God of Wonders

By no means am I fond of spiders, but a few years ago we watched in fascination as a small, brown spider spun her web, night after sultry summer night, over the large glass pane on the outside of our kitchen door. As evening fell we saw her begin by attaching a strand to each corner of the pane, then scurry up and down and back and forth to spin the familiar-looking web.

My aversion to spiders temporarily suspended, I did a little research to find out more about this creature that had decided to share our house with us. I learned that she had 36 spinnerets on her abdomen with which she produced silken strands of varying lengths and stickiness. She has to weave strands with no sticky substance on them among the sticky ones so she can walk around and build her architectural creation without getting stuck in it herself.

Some spiders send a strand of silk from a tree or bush into the wind, which catches the strand and carries it to another tree or bush. That explains the webs I see in my back yard stretching from tree to tree. I had wondered if the spider climbed up and down trees and across the grass while spinning a strand, but now I know she employs the elements to help her build her spidery grocery store (gnats and mosquitos on aisle two, flies on aisle four).

While I do wonder about how an evolutionist would explain the development of even one spinneret in the abdomen that could secrete smooth and sticky strands of silk, let alone thirty six of them, what occupies my mind most of all concerning this is how this development would engender the behavior to take advantage of it and to pass that knowledge to the rest of the species.

Assume for a minute that this mutation did occur, that a sticky strand of silk was spun in a manner that trapped an unlucky traveler in it's grasp. Assume that the evolving spider surmised to wrap it's prey in silk. Assume also that she had the wherewithal to inject lethal venom into the tender morsel awaiting her to consume it (that would entail already possessing the venom and the physical means of injecting it). Assume that this spider then figured that the more strands she had, the better, so she spun not just a single strand but several into a web with greater catching power.

Those are a lot of assumptions, but I have to make them (not believe them, just assume them) to get to the point that really interests me: how did this learned behavior get passed on to the rest of the arachnid family? Did our pioneering spider which spun the first web not only figure out how to use it herself but somehow taught other spiders what she had learned? Did she become a teacher in spider school? Did other spiders in the neighborhood see what she had done and decide to try it for themselves? Did she teach this behavior to her own children? (That would be impossible, because she dies after giving birth.)

The question raised here is whether or not learned behavior becomes a part of the gene pool. If someone should answer yes to that question, then I have to wonder why I needed to go to school to learn the same things my father and mother knew. If learned behavior is passed to succeeding generations I should only have had to learn about new developments since my parents graduated - who the intervening presidents were, what new countries there were in the world, etc.

If my little spider inherited learned knowledge, why was I born with only the abilities to eat, sleep, crawl, and make a mess? Why did I have to go to 12 years of school and 4 years of college (at no small expense) to learn what my father already knew? Why did my children have to go to school? Why do I have to train each dog I have to sit, stay, come, heel, and be quiet? Why can't I teach a cat anything? (Wait - that's a different story altogether!)

The answer is obvious - learned behavior does not get passed to succeeding generations. This means that my spider's web-spinning abilities were not learned but were given to her by Divine design. The Great Architect of the universe made my spider with all her spidery abilities built in and instinctual.

No, I'm still not really fond of spiders. But I love my Father for the wonderful world He made and all the creatures that dwell in it.