physical components or functions - it was seen as a manifestation of deeper metaphysical truths. Today, that mode of seeing has been almost entirely forgotten.
Take the example of light. In our modern, materialist age, we ask: What is light made of? or What does light do? These are questions grounded in physical analysis and utility. But the traditional biblical perspective asked something far more profound: What does light mean? What truth does light reveal? In this view, light was not merely a physical phenomenon - it was a symbol, a revelation of metaphysical reality.
This older way of seeing is now foreign to us - tragically so. By abandoning the symbolic and spiritual interpretation of creation, we have lost sight of the deeper truths that biblical cosmology once illuminated.
Before proceeding, we must first examine the fundamental difference between modern science and traditional cosmology. Traditional cosmologies did not seek to explain reality in terms of atoms, energy, or mechanical causality. Instead, ancient cultures perceived the world through spiritual principles—angels, demons, mythical sea creatures at the world’s edge. For them, reality was not a cold, neutral structure of matter, but an enchanted realm infused with meaning. Everything—objects, events, places—carried symbolic and spiritual significance.
In this way, science and traditional cosmology represent two radically different ways of understanding the world. The scientific worldview interprets everything in terms of utility and material function. It reduces reality to meaningless matter governed by blind causality. By contrast, the traditional worldview sees every event, object, and moment as the visible expression of an invisible, spiritual truth.
Take, for example, the concept of light. From the perspective of modern science, light is typically described in technical terms—photons moving in wave-particle duality, structured by physical laws, measurable in units and equations. This explanation offers a mechanistic description of light, but it says nothing of its meaning.
In contrast, within traditional cosmology, light might be seen as a symbol of divine revelation, clarity, or transcendence—something that illuminates not just the physical world, but the soul. One interpretation speaks of how light functions; the other speaks of what light signifies.
However, from a religious or spiritual perspective, the question “What is light?” yields a very different answer. Light is seen not merely as a physical phenomenon, but as a symbol—emblematic of the spiritual nature of man, or of man's role as a mediator between the heavens (the spiritual realm) and the earth (the material realm).
Before exploring this symbolic interpretation further, it's important to recognize that these worldviews pose fundamentally different kinds of questions. The scientific mindset asks: What is this thing made of? How does it function? In contrast, the spiritual or traditional perspective might ask: What does this thing mean? What higher truth does it reveal or embody?
These perspectives, in my view, are not simply a matter of right or wrong. Rather, they are mutually exclusive modes of perception, each revealing a different aspect of reality. Science and spirituality are two lenses—each capturing a slice of the whole. To claim that science alone describes the totality of reality is, as I have argued elsewhere, a flawed and limited view. After all, science cannot even affirm the ontology of an object—that is, it cannot assert that a thing exists in any fundamental sense. And surely, if anything belongs to the realm of “reality,” it is the very fact that something is.
Thus, we find ourselves dealing with two distinct worldviews—each with its own assumptions, methods, and aims. One seeks to explain function and mechanism; the other seeks to reveal meaning and purpose. Neither can be reduced to the other, and together, they illustrate the layered complexity of human understanding.
The purpose of this reflection is not to resolve the tension between these two worldviews—scientific and traditional—nor to claim that one is superior to the other. Rather, it is to show how each perspective fundamentally shapes our perception of reality. The traditional perspective, in particular, invites us to see the world not as a meaningless arrangement of atoms, but as the physical manifestation of deeper metaphysical truths.
Einstein didn’t prove relativism - he proved absolutism. He showed that light - what ancient cosmology and Scripture have long understood as the spiritual principle, the divine command of 'Let there be light'—is the one unchanging constant in the fabric of the universe. Modern physics tells us that space and time are relative, dependent on motion and perspective. And yet, embedded within this relativity is a non-negotiable constant: the speed of light. This isn’t just a technical detail—it’s a metaphysical statement.
In a cosmos stripped of spiritual meaning by materialist assumptions, Einstein reintroduced a law that cannot be bent, a principle that transcends shifting frames: light.
And that brings us full circle.
Because in biblical cosmology, light is not just physical - it is spiritual, symbolic of divine presence, truth, and revelation. It is the first thing God calls into being, and it becomes the pattern through which the rest of creation is ordered. We are not crazy for seeing this. We are simply perceiving reality through the ancient lens that modern science has yet to fully grasp: that light is more than matter - it is meaning.
Take, for example, the concept of light. From the perspective of modern science, light is typically described in technical terms—photons moving in wave-particle duality, structured by physical laws, measurable in units and equations. This explanation offers a mechanistic description of light, but it says nothing of its meaning.
In contrast, within traditional cosmology, light is seen as a symbol of divine revelation, clarity, or transcendence - something that illuminates not just the physical world, but the soul. One interpretation speaks of how light functions; the other speaks of what light signifies.
However, from a religious or spiritual perspective, the question “What is light?” yields a very different answer. Light is seen not merely as a physical phenomenon, but as a symbol—emblematic of the spiritual nature of man, or of man's role as a mediator between the heavens (the spiritual realm) and the earth (the material realm).
In Biblical cosmology, the words “heaven” and “earth” can no longer refer to what we now call “heaven” and “earth” from our scientific perspective. Instead, the concept of “heaven” refers to the upper spiritual half of reality; whereas, the term “earth” refers to the lower material half. The implications of these concepts will then trickle down to every level of human experience to redefine all things in the context of the Bible. When considered from an ancient human perspective, the words ‘heaven’ and ‘earth’ refer to the two halves of the cosmos. This polarity completely encompasses reality, which makes it the secondary cause of all manifestation. In other words, everything in this universe was made from a combination of ‘heavenly’ and ‘earthly’ components.
In the Bible, raw ‘earth’ refers to matter without meaning, and pure ‘heaven’ refers to spiritual meaning without corporeal existence. As strange as this duality may seem to modern sensibilities, this way of framing reality is self-evident from the spiritual perspective because it directly addresses the following questions: “What does it mean?” and, “What spiritual truth does it embody?” So, it is not surprising that the basic polarity of this cosmology is meaning and matter.
According to the spiritual worldview, the whole universe can be described in terms of the intercourse between ‘heaven’ (light) and ‘earth’ (material). This joining of spiritual and corporeal realities–called knowledge–is the most fundamental notion in biblical cosmology. In fact, every single phenomenon can be interpreted according to this pattern.
In ancient biblical cosmology, there’s a strikingly profound way of understanding matter—not just as physical substance, but as something deeply symbolic. Matter was seen along a spectrum of density, from the most dense and dark (like Earth) to the most immaterial and luminous (like light itself). And the reason for this isn’t just about physical weight or opacity—it’s metaphysical.
In this framework, dense matter blocks light. And what is light? In Genesis, the first words spoken by God are: “Let there be light.” But this isn’t just about photons—it’s spiritual. Light, in biblical cosmology, symbolizes the divine, the spiritual, the animating essence of creation. So when matter blocks light, it’s not just a physical event—it’s symbolic of the way the material can obscure or distance us from the spiritual.
Human beings, then, are extraordinary because we represent a union of the material and the spiritual. We are made from the dust of the Earth, yet animated by the breath of God. We sit at the intersection—able to reflect the light, but also at risk of being lost in darkness.
This is why, in ancient cosmology, matter and darkness are linked, and why the sea—the chaotic, deep, heavy waters—was often associated with evil or danger. It’s not just because it’s physically perilous, but because it represents the murky depths of spiritual obscurity.
So you begin to see a kind of metaphysical hierarchy: Earth is dense and dark, blocking light. Water is clearer, more fluid, more open to light. Air is even less dense, invisible, freely moving, light-bearing. And above all is light itself—pure, weightless, spiritual.
The point being made here is that, within the metaphysical hierarchy of traditional cosmology, earth represents density and darkness—it is heavy, opaque, and blocks light. In contrast, light is pure, weightless, and unbound by matter; it symbolizes the spiritual realm, or heaven. Thus, we find a meaningful duality: the material is associated with earth, and the spiritual with light.
This ancient duality finds a striking resonance in Einstein’s theory of relativity—ironically named, for at its heart it reveals something absolute. From the perspective of biblical cosmology, Einstein’s theory affirms that light (heaven) is the constant, the unchanging measure across all frames of reference. Light, therefore, stands as the absolute in a world otherwise governed by relativistic motion.
This is profoundly significant. The very first words spoken by God in Genesis are: "Let there be light." This is not merely the beginning of physical creation but the revelation of an absolute metaphysical truth. Light is not only the first created thing—it is also a symbolic expression of the divine nature itself: absolute, pure, and foundational.
In our modern, materialist worldview, such meaning is lost. We no longer see light as symbol or as revelation; we reduce it to particles and waves. But from the traditional cosmological perspective, light was always more than matter—it was the bridge between heaven and earth, between the spiritual and the material. And Einstein’s discovery, perhaps unknowingly, reaffirms this ancient truth: that light, like God, is the absolute.
