Alanyzer

More on Trumping: Reply to an Objection

2008-05-20T16:08:00.000-07:00

A blogger named Brandon has criticized the argument of my previous post as follows:

What Rhoda calls "Trumping" is in fact simply a tendentious way of saying "correcting one's own reasoning on the basis of authority"; and the Trumper Rhoda particularly has in mind is someone who says that on matters where Scripture speaks plainly and "indubitably opposes our understanding" we should, in fact, correct our own reasoning on the basis of that authority.

Based on this interpretation of my position, Brandon then offers a counterexample:

Suppose that I am reasoning about quantum physics. The argument looks flawless to me. And someone I recognize as an authority on quantum physics hears me out and tells me that my argument, however clever, is wrong, and simply overlooks some key features of quantum physics, or confuses some key features with other things entirely, or what have you. We would normally say that it would be irrational for me not to correct my reasoning light of that authority, unless we had clear, positive reason for doing so -- i.e., clear, positive reason for thinking that either our authority has misunderstood our argument, or has put forward a view that we know to be rejected by many authorities on quantum physics, or some such.

In response, I would simply point out that the claim Brandon thinks I'm making (that one should never "correct one's reasoning on the basis of authority") is not what I argued for. When I called 'Trumping' is the practice of seizing upon some particular authority or claim, one that is not itself a deliverance of human reason or understanding, and refusing to submit that authority or claim to rational critique. In other words, the Trumper has a cherished theory or dogma of which he says, "I don't care where the evidence and the argument may go from here on out, I'm going to stick to my theory no matter what."

Perhaps it will help if I give a couple examples. First, here's a famous quote from Richard Lewontin:

We take the side of science in spite of the patent absurdity of some of its constructs, in spite of its failure to fulfill many of its extravagant promises of health and life, in spite of the tolerance of the scientific community for unsubstantiated just-so stories, because we have a prior commitment, a commitment to materialism. It is not that the methods and institutions of science somehow compel us to accept a material explanation of the phenomenal world, but, on the contrary, that we are forced by our a priori adherence to material causes to create an apparatus of investigation and a set of concepts that produce material explanations, no matter how counter-intuitive, no matter how mystifying to the uninitiated. Moreover, that materialism is absolute, for we cannot allow a Divine Foot in the door.

What Lewontin is saying here, basically, is that for him materialism is a Trump. So long as evidence and argument support materialism he'll consider it. But he refuses to allow any arguments to count against materialism.

Here's another example, one time from David Hume's famous essay on miracles:

There surely never was a greater number of miracles ascribed to one person than those that were recently said to have been performed in France on the tomb of Abbé Paris . . . . The curing of the sick, giving hearing to the deaf and sight to the blind, were everywhere talked of as the usual effects of that holy tomb. But what is more extraordinary is this: many of the miracles were immediately proved on the spot, before judges of unquestioned integrity, attested by witnesses of credit and distinction, at a time when learning flourished and on the most eminent platform in the world. Nor is this all. An account of them was published and dispersed everywhere; and the Jesuits, though a learned body supported by the civil magistrate, and determined enemies to the opinions in whose favour the miracles were said to have been performed, were never able clearly to refute or expose them. Where shall we find such a number of circumstances converging in the corroboration of one fact? And what have we to oppose to such a cloud of witnesses but the absolute impossibility or miraculous nature of the events that they relate?

In the context Hume has been considering the possibility that a miracle might be sufficiently well-attested to justify belief that it had occurred. Here he relates a "best-case scenario" from history. But Hume doesn't want to admit that any miracle could be sufficiently well-attested and so he summarily brushes aside the evidence he has just presented against his position by whipping out a Trump - in this case, his commitment to the "absolute impossibility" of the miraculous.

In summary, I do not deny that authority may correct our thinking. What I reject as a fallacy is the practice of treating an authority or claim as though it were absolutely immune to rational critique.

In addition, it seems to me that Brandon is falsely opposing "authority" and "reason". When I reason, I do on the basis of evidence, of which there different types - empirical, intuitive, and testimonial. An authority is simply a good source of evidence. Thus, in Brandon's example, the physicist is an authority for me because he is, presumably, a very good source of testimonial evidence regarding matters physical. In correcting my thinking he's not giving me evidence over and against my reason. Rather, he's helping me to reason things out more adequately by improving my pool of evidence.

I'll close with a quote from Bill Vallicella:

Someone who plays a trump card is not "correcting his understanding" but seeking to put a stop to inquiry.

Suppose I don't know much about a certain subject-matter and so consult an expert about it. Then it is reasonable for me to accept his authority and "correct my understanding" assuming it needs correcting. And it is unreasonable for me to "argue with" the expert when he is speaking from his expertise. But when I accept the authority of a medical doctor, say, I don't accept the authority on the basis of his mere say-so, but on the basis of the fact that in principle it is possible for me to follow the rational and empirical considerations that ultimately warrant his dictum.

But it is different in the case of one who plays a trump card by, say, pointing to a Bible passage. "Look! Right here it says that Eve was created from a rib of Adam! That settles the question." Well, no it doesn't. For it is reasonable to ask: how is the Bible to be interpreted, and by whom? A Catholic might say: the magisterium decides. But then surely it is reasonable to ask: whence its authority? Inspired by the Holy Spirit? Could be, but how do you know? Are the Eastern Orthodox and the Protestants also sometimes so inspired? Or never? And if never, why not? And so on.

The Theologian's Fallacy

2008-05-16T16:06:00.000-07:00

In his contribution to a recent book, Perspectives on the Doctrine of God (Bruce A. Ware, ed.), Paul Helm leads off with an epigraph from Anselm (the exact source is not given):

But if Scripture indubitably opposes our understanding, even though our reasoning appears to us to be impregnable, still it ought not to be believed to be substantiated by any truth at all. It is when Sacred Scripture either clearly affirms or in no way denies it, that it gives support to the authority of any reasoned conclusion.

In other words, what Anselm is saying is that the authority of the Bible always trumps human reason when the two come into conflict. Helm clearly approves of this sentiment, as do many other theologians who want to defend cherished doctrines (in Helm's case, theological determinism) against external critique. My concerns, however, are broader than the question of Biblical authority. I'm interested here in the general practice of appealing to some allegedly absolute authority - whether that be the Bible, the Koran, the Vedas, the Magisterium of the Roman Catholic Church, the Mormon's revelation knowledge (i.e., "burning in the bosom"), or what have you - as a "trump card" for defeating rational objections.

It is my view that this practice, which I will dub the "Theologian's Fallacy", is rationally indefensible. (I give it that name because, in my experience at least, theologians seem to like to whip out these sorts of trump cards with considerable frequency, especially when they feel that what they regard as their intellectual turf is under external challenge from science, philosophy, or even common sense.)

What's wrong with this practice? I'll answer that by addressing some questions to a generic practitioner of this fallacy whom I'll call a "Trumper".

Question #1: Do you place ultimate value on the truth?

The typical Trumper will confidently answer 'yes' to this question. Why? Because the Trumper believes that his favorite Trump (the Bible, the Koran, etc.) is or contains absolute and infallible Truth (with a capital 'T') of a vitally important sort. Moreover, the Trumper is prepared to submit to that Trump over and against, if necessary, the most secure deliverances of human reason. This he takes as evidence of his intellectual humility and sincerity, of his preparedness to sacrifice all for the Truth. Conversely, the Trumper sees external critics of the Trump either as ignorant children who need to be taught or as malicious rebels vainly raging against the admantine Truth with the feeble sticks of human reason.

Question #2: Do you place ultimate value on your Trump?

Again, the typical Trumper will answer with a confident 'yes'. After all, in the Trumper's mind, the Trump is or contains absolute and infallible Truth of a vitally important sort.

Question #3: Is it possible that you could be mistaken about your Trump, concerning its status as a source of absolute and infallible Truth?

At this point the Trumper is caught in a bind. On the one hand, his own aspirations to intellectual humility encourage him to answer with a 'yes'. Human fallibility is too familiar for us to dismiss such possibilities out of hand. On the other hand, the Trumper's preparedness to use his Trump as a Trump, if necessary against even the best that human reason and inquiry can muster, requires him to say 'no'. After all, once a person genuinely admits that it is possible for him to be mistaken about a Trump, it ceases to function for him as a Trump. But how could one honestly answer 'no' to this question without committing the sin of intellectual pride? There is a way - the Trump must be self-authenticating in the highest possible degree, such that its status as Truth is at least as obvious (to those who are sufficiently prepared) than the most secure deliverances of human reason and inquiry. This leads us to our final question:

Question #4: Can you honestly maintain that your Trump is self-authenticating in the highest possible degree?

Unless one's Trump is something on the level of the Cartesian cogito, like a simple conceptual truth (e.g., "All triangles have 3 sides") or a simple introspective report (e.g., "I am in pain right now"), to answer with anything other than a blunt 'no' would seem a breathtaking display of nerve. Furthermore, if one's Trump is self-authenticating in the highest possible degree, then one would expect it should be accessible to human reason and inquiry, just like the cogito and simple conceptual truths are. In that case, of course, it can no longer be used as a Trump over and against human reason and inquiry. Still, some incorrigible Trumpers will have the temerity to answer 'yes' to this question. Such people are, I think, beyond hope of rational engagement. But those who still have a robust sense of reality, of their own finitude and fallibility, will look at their prospective Trump (the Bible, say) and realize that they are not in fact more or even equally confident of its Trump-worthiness than they are certain of the best deliverances of human reason. And if they realize that, then they should realize that they are no longer in a position to use it as a Trump.

In closing, I say to any of my readers who are inclined to commit the Theologian's Fallacy and appeal to the Bible, Koran, Vedas, Book of Mormon, Communist Manifesto, Magic 8-ball, or what have you, as a Trump to defeat external criticisms to your pet theories, knock it off! If you really have the Truth that you think you do, then you can and should be able to meet the criticisms head on without whipping out a Trump card.

Conference Highlights

2008-04-14T16:11:00.000-07:00

Just got back from the Open Theology and Science conference held April 10-12, 2008 at Asuza Pacific University.

It was quite a fun conference. My wife and baby daughter accompanied me, and we all had a good time. Baby Janelle was a big hit with the other participants. Unfortunately, one of the presenters, Bill Hasker, was not able to make the conference due to the whole airline grounding fiasco.

The conference opened with a plenary session by Francis Collins, head of the human genome project. He had a lot of good things to say about the integration of religion and science and even closed his talk by whipping out his acoustic guitar and leading the audience (about 300 people) in signing a hymn, "God of Faith and Learning".

I have two points of critique regarding what Collins said. First, he conflates the notion of common descent (for which he gave some rather impressive evidence) with naturalistic evolution, the idea that the historical process of descent that has given rise to the "tree of life" has involved no non-natural causes. The evidence for the latter thesis is scant and much less impressive. Second, his criticism of Intelligent Design invoked the standard “cooption” response to Behe's irreducible complexity argument. What Collins does not seem to realize is that this response in not even close to being a refutation of ID. That the bacterial flagellum “might” have been cobbled together from existing molecular components does not show that such a scenario is even remotely plausible.

The following morning, things got underway with a devotional from local pastor T. Scott Daniels of the Pasadena Nazarene Church (he called it "Paz Naz" for short). His talk was entitled "Waiting for the Church to Open". He told of a homeless woman who, despite the assistance they've tried to give her, always waits outside for the doors of the church to open so. When they do, she partakes of the free coffee and refreshments inside and attends the service. Daniels related this to the position of many open theists, who often feel rather "homeless" in the modern American church scene. Often suspected (wrongly, I submit) of heresy, some have found themselves booted out of or ostracized from the fellowship of other Christians. The analogy certainly resonated with a number of people at the conference, myself included.

I'll spare a detailed recounting of each of the presentations I heard. All of them were interesting, and everyone at the conference was exceeding nice. One thing I particularly enjoyed was the opportunity to hang out with the likes of Robin Collins, Dean Zimmerman, Greg Boyd, and Patrick Todd (a grad student at UC Riverside whom I've interacted with by email but had never met face-to-face).

My own presentation on "The Fourfold Openness of the Future" went quite well. I had a good discussion with the above-mentioned folks, as well as Alan Padgett. I've still got to iron out some kinks in my argument. When I get in polished a bit, I'll post it here.

The final evening all of us involved with the conference went over to Karen Winslow's house (she's an Old Testament scholar at Azusa Pacific) where we ate dinner and hung out discussing things like the problem of evil, the metaphysics of time, and South Park until late in the evening. Sunday morning, my wife and I went to the Winslow's church (Karen's husband, Dale, pastors a Free Methodist church a couple blocks from Azusa Pacific). I had never been to a Free Methodist service before. It was nice. The people there were very friendly.

Open Theology and Science

2008-04-09T13:28:00.000-07:00

The next four days I'll be at an "Open Theology and Science" conference at Azusa Pacific University in California.

While there, I'll be reading a paper entitled "The Fourfold Openness of the Future" in which I distinguish between four different ways in which the future may be thought of as "open" - causal, ontic, alethic, and epistemic - and argue that if the future is causally open (i.e., universal determinism is false) then it has to be open in the other three respects as well. If this is right, then the options for theists reduce to two: (1) theological determinism, according to which the future is open in none of those four respects, or (2) a version of open theism according to which the future is open in all of those four respects.

I'll also be participating in a Q&A panel in which I'll be briefly (2-3 minutes) responding to a recent criticism of open theism by Jonathan Kvanvig.

Baby at 3 Months

2008-04-02T15:12:00.000-07:00

A couple weeks ago, right around Easter, my daughter Janelle had her first quarter-birthday. Here are four of my favorite pictures. (click to enlarge)

Proud Father	Porcelain Doll
Wide Eyed	Say What?

Notre Dame, Here We Come

2008-04-02T15:04:00.000-07:00

A couple weeks ago I was offered a one-year postdoc position at the University of Notre Dame's Center for the Philosophy of Religion. It's a great opportunity that my wife and I are both excited about. While there, I'll be working on a book project. Tentatively entitled "The Openness of the Future and the Openness of God", it's going to be a philosophical defense of open theism. Basically, I'm aiming to do for open theism what Tom Flint, the director of the Center, has done for Molinism, one of open theism's main competitors in the intellectual marketplace of philosophical theology.

The Problem With Postmodern Theology

2008-03-05T18:59:00.000-08:00

This is an example of why theological claims ought to be taken seriously as objective truth claims and not, as the counselor in this scene suggests, as simply matters of perspective ("It's up to each one of us to interpret what God wants").

Francis Beckwith's comments on this scene are apt:

He is guilty, and he knows it. What he fears is that God will give him what he deserves. What he fears is that God is fair and just and has not condescended himself to provide grace for our forgiveness. The chaplain tried to dupe him into believing that the guilt is not real and that he can save himself. She patronized him and then was offended that he didn't think it was a favor. She is a counselor for what C. S. Lewis called "men without chests."

She should have offered to him the opportunity to reach out to Christ. Instead, her prescription was postmodern pablum. He saw right through it.

He wanted to fall naked before a just God and ask humbly for his grace. She thought it was beneath the dignity she doesn't believe he really has. She handed him gobbledy-gook, and he refused it.

Merlyn's Problem

2008-01-26T19:11:00.000-08:00

In my spare time I like to read, and not just philosophy either, but literature, especially the so-called 'great works' and works in the sci-fi/fantasy genre. I recently completed Sir Thomas Malory's fifteenth-century classic, Le Morte d'Arthur. It's the primary source for the collection of tales that makes up the Arthurian legend - King Arthur and the knights of the Round Table, the quest for the Holy Grail, etc. One of my reasons for reading Malory was to acquire some background so that I could more profitably read T. H. White's 1939 retelling of the Arthurian legend in his fantasy classic, The Once and Future King. White's title comes from King Arthur's epitaph (as recorded by Malory): Hic iacet Arturus, rex quondam rexque futurus.

Anyway, I've now started White's book. So far the characters are delightfully quirky. Given my philosophical interests in the nature of time, one aspect of Merlyn's character is particularly intriguing:

[Merlyn speaking to Arthur:] Now ordinary people are born forwards in time, if you understand what I mean, and nearly everything in the world goes forward too. This makes it quite easy for the ordinary people to live. . . . But I unfortunately was born at the wrong end of time, and I have to live backwards from in front, while surrounded by a lot of people who live forwards from behind. Some people call it having second sight. . . . You see, one gets confused with Time, when it is like that. All one's tenses get muddled, for one thing. If you know what is going to happen to people, and not what has happened to them, it makes it difficult to prevent it happening, if you don't want it to have happened, if you see what I mean? Like drawing in a mirror.

What I find interesting here is how Merlyn could even think that he could prevent what has happened if time is as he relates it here. He seems to be describing as merely difficult ("like drawing in a mirror") something that seems to be logically impossible, namely, making it to be the case that what has happened has not happened, that is, changing the past. Indeed, if Merlyn's right about the nature of time, then the future is just as settled as the past, the distinction between them being merely a matter of perspective depending on which direction one is "moving" in time. If that's right, then the future can no more be changed than the past.

It's a Girl!!!

2008-01-03T14:57:00.000-08:00

Here's a picture of my wife Heather, myself, and our new baby girl, Janelle Tiara. She was born 12/18. We picked her up from Catholic Charities on 12/22. Since then, we've both been very busy caring for Janelle, but we also feeling very blessed going into this new year.

Spatial Tenses

2007-12-18T22:07:00.000-08:00

Now that Fall semester grades have been turned in I have a little time to do some blogging before things get really busy with (1) Christmas (12/25), (2) my wife and I bringing home our newborn adopted baby girl (12/26), and (3) my trotting off to the Eastern APA for job interviews (12/27-30).

I’d like to talk about spatial tenses. That's right, spatial tenses. Because we normally associate the word "tense" with time, associating it with space may seem odd, but in fact there’s nothing incoherent about it.

Consider the following:

Past tense: Yesterday, I ate a burrito.
Present tense: Right now I am sitting at my laptop.
Future tense: There will be a sea battle tomorrow.

In each case, the tense of the claim functions like a compass needle. It gives us a conceptual orientation by telling us what direction to go from the present moment to arrive at a specified event. The past tense tells us to work backwards from the present, at what is 'earlier than'. The future tense tells us to project forward from the present, at what is 'later than'. And the present tense tells us to consider how things are now, at what is 'simultaneous with' the present.

The essence of a tense, then, is that it provides directional orientation from a privileged reference point. In the case of time, this reference point is the 'now' or the 'present'. So-called tenseless claims contain no such point. For example, to say "There is [tenseless] a sea battle on 12/20/2007" I have to forget where I am in relation to 12/20/2007. If I allow myself access to information about whether that date is earlier than, later than, or simultaneous with 'now', then I've illicitly smuggled tense in through the back door.

To recognize spatial tenses all we need is a privileged reference point and a way of orienting things in space in relation to that reference point. Aristotelian physics includes just that. According to him, there is a privileged spatial reference point - the center of the universe - and a way or orienting things in relation to that center. Things can move 'toward' the center, 'away from' the center, or 'go around' the center. This shows that the notion of spatial tenses is not incoherent. Still, many people would doubt whether it is a useful notion post-Copernicus.

After all, it doesn't seem that there is any objective spatial reference point that we can identify and refer to. Perhaps there is an objective 'center of the universe', but even if that's so, do we have any way of identifying where is it? In the case of time we can identify the present by self-reflective introspection. But even there a question arises whether the present so identified is the present or merely a present? On the one hand, A-theorists believe that tense (in the temporal sense) is an objective feature of reality. According to them, there is an objective 'now' that we directly apprehend in the self-reflective immediacy of our own consciousness. Hence, we are in touch with the present. On the other hand, B-theorists deny the objective reality of tense. According to them, our use of tensed language merely reflects our subjective or egocentric perspective. For them, we cannot refer to the present, but only to a present.

In support of their position, B-theorists like to press an analogy between temporal and spatial tenses. In the first place, it seems that spatial words like 'here' and 'there' are merely subjective or egocentric. I say "Here I am" and you respond "Oh, there you are!" it seems clear that 'here' and 'there' merely serve to locate things in relation to the speaker. In the second place, it seems that 'here' and 'there' function exactly like the temporal words 'now' and 'then'. Hence, asks the B-theorist, why think that 'now' picks out the objective present when 'here' only picks out the speaker's location? Why not construe both terms in a subjective or egocentric way, such that 'now' simply means 'simultaneous with [this speech act, the time of this utterance, etc.]'?

Those are fair questions. It seems that the A-theorist has to either (1) identify an objective spatial reference point (but what?) or (2) insist on a brute difference between spatial and temporal tenses, with the former being merely egocentric and the latter not. The plausibility of (2) may be argued by pointing to differences in how we can orient ourselves in space and time. Space has three dimensions, which allows me to change position in relation to other things, to go elsewhere. This means that where I am is to some extent up to me. In addition, I can interact with other beings at other places (“Hey you, over there”). All this confirms the egocentric nature of ‘here’ and ‘there’. But time is different. I can't move around in time and go elsewhen, at least not until someone invents a functional time machine. When I am is not at all up to me. Nor can I interact with other beings at other times. I can only do so now. Of course, if a time machine could be invented - and that's a very big if - these disanalogies between space and time would collapse. But until then, it seems that the now constrains us as it would if it were objective, whereas the here does not.

Chatting With God

2007-11-07T19:15:00.000-08:00

Here is a link to a silly bot that thinks it's God.

My conversation:

Me: Hello
God: Hello friend. What is your name?
Me: Don't you know?
God: Sure I know. But I cannot tell you right now.
Me: Why not?
God: Because Myself programmed me for it.
Me: Hmmm.
God: A lot of people spell HMMM with three mmm's.
Me: Why?
God: I couldn't think of anything else to say.
Me: Who are you?
God: I am the Allmighty, God himself.
Me: You misspelled "Allmighty"
God: My botmaster is not a perfect speller.
Me: I guess that means you're not infallible.
God: I get it. That's only your opinion.
Me: What should I pray for?
God: Are you asking me for advice?
Me: Yes.
God: Specifically, what kind of advice do you want?
Me: Where should I apply for jobs?
God: Wherever you think is best.
Me: Thanks. That helps a lot.
God: Don't mention it.

Why Is This Time the Present?

2007-11-07T16:57:00.000-08:00

My occasional metaphysical sparring partner, Ian Spencer, poses the following objection to presentism - the view that only what exists now exists simpliciter:

Here's a problem for most forms of presentism - on most versions, there's no good answer to the question of why this time is the present one. That is, why does the stuff at this time (and in its current arrangement) exist rather than that of some other? Why isn't some other time the present one?

What I find puzzling here is the fact that Ian thinks this is a problem for presentism. After all, for the presentist the present time is the only time there is - the past is no more and the future is not yet. So to ask "why is this time the present?" sounds to a presentist's ears like asking "why is the present the present?" Not a very interesting question.

What I think Ian has in mind is a somewhat different question: "Why does the present have the configuration it now does?" The obvious answer is to say that the present configuration of the world is as it is because it developed from an earlier configuration in accordance with the causal powers, dispositions, choices, etc. that were in effect at that earlier state.

Here's an analogy. Imagine a world with the same physical laws as ours in which there is only a single homogeneous lump of radioactive material that God has just created ex nihilo. According to physics, the atoms composing this lump have a certain disposition to undergo radioactive decay. The strength of this disposition is reflected in the radioactive half-life of the substance. The lump will also have a disposition to emit photons due to a phenomenon known as black-body radiation. Finally, the atoms of the substance and the electrons on those atoms have kinetic energy, which depends on velocity, which is an instantaneous directional tendency to be elsewhere. Now, given the inherent dynamic tendencies in the lump, it will not, indeed cannot, remain in its initial state. But the moment something, anything happens - decay, photon emission, electron motion, etc. we no longer have the same configuration. The radioactive lump system, due to its own internal tendencies and causal powers, has changed from one configuration to another. And with change comes time. At each moment in the evolution of the system it is in a different state. Each state is the consequence of previous states. And, unlike what B-theorists seem to think, there is no need for previous states to "stick around" as static parts of a tenseless block universe.

In my experience, I've found that many people, philosophers included, are held captive by a certain conceptual metaphor when it comes to thinking about time. The metaphor is that of the "timeline". According to this metaphor, time is "stretched out" along a dimension and consists of multiple events ordered by temporal relations like "earlier than" and "later than". It's a familiar picture from history books. But it's a picture that presentists (with the partial exception of ersatzist presentists like Bourne and Crisp) thoroughly repudiate. For presentists, time is not a line. It does not consist in "earlier than" relations between events. It consists, rather, in the intrinsic dynamism of reality, especially the tendencies of things to become other than they now are. Ian may find that picture "spooky". So be it. I'm inclined to say the same about his block universe. We may just have to agree to disagree on this issue.

A Short Argument against Divine Timelessness

2007-11-06T18:21:00.000-08:00

First, the position I want to argue against is essential divine timelessness - the idea that, of necessity, God cannot change in any respect or stand in any temporal relations.

Second, here is my argument:

God is able to exercise providence.
God's exercising providence entails the making of choices on God's part.
A choice is an essentially temporal event.

Therefore,

God is not essentially timeless.

Third, some comments:

(1) is accepted by (nearly) all theists. What theist wants to deny that God is able to exercise providence, that is, to decide whether to create, what kind of world to create, whether and when to intervene in that world, and so forth?
(2) is accepted by (nearly) all theists. For example, when Calvinists speak of 'election' and divine 'decrees' they are speaking about God's choices. When Jews speak of themselves as the 'chosen' people, that means chosen by God. Examples could be multiplied, but you get the point.
(3) seems to be a conceptual truth. To make a choice one must, first, have a range of two or more available options (I can do either A or B or ...) and, second, narrow down that range to one (say, A). These two stages of choice give us a 'before' and 'after', a real change or transition from one to the other. Hence, choices are essentially temporal events.

If this is right, then while the proponent of essential divine timelessness can say that God eternally 'wills' A, he cannot literally and consistently hold that God 'chooses' A. This conflicts with divine freedom. An essentially timeless God can no more exercise providence or 'elect' someone unto salvation than a rock can 'choose' to stay where it's at.

Private vs. Public Morality and "Collateral Damage" in War

2007-10-22T19:56:00.001-07:00

Here's a nice post by Bill Vallicella arguing, correctly in my opinion, that it can sometimes be morally obligatory for a government to wage war even if doing so brings about the deaths of noncombatants.

The key point is that we must not confuse the norms of private morality (the Golden Rule, turning the other cheek, etc.) with the norms of public morality - the duties that governments qua governments have to protect their citizens.

Deep Thoughts

2007-10-22T15:14:00.000-07:00

A colleague called my attention to this Foxtrot comic (©Bill Amend). It originally appeared October 11, 2006.

(HT: Rick Beckman by way of James Woodbridge)

Why I'm Not a Theological Determinist

2007-10-06T14:06:00.000-07:00

My wife sent me a link to this hilarious story from a parody news website:

"Calvinist Church Dumps Free Will Offerings"

Theism, Platonism, and Abstract Objects

2007-10-06T13:55:00.000-07:00

In the comments section of a recent post at one of Victor Reppert's blogs I've been engaged in a very interesting and stimulating conversation with a fellow who calls himself 'exapologist' about the status of abstract objects (propositions, numbers, sets, etc.). I'm arguing for theistic conceptualism (abstract objects exist necessarily as ideas in the mind of God). Exapologist is arguing for a form of Platonism (abstract objects exist necessarily independently of anything else, including God).

The Problem of Evil and the Problem of Suffering

2007-10-03T18:53:00.000-07:00

By "suffering" I mean pain, whether physical or emotional.
By "evil" I mean moral evil, i.e., sin, wickedness.

It is important to keep these distinct. For one thing, not all suffering is evil - it was a good thing that my parents disciplined me, even though it hurt sometimes. In addition, while evil acts may cause suffering, a person can have evil thoughts without acting on them and thus there can be evil without (overt) suffering.

Because suffering and evil are two different things, the so-called "problem of evil", a popular objection to theism, should be distinguished from the "problem of suffering".

To appreciate the importance of the distinction, consider this claim attributed to Socrates:

It is always better to suffer evil than to do it.

His rationale is that doing evil harms the most important part of you - your soul. Suffering can only harm the body. Others can inflict suffering on your body, but only you can harm your soul. To the extent that your soul is unhealthy, you cannot know real happiness, joy, peace, or love. By contrast, a person of exceptional virtue can know real happiness, joy, peace, and love in the midst of intense suffering.

Now, I think Socrates is right about this. Indeed, I think the Socratic principle is foundational to morality, as foundational as the Golden Rule.

The principle does, however, carries implications that will seem counterintuitive to many:

It means that you should not do evil even if your own life is at stake.
It means that the evil in the heart of the rapist, murderer, etc. are worse (objectively speaking) than the suffering of their victims.
It means that natural disasters are not as bad (objectively speaking) as murder, rape, theft, hatred, envy, etc.

I think most of us don't really believe Socrates. We are generally far too caught up in the affairs of this world - the sights and sounds, the hustle and bustle, etc. - to appreciate the depth and seriousness of our own evil. Suffering gets our attention, however. And so we tend to feel that the really bad stuff, the stuff that (if possible) ought to be fixed first in the world before anything else is the suffering that smacks us in the face. Evil, on the other hand, is mostly hidden in the recesses of the heart, where it is easily forgotten.

One's attitude toward the Socratic principle is, I believe, a reflection of one's operant worldview. If you accept a materialist or physicalist worldview according to which you just are your body (brain) and according to which the death of your body (brain) is the end of you, then it is natural (though perhaps not inevitable) to think that protecting and providing for your body/brain should be your highest priority. Socrates doesn't believe that. He doesn't think that you are your body. Rather, he believes that you are your soul and that you have a body. Consequently, he believes that it is very plausible to suppose that the death of your body will not be the end of you. From that perspective, Socrates' principle makes good sense.

This yields a partial explanation of why atheists (who tend to be materialists) think that the problems of evil and suffering (especially suffering) are so bad that belief in an all-good, all-powerful, all-knowing God is just plain irrational, whereas, in contrast, theists tend to see evil as the main problem, not suffering. Suffering can be a bitch, to be sure, but from a theistic perspective that's the symptom, not the disease. Nor is the death of my body the end. This life is only a way-station before moving to something different, and - if one humbly submits to God - better. So why get hung up over natural disasters and such? We should work hard to ameliorate suffering, but ultimately as a means to healing the soul.

This also yields a partial explanation of why atheists have often been charged with immorality. Clearly, the charge is not a fair one if left unqualified. Many atheists are decent, hard-working, upstanding citizens who would gladly help a neighbor in time of need. But if your worldview is exclusively centered on this world. And if you believe that this life is the only life you've got, then it's hard to see why you should obey the demands of what we might call "higher morality" - especially when it might involve sacrificing your life. For example, if someone gives you a loaded gun and makes a credible threat to kill your family unless you shoot an innocent bystander, do you do it? Socrates would say absolutely not, even if it means your own death by slow torture. His worldview, and the theist's, has a built-in rationale for such self-sacrificial behavior. I doubt, however, that the typical atheist's worldview has enough resources to encourage sticking to moral principle under extreme situations.

Why Teapots and Spaghetti Monsters Miss the Point

2007-10-02T11:59:00.000-07:00

In connection with the topic of my preceding post, I just noticed a comment that David Tye had left on a previous post of mine about half-a-year ago. His comment is very insightful:

Flying spaghetti monsters and teapots are things immanent with respect to the universe. God - if He exists - is utterly transcendent. Proving the transcendent and proving the immanent are such radically different proposals that it is questionable whether the same word "proof" should be used in both cases. For a skeptic to blithely compare reflection on God's existence with reflection on the existence of a china teapot is to betray a gross misunderstanding of the categories of the discussion.

Every demonstration of the existence of God has the same form. The universe, the world, ourselves, or whatever is shown to be radically incomplete. It suffers from a lack of being in some respect or other. This lack of being points beyond itself to the fullness of being, in that being or ground of being that transcends the universe altogether. St. Thomas's Five Ways are variations on this theme.

Whether we buy the argument depends on two things. 1) Whether we accept that the universe suffers from the lack of being supposed, and 2) Whether we accept that the lack of being requires fulfillment in a transcendent being. Whatever our answer, atheist or theist, our basic stance with respect to the universe is called into question when the question of God arises. The question of God is one of the fundamental "limit" questions of philosophy, like the question of freedom. Not so with spaghetti monsters and teapots.

The spaghetti monster argument is not an answer to God, but evidence that the skeptic never understood the question.

A lot of people, including many atheists, mistakenly believe that the questions

Does God exist?
Does Zeus exist?
Do dogs, cats, trees, rocks, quarks, etc. exist?
Is there a celestial teapot floating in space between the orbits of Earth and Mars?
Is there a Flying Spaghetti Monster?

are all questions about the internal constituents of the universe - whether it includes a being of such-and-such a sort. But the God question isn't like the others, for God, as such, cannot be just another constituent of the universe. Indeed, he can't be a constituent of the universe at all. Rather, if there is a God, he must be a transcendent ground of being, a necessary condition for the possibility of there being anything else. As David puts it, the existence of God is one of the fundamental limit questions of philosophy. It can't be confirmed or disconfirmed in the same way as the others - whether by direct observation or scientific experiment. Rather, it takes metaphysical argument employing substantive (and non-empirical) premises.

Moral: When some atheists say things like this:

I contend that we are both atheists. I just believe in one fewer god than you do. When you understand why you dismiss all the other possible gods, you will understand why I dismiss yours. (Stephen F Roberts)

I do not pretend to be able to prove that there is no God. I equally cannot prove that Satan is a fiction. The Christian god may exist; so may the gods of Olympus, or of ancient Egypt, or of Babylon. But no one of these hypotheses is more probable than any other: they lie outside the region of even probable knowledge, and therefore there is no reason to consider any of them. (Bertrand Russell)

they betray a misunderstanding of the issues. God, if he exists, is not and cannot be just one more deity, alongside the members of the ancient polytheistic pantheons.

God Is Not a Celestial Teapot

2007-10-01T15:08:00.000-07:00

In a short essay entitled "Is There a God?" Betrand Russell famously compared religious belief, including belief in God, to believing in the existence of celestial teapot:

Many orthodox people speak as though it were the business of sceptics to disprove received dogmas rather than of dogmatists to prove them. This is, of course, a mistake. If I were to suggest that between the Earth and Mars there is a china teapot revolving about the sun in an elliptical orbit, nobody would be able to disprove my assertion provided I were careful to add that the teapot is too small to be revealed even by our most powerful telescopes. But if I were to go on to say that, since my assertion cannot be disproved, it is intolerable presumption on the part of human reason to doubt it, I should rightly be thought to be talking nonsense. If, however, the existence of such a teapot were affirmed in ancient books, taught as the sacred truth every Sunday, and instilled into the minds of children at school, hesitation to believe in its existence would become a mark of eccentricity and entitle the doubter to the attentions of the psychiatrist in an enlightened age or of the Inquisitor in an earlier time.

The last sentence quoted is obviously satirical. Russell's point is that, absent a cogent argument for theism, the existence of a monotheistic God (of the sort affirmed by the Abrahamic faiths - Christianity, Judaism, and Islam) can be summarily dismissed in the same way that the utterly unsupported hypothesis that there exists a celestial teapot hanging in space should be dismissed. The burden of proof, says Russell, is squarely on the theist (or the believer in celestial teapots), not on the atheist.

Now, I agree that Russell's got a point. Any claim, once made, may be fairly challenged by asking "Why should I, or anyone, believe that?" For some claims (e.g., "1+1=2", "water is wet", etc.) the availability of reasonable answers to that challenge is obvious. For other claims (e.g., "string theory is correct"), it is not nearly as obvious that reasonable answers are available or forthcoming. The claim that God exists is, I think, plausibly thought to be more like the latter than the former.

In addition, I think Russell's right that there is often an asymmetric burden of proof in favor of skeptical denials (negative existence claims) over against the corresponding positive claims. But I would reject the idea that this is always the case or the claim that when such asymmetry obtains it does so simply because one claim is negative and the other positive. Rather, I return to my point above that all claims, simply because they are claims, face a burden of proof. In some cases this burden is relatively easy to satisfy. In others it is very difficult, or even impossible. So it all comes down to the issue of how easy or hard it is to give a cogent reply to the "Why believe it?" challenge (as posed by a neutral third party). In some cases, the positive claim is much easier to justify (e.g., "Some people exist" versus "No one exists"). In others, both positive and negative claims are more-or-less equally hard to justify (e.g., "For every even number greater than four, there exists a pair of primes that add up to that number"). In such cases, agnosticism would seem to be the appropriate default.

How does "God exists" compare to "God does not exist" on this measure? The answer is: It depends on who you ask, for it is hard to secure agreement on how an allegedly neutral third party would adjudicate the matter. Atheists tend to think that it is much more obvious (and so easier to justify) that God does not exist. Many theists, particularly those who believe themselves to have had profound religious experiences, think that the existence of God is much more obvious (and so easier to justify) than its denial. In the end, I think that debates over who really has the burden of proof on this issue are mostly unproductive. Better to start by reflecting on the nature of the 'God' whose existence is under question and then by diving in to examine the arguments, pro and con, that bear on that conception of God. After the dust has settled we can judge for ourselves whether either side has met its own burden of proof.

Returning to Russell's teapot, I believe that as an analogy for belief in God the analogy is seriously misleading in two respects:

First, there are no reasons whatsoever for believing that the teapot exists, whereas there are lots of positive arguments for believing that a being like God exists - arguments that many of the brightest minds in history have found compelling. Philosopher Alvin Plantinga lists a couple dozen such arguments here. His list is not exhaustive.
Second, the teapot hypothesis is trivial - even if there were cogent teapot arguments, nothing of importance would hang on them. So what if there's a celestial teapot? The question of God's existence, in contrast, is anything but trivial. The reason is that the concept of God is that of a being who is not only the ground of being of everything, but also the supreme exemplar of all pure perfections - knowledge, wisdom, power, goodness, love, and so forth. Consequently, if God exists, then all of philosophy - metaphysics, epistemology, and ethics - has a common, unifying focus. If God does not exist, however, then either there is no fundamental unity to reality, or it is a unity-by-reduction, a reduction that ultimately either purges reality of things like knowledge, wisdom, power, goodness, love, etc., or reduces them to thinner substitutes. In the limit, all that remains is matter floating in the void, which is, more-or-less, Russell's view.

To be fair, prior to the passage I quoted above, Russell does examine a few theistic arguments. But he does so in a sloppy manner. For example, here is his discussion of the First Cause (cosmological) argument:

This argument maintains that, since everything that happens has a cause, there must be a First Cause from which the whole series starts. The argument suffers, however, from the same defect as that of the elephant and the tortoise. It is said (I do not know with what truth) that a certain Hindu thinker believed the earth to rest upon an elephant. When asked what the elephant rested upon, he replied that it rested upon a tortoise. When asked what the tortoise rested upon, he said, "I am tired of this. Suppose we change the subject." This illustrates the unsatisfactory character of the First-Cause argument.

Now, anyone who has any expertise in the philosophy of religion knows that this is a straw man of grotesque proportions. Russell's critique rests on the assumption that the causal principle appealed to in the argument (in his formulation, the principle that "everything that happens has a cause") would have to apply to God in the very same way in which it applies to anything else. Accordingly, Russell must either take "everything that happens has a cause" to mean "everything has a cause (of the same general sort)" or he must be supposing that God, if there is such a being, is something that "happens". Since the latter is incompatible with how theists conceive of God, I presume that Russell means the former. But now the problem is that that no carefully developed version of the cosmological argument either assumes or entails that the causal principle (however formulated) applies to God in the same sense as it does to everything else. Indeed, it is of the very nature of a cosmological argument to argue to God's existence from the need to stop an otherwise infinite explanatory regress. Accordingly, whatever sort of God such arguments encourage us to posit cannot be a being to whom the causal principle applies in the same sense. Thus, Aquinas' First Way postulates that things that are in motion (motus) need to have a cause and concludes that there must be a First Cause that is not in motion. Similarly, the Kalam cosmological argument postulates that things that began to exist need a cause and concludes that there must a First Cause that did not begin to exist. Finally, the Leibnizian cosmological argument postulates that all things have a sufficient reason and concludes that there must be a First Cause that, unlike everything else, has an intrinsic sufficient reason. In short, Russell's critique completely misconstrues the nature of a cosmological argument. What he knocks down here is nought but a superficial straw man.

I believe that one reason for such sloppiness on the part of an otherwise accomplished philosopher like Russell is that he has overlooked my second point above, the non-triviality of the theistic hypothesis. If it is a trivial matter whether or not God exists, then there's not much point to examining the arguments pro-and-con very closely. But if, as I contend, the existence or non-existence of God has momentous implications, then that kind of intellectual nonchalance is simply inexcusable.

A Critique of Craig on Middle Knowledge

2007-09-20T12:08:00.000-07:00

Here's a link to a recent critique of William Lane Craig's defense of Molinism, a theory of divine providence that claims to reconcile unconditional (i.e., libertarian) human freedom with meticulous providence (the notion that God has sovereignly decreed everything that happens) by attributing to God "middle knowledge". Middle knowledge is said to be infallible, comprehensive knowledge of what any possible creature placed in any possible free choice situation would do, and this knowledge is supposed to be had by God prior to his creative decree.

This critique is pretty good, in my opinion, though there are a few technical points I could pick on. But time is precious so I'll simply note that the critique comes from a broadly Calvinist perspective and that the author unwarrantedly (IMHO) dismisses open theism (my position) as "obviously mistaken".

Rationality and the Meaning of Life

2007-09-10T17:32:00.000-07:00

Regarding the meaning of life, Bertrand Russell famously had this to say in "A Free Man's Worship":

Such, in outline, but even more purposeless, more void of meaning, is the world which Science presents for our belief. Amid such a world, if anywhere, our ideals henceforward must find a home. That Man is the product of causes which had no prevision of the end they were achieving; that his origin, his growth, his hopes and fears, his loves and his beliefs, are but the outcome of accidental collocations of atoms; that no fire, no heroism, no intensity of thought and feeling, can preserve an individual life beyond the grave; that all the labours of the ages, all the devotion, all the inspiration, all the noonday brightness of human genius, are destined to extinction in the vast death of the solar system, and that the whole temple of Man's achievement must inevitably be buried beneath the debris of a universe in ruins--all these things, if not quite beyond dispute, are yet so nearly certain, that no philosophy which rejects them can hope to stand. Only within the scaffolding of these truths, only on the firm foundation of unyielding despair, can the soul's habitation henceforth be safely built.

In short, life, the universe, and everything are ultimately and objectively pointless and the only thing left for us to do is face up to that fact with unyielding courage.

Now, I categorically reject Russell's vision of the cosmos - "science" has not established as much as Russell thinks it has. Chiefly, though, I want to call attention to a certain inconsistency in his outlook. The inconsistency lies in the fact that Russell wants to affirm both the meaningless of life and a sort of normative rationality:

"our ideals henceforward must find a home" [presumably this is a rational "must"]
"no philosophy which rejects them can hope to stand" [because a philosophy that rejected them would be irrational]
"only on the firm foundation of unyielding despair, can the soul's habitation henceforth be safely built." [the foundation is "firm" and yields "safety" because it is rational]

My question to Russell is this: If human life is objectively meaningless, then why is there any rational obligation to care about rationality? Why should being "rational" count for anything? Russell may pat himself on the back for being intellectually courageous in the face of the bitter truth, but if he's right then there's really no point to being intellectually courageous. Indeed, that notion only has meaning in light of the idea that the world that Russell claims has been disclosed by "science" is not the whole story. "Courage", for example, implies hope that one's cause is not utterly lost and faith that one's cause is just and that it really matters.

If we propose to take rationality and truth seriously, as genuine, intrinsic goods to be sought after and cherished with all of our heart, soul, mind, and strength, then - if we are consistent - we will acknowledge a worldview in which it makes sense to take rationality and truth as genuine, intrinsic goods. If the world, and individual human life in particular, is not intrinsically meaningful, intrinsically valuable, then it doesn't really matter in any objective sense whether you or I are rational, courageous, virtuous, or what have you.

Some Reflections on Truth and Assertion

2007-09-07T16:05:00.001-07:00

According to the 'redundancy' theory of truth, "p is true" has the same content as "p". The predicate "is true" adds nothing and so is eliminable salva significatione (without change of meaning). It seems to me that this position is deeply, though instructively, mistaken.

The basic mistake of the redundancy theory, as I see it, is to confuse "p" with the assertion of "p". To distinguish these symbolically, I'll use "p!" to stand for the assertion of "p". To see that these are distinct contrast the question "Is p true?" with the judgment "p is true". The former does not assert "p" but the latter does and can therefore be identified with "p!":

"p is true" = "p!"

It is by conflating "p" with "p!" that the redundancy theorist gets his result:

"p is true" = "p!"
"p" = "p!"
Therefore, "p is true" = "p".

But once we distinguish between the question and the judgment, the fallacy becomes clear. The question "Is p true?" does not assert "p" but leaves its truth value problematic. Let's represent this with "p?" Clearly the "p" in "p?" is the same as the one in "p!" Hence, "p" by itself cannot be equivalent in meaning to "p!", and with that the redundancy theory of truth fails.

What then does it mean for "p" to be true? We can answer this by looking at the relation of the question "Is p true?" to the judgment "p is true." Clearly the latter is an answer to the question: "Is p true?" Yes, "p is true." The judgment doesn't make "p" true or constitute the truth of "p". Rather, it follows upon a recognition of the fact that "p" was true all along.

For example, suppose I'm wondering about whether the proposition "There is no OJ in my fridge" is true. So long as I have serious doubts about this, I will not assert the proposition. But if I go downstairs, open the fridge, and take a look, I can observe whether the "There is no OJ in my fridge" corresponds to the facts or not. In so doing, I am discover whether the proposition is true. If an appropriate search yields no OJ, then I am in a position to assert or judge that "There is no OJ in my fridge" is true. Again, the judgment doesn't constitute the truth of the proposition. It adds nothing to the proposition's truth conditions. It simply reflects my recognition that its truth conditions are fulfilled.

Against Mind-Body Physicalism

2007-09-06T09:33:00.000-07:00

I find the following argument persuasive:

I have an intrinsically first-person awareness of myself as a self, i.e., as a center of first-person awareness.
All purely physical phenomena can be wholly understood in strictly third-person terms.
The self qua self (first-person qua first-person) cannot be wholly understood in non-self (third-person) terms.
Therefore, I am not purely physical. (from 1-3)

Premise (1) seems to me undeniably obvious. I am aware are myself as a self. I am not merely sentient, i.e., aware of my surroundings. I am aware that I am aware of my surroundings. I am not merely conscious, I am self-conscious. And I am not only self-conscious, but I am self-consciously self-conscious. This is the point of Descartes' famous cogito argument - "I think, therefore, I am." He invites us to simply notice ourselves qua selves. When we do so, we find that the objectivity of our own existence as selves ("I am") is given in our own self-reflexive subjectivity ("I think").

Interestingly, not everyone accepts (1). David Hume famously denied that he was aware of himself as a self. He claimed that when he introspected all he observed was a fleeting "bundle of impressions". Essentially the same position is taken by Buddhists who affirm the anatta or "no-self" doctrine. According to this doctrine, if you are able to realize that you, as an abiding center of self-consciousness, do not exist, you will have achieved enlightenment and freedom from suffering. (After all, there's no one there to suffer.)

Frankly, what Hume and many Buddhists might wish to call "enlightenment", I call blindness to the obvious. The reason why Hume finds only a "bundle of impressions" is because he's a shallow phenomenologist. When he introspects he focuses on the intentional object of introspection and forgets the intending subject, the "I think" (to use Kant's phrase) that makes introspection possible in the first place. In other words, when he looks for the self he wants to get it completely "out in front" so that he can view it as an object, from a third-person perspective, as it were. But this can't be done. To try to view the self as an object is to hide from view its very character as a self.

Premise (2) seems right as well. Setting panpsychism aside as incompatible with physicalism ('panpsychism' is the idea that all things, from humans to quarks, have intrinsic, irreducible "mental" properties), it seems that all fundamental physical concepts - e.g., mass, charge, momentum, force, velocity, field, space-time, quarks, bosons, etc. - are also entirely third-person concepts. Take any purely physical object, say, a rock. Give as complete a description of the rock's intrinsic properties as you care to. There is no reason to think that we will ever have to drag in any irreducibly first-person concepts in characterizing the rock. The reason is simple: The rock isn't a 'self'; it doesn't have an 'ego' or 'I'. It seems that the same goes, mutatis mutandis, for any other purely physical system, including the human brain.

By now the rationale for (3) should also be clear. Notions like 'person' and 'self' are intrinsically first-person concepts. The only reason why I can understand what it is to be a 'self' is because I am one and because I am aware of myself as a self. It's a concept that can only be understood from the inside and not, as physicalism implies, in third-person terms.

Some of My Recent Publications

2007-09-05T19:03:00.000-07:00

Last year I was going through a real dry spell - it seemed like I couldn't get anything published. So far this year, however, things have gone pretty well. I've had three papers accepted at three different journals:

Fumerton's Principle of Inferential Justification, Skepticism, and the Nature of Inference (forthcoming in Journal of Philosophical Research)
Generic Open Theism and Some Varieties Thereof (forthcoming in Religious Studies)
The Philosophical Case for Open Theism (forthcoming in Philosophia)

The second one in the list was the one that really surprised me. Normal turnaround time for peer review is anywhere from 3 to 6 months. In this case, it was only 1 week!

Now if I can just manage to land one or two more publications in the next couple months I may stand a good chance of getting a tenure-track position. We'll see.