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Mike in/on motion: Michael Flynn is working through the Aristotelian argument from motion at The TOF Spot, with three installments so far (here, here, and here).  (Some bonus coolness: Mike Flynn covers from Analog.)

“New Atheist” writer Victor Stenger has died.  Jeffery Jay Lowder of The Secular Outpost recounts his disagreements with Stenger. 

What was the deal with H. P. Lovecraft?  John J. Miller investigates at The Claremont Review of Books.

At Philosophy in Review, Roger Pouivet (author of After Wittgenstein, St. Thomas) reviews Robert Pasnau’s Metaphysical Themes 1274-1671.  (You can find the current issue here and then scroll down to find a PDF of the review.)
 
Roger Scruton’s The Soul of the World is reviewed at Spiked.

Hilaire Belloc on Islam: A reminder from Bill Vallicella.

Elmar Kramer’s Analysis of Existing: Barry Miller's Approach to God is reviewed at Notre Dame Philosophical Reviews.  (The review does not seem to me entirely fair to Miller, but is worth reading anyway.)

At Public Discourse, Chris Tollefsen explains how pornography is like incest

A workshop inspired by Alvin Plantinga’s well-known unpublished notes on “Two Dozen (or so) Theistic Arguments” will be held next month at Baylor University

The straw man that will not die

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What’s more tiresome than reading yet another brain-dead atheist attack on the “Everything has a cause” straw man?   Having to write up a response to yet another brain-dead atheist attack on the “Everything has a cause” straw man (as I did not too long ago).  It’s like being Sisyphus on a treadmill stuck in reverse.  It’s like that annoying Alanis Morissettesong.  It’s like that annoying parody of the annoying Alanis Morissette song.  It’s like swimming through a sea of confusion, on a dead horse you’re flogging with a hoe in a tough row of run-on mixed metaphors.  ‘Til the clichés come home.

I noted recently that Fr. Norris Clarke, S.J. was making pretty much the same complaint (sans the YouTube link) over 40 years ago.  Turns out even he was late to the pity party by at least 75 years -- and indeed, beaten to it by another Fr. Clarke, S.J.  Dear reader, I give you the third edition of Fr. Richard F. Clarke’s textbook Logic, from the year 1895:

The reader will observe that the Law of Causation does not state (as some modern writers most unfairly would have us believe) that Everything that exists has a cause. In this form it is quite untrue, since God is uncreated anduncaused.  If it were worded thus, the objection, that we first formulate our universal law and thenexclude from it Him on Whom all existence depends, would be perfectly valid.  But this is entirely to misrepresent our position.  It is one of the unworthy devices of the enemies of a priori philosophy.  (pp. 78-79)

Yes, you read that right: 1895.  (And that’s the third edition.)  Yet Steven Hales, Nigel Warburton, Bertrand Russell, Daniel Dennett, et al.still haven’t gotten the memo. 

The Church thinks in centuries.  The “skeptic” takes centuries to think.  If he ever does.  I think I’ll have my youngest son legally renamed “Fr. Clarke, S.J.” so he’ll be ready circa 2050 to offer yet another gentle reminder. 

Q.E.D.?

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The Catholic Church makes some bold claims about what can be known about God via unaided reason.  The First Vatican Council teaches:

The same Holy mother Church holds and teaches that God, the source and end of all things, can be known with certainty from the consideration of created things, by the natural power of human reason…

If anyone says that the one, true God, our creator and lord, cannot be known with certainty from the things that have been made, by the natural light of human reason: let him be anathema.

In Humani Generis, Pope Pius XII reaffirmed this teaching and made clear what were in his view the specific philosophical means by which this natural knowledge of God could best be articulated, and which were most in line with Catholic doctrine:

[H]uman reason by its own natural force and light can arrive at a true and certain knowledge of the one personal God, Who by His providence watches over and governs the world…

[I]t falls to reason to demonstrate with certainty the existence of God, personal and one…But reason can perform these functions safely and well only when properly trained, that is, when imbued with that sound philosophy which has long been, as it were, a patrimony handed down by earlier Christian ages, and which moreover possesses an authority of an even higher order, since the Teaching Authority of the Church, in the light of divine revelation itself, has weighed its fundamental tenets, which have been elaborated and defined little by little by men of great genius.  For this philosophy, acknowledged and accepted by the Church, safeguards the genuine validity of human knowledge, the unshakable metaphysical principles of sufficient reason, causality, and finality, and finally the mind's ability to attain certain and unchangeable truth.

Of course this philosophy deals with much that neither directly nor indirectly touches faith or morals, and which consequently the Church leaves to the free discussion of experts.  But this does not hold for many other things, especially those principles and fundamental tenets to which We have just referred…

If one considers all this well, he will easily see why the Church demands that future priests be instructed in philosophy "according to the method, doctrine, and principles of the Angelic Doctor," since, as we well know from the experience of centuries, the method of Aquinas is singularly preeminent both of teaching students and for bringing truth to light…

End quote.  Similarly, in his address to the Pontifical Academy of Sciences of November 22, 1951, Pius XII says:

[T]he human intellect approaches that demonstration of the existence of God which Christian wisdom recognizes in those philosophical arguments which have been carefully examined throughout the centuries by giants in the world of knowledge, and which are already well known to you in the presentation of the "five ways" which the Angelic Doctor, St. Thomas, offers as a speedy and safe road to lead the mind to God.

The Catechism of the Catholic Church reaffirms the teaching of Vatican I and of Pius XII that God’s existence can be known with certainty by the natural light of human reason, and even teaches, more specifically, that we can “attain certainty” about God’s existence via “proofs” which begin “from movement, becoming, contingency, and the world's order and beauty.”  Most of these are, of course, among the approaches taken by Aquinas’s Five Ways.  In Fides et Ratio, Pope St. John Paul II also reaffirmed the teaching of Vatican I and Pius XII on the power of human reason in theological matters:

[T]he First Vatican Council… pronounced solemnly on the relationship between reason and faith. The teaching contained in this document strongly and positively marked the philosophical research of many believers and remains today a standard reference-point for correct and coherent Christian thinking in this regard…

Against the temptations of fideism… it was necessary to stress the unity of truth and thus the positive contribution which rational knowledge can and must make to faith's knowledge…

Surveying the situation today, we see that the problems of other times have returned…

There are… signs of a resurgence of fideism, which fails to recognize the importance of rational knowledge and philosophical discourse for the understanding of faith, indeed for the very possibility of belief in God…

[M]odes of latent fideism appear in the scant consideration accorded to speculative theology, and in disdain for the classical philosophy from which the terms of both the understanding of faith and the actual formulation of dogma have been drawn. My revered Predecessor Pope Pius XII warned against such neglect of the philosophical tradition and against abandonment of the traditional terminology…

Pope Leo XIII… revisited and developed the First Vatican Council's teaching on the relationship between faith and reason, showing how philosophical thinking contributes in fundamental ways to faith and theological learning.  More than a century later, many of the insights of his Encyclical Letter have lost none of their interest from either a practical or pedagogical point of view—most particularly, his insistence upon the incomparable value of the philosophy of Saint Thomas.  A renewed insistence upon the thought of the Angelic Doctor seemed to Pope Leo XIII the best way to recover the practice of a philosophy consonant with the demands of faith.

End quote.  To be sure, the Church has not officially endorsed any specific formulation of any particular argument for God’s existence.  All the same, in her authoritative documents she has gone so far as to speak of God’s existence as something susceptible of “certainty,” “demonstration,” and “proof”; has commended “classical philosophy” specifically as providing the best means of showing how this is possible; and has held up Aquinas and the general approaches taken in his Five Ways as exemplary.  Pius XII even went so far as to imply that the “metaphysical principles of sufficient reason, causality, and finality” -- to which formulations of arguments like Aquinas’s typically appeal -- are not only “unshakable” but are so connected to matters of faith and morals that they are not among the things to be left to “free discussion” among theologians. 

Quod erat demonstrandum?

Needless to say, many modern readers find all of this baffling.  They find it baffling that anyone could be so confident that God’s existence is demonstrable, and baffling that anyone could think it demonstrable in the specific way in question -- via arguments like Aquinas’s Five Ways and metaphysical principles like the principle of causality, the principle of sufficient reason, etc.  Indeed, they think it obvious that God’s existence is not demonstrable, and obvious that arguments like the ones in question do not work.

Though this attitude is common and even held with great confidence, there is no good justification for it.  There are three main problems with it.  The first is that those who exhibit it typically do not even understand what writers like Aquinas actually said, and aim their dismissive objections at crude caricatures.  I have documented this at length in several places, and will not repeat here what I’ve already said elsewhere (such as in my book Aquinas, in my Midwest Studies in Philosophyarticle “The New Atheists and the Cosmological Argument,” and in blog posts like this one, this one, and others).  Suffice it to say that if a skeptic assures you that cosmological arguments essentially rest on the premise that “everything has a cause,” or supposes that Aquinas was trying to prove that the world had a beginning in time, or suggests that Aquinas never explains why we should suppose a First Cause to have divine attributes like unity, omniscience, omnipotence, etc., that is an absolutely infallible sign that he is utterly incompetent to speak on the subject. 

A second problem is that those who are dismissive of the very idea that the existence of God might be demonstrable typically hold arguments for God’s existence to a standard to which they do not hold other arguments.  For instance, the mere fact that someone somewhere has raised an objection against an argument for God’s existence is commonly treated by skeptics as showing that “the argument fails” – as if an argument is a good one only if no one objects to it but all assent to it upon hearing it.   Of course, skeptics do not treat other philosophical arguments this way.  That an argument for materialism, or against free will, or whatever, has its critics is not taken to show that those arguments “fail.”  The attitude in these cases is rather: “Well, sure, like any philosophical argument, this one has its critics, but that doesn’t mean the critics are right.  At the end of the day, the objections might be answerable and the argument ultimately correct, and we need to keep an open mind about it and consider what might be said in its defense.”  In general, even the most eccentric philosophical arguments are treated as if they are always “on the table” as options worthy of reconsideration.  Mysteriously, though, arguments for God’s existence are refused this courtesy.  The mere fact that Hume (say) said such-and-such two centuries ago is often treated as if it constituted a once-and-for-all decisive refutation. 

Related to this is a tendency to approach the subject as if a successful argument for God’s existence should be the sort of thing that can be stated fairly briefly in a way that will convince even the most hardened skeptic.  Again, no one treats other arguments this way.  If a fifty page article on materialism, free will, utilitarianism, etc. fails to convince you, the author will say that you need to read his book.  If the book fails to convince you, he will then say that the problem is that you have to master the general literature on the subject.  If that literature fails to convince you, then he will say that the issue is a large one that you cannot reasonably expect anyone decisively to settle to the satisfaction of all parties. 

By contrast, if you suggest that the existence of God can be demonstrated, many a skeptic will demand that you accomplish this in an argument of the sort which might be summarized in the space of a blog post.  If such an argument fails to convince him, he will judge that it isn’t worth any more of his time, and if you tell him that he would need to read a book or even a large body of literature fully to understand the argument, he might even treat this (bizarrely) as if it made it even less likely that the argument is any good! 

Then there is the common tendency to suggest that defenders of arguments for God’s existence have ulterior motives that should make us suspicious of their very project.  Once again, the skeptic does not treat other arguments this way.  He doesn’t say: “Well, you have to be very wary of arguments against free will or for revisionist moral conclusions, because their proponents are no doubt trying to rationalize some sort of activity traditionally frowned upon.” Nor does he say: “Atheist arguments are always suspect, of course, given that people would like to find a way to justify rejecting religious practices and prohibitions they find onerous.”  For some reason, though, the very fact that a philosopher defends an argument for God’s existence is treated as if it should raise our suspicions.  “Oh, he must have some religious agenda he’s trying to rationalize!”

Now there is no good reason whatsoever for these double standards.  They reflect nothing more the unreflective prejudices of (some) atheists and skeptics, and in some cases maybe something worse – a dishonest rhetorical tactic intended to poison otherwise fair-minded people against taking arguments for God’s existence very seriously.  But I submit that these unjustifiable double standards play a major role in fostering the attitude that there is something fishy about the very idea of demonstrating the existence of God. 

A third, and perhaps not unrelated, problem with this attitude is that those who take it often misunderstand what a thinker like Aquinas means when he says that the existence of God can be “demonstrated.”  What is meant is that the conclusion that God exists follows with necessity or deductive validity from premises that are certain, where the certainty of the premises can in turn be shown via metaphysical analysis.  That entails that such a demonstration gives us knowledge that is more secure than what any scientific inference can give us (as “science” is generally understood today), in two respects.  First, the inference is not a merely probabilistic one, nor an “argument to the best explanation” which appeals to considerations like parsimony, fit with existing background theory, etc.; it is, again, instead a strict deduction to what is claimed to follow necessarily from the premises.  Second, the premises cannot be overthrown by further empirical inquiry, because they have to do with what any possible empirical inquiry must presuppose.

For example, Aristotelian arguments from motion begin with the premise that change occurs, together with premises to the effect that a potential can be actualized only by what is already actual (the principle of causality) and that an essentially ordered series of causes cannot regress to infinity.  The first premise is in a sense empirical, which is why the argument is not a priori.  We know that change occurs because we experience it.  However, it is not a premise which can be overthrown by further empirical inquiry, because any possible future experience will itself be a further instance of change.  (We can coherently hold, on empirical grounds, that this or that purported instance of change is unreal; but we cannot coherently maintain on empirical grounds that all change is unreal.)  The other premises can be defended by various metaphysical arguments, such as arguments to the effect that the principle of causality follows from the principle of sufficient reason (PSR), and that PSR rightly understood can be established via reductio ad absurdum of any attempt to deny it.  (See Scholastic Metaphysics for detailed defense of the background principles presupposed by Thomistic arguments for God’s existence.)

Now, the problem is this.  Contemporary philosophers tend to work within a conceptual straightjacket inherited from the early modern philosophers.  In particular, and where epistemological matters are concerned, they tend to think in terms inherited from the rationalists, the empiricists, and Kant.  Hence when you put forward an argument that you claim is not an inference of empirical science, they tend to think that the only other thing it can be is either some sort of “conceptual analysis” (essentially a watered-down Kantianism) or an attempt at rationalist apriorism.  And since arguments for God’s existence are obviously attempts to arrive at a conclusion about mind-independent reality itself rather than merely about how we think about reality or conceptualize reality, the assumption is that if you argue for God’s existence in a way that does not involve an inference of the sort familiar in empirical science, then you must be doing something of the Cartesian or Leibnizian rationalist sort.

As I argue in Scholastic Metaphysics, this is simply a false choice.  Thomists reject the entire rationalist/empiricist/Kantian dialectic, and maintain an epistemological position that predated these views.  But modern readers who are unfamiliar with this position, and falsely suppose that it must be an exercise in rationalist metaphysics, sometimes come to expect the trappingsof rationalist metaphysics.  In particular, they will expect geometry-style proofs, highly formalized arguments from axioms and definitions, which can be stated crisply in the course of a few pages and be seen either to succeed or fail upon a fairly cursory examination.  When a Thomist does not put forward an argument in this style, the skeptic supposes that he has failed to produce a true demonstration.  But this simply mistakes one kind of demonstration for demonstration as such, and begs the question against the Thomist, who rejects rationalist epistemology and methodology.  (Students of the Neo-Scholastic period of the history of Thomism will be familiar with Thomist criticisms of “essentialism” -- in Gilson’s specialized sense of that term, which is different from the way I or David Oderberg use it -- and of “ontologism.”  These are essentially criticisms of the Leibnizian rationalist approach to metaphysics and natural theology.)

Presenting theistic arguments in this pseudo-geometrical formalized style can in fact inadvertently foster misunderstandings, which is why I tend to avoid that style.  You can, of course, set out an argument like the Aristotelian argument from motion in a series of numbered steps, as I do in my ACPQ article “Existential Inertia and the Five Ways.”  However, the argument contains a number of crucial technical terms -- “actuality,” “potency,” “essentially ordered,” etc. -- which are not explained in the argument thus stated.  Even if you somehow worked definitions of these key terms into the formalized statement of the argument, that would simply push the problem back a stage, since you would have to make use of further concepts not defined in the formalized statement of the argument.  The idea that such an argument (or any metaphysical argument) could be entirelyformalized is a rationalist fantasy.

The trouble is that by presenting such semi-formalized arguments -- “Here’s the proof in ten steps” -- you risk encouraging the lazier sort of skeptic in his delusion that if such an argument is any good, it should be convincing, all by itself and completely removed from any larger context, to even the most hostile critic.  Naturally, it will never be that, because it will not properly be understood unless the larger conceptual context is understood.  But the lazy skeptic will not bother himself with that larger context.  He will simply take the brief, ten-step (or whatever) semi-formalized argument and aim at it any old objections that come to mind, thinking he has thereby refuted it when in fact he will (given his ignorance of some of the key background concepts) not even properly understand what it is saying.  (That is why a reader of a book like my Aquinashas to slog his way through over 50 pages of general metaphysics before he gets to the Five Ways.  There are no shortcuts, and I do not want to abet the lazy or dishonest skeptic in pretending otherwise.) 

Now, I submit that when we take account of these three factors underlying the common dismissive attitude toward the very idea of demonstrating God’s existence – the widespread misconceptions about what the traditional arguments for God’s existence actually say; the arbitrary double standard to which these arguments are held; and the common misunderstanding of what a “demonstration” must involve – we can see that that attitude is simply not justified.   Meanwhile, the approaches to demonstrating God’s existence represented by arguments like the Five Ways in fact are -- when fleshed out and when correctly understood -- convincing, as I have argued in several places (e.g. in Aquinasand in the ACPQ article). 

The Church’s insistence that the existence of God is demonstrable is not, in any event, an attempt to settle a philosophical issue by sheer diktat.  It is rather a carefully considered judgment about what must be the case if Christianity is to be rationally justifiable.  What the Church is doing is distancing herself from fideism by affirming the power of unaided reason and affirming the duty of Christians to provide a rational justification of what Aquinas called the “preambles” of the Catholic religion.  (I’ve discussed the crucial role that proofs of God’s existence and other philosophical arguments play in Christian apologetics here and here.)  It is not an expression of blind faith but precisely a condemnationof blind faith. 

So, something Catholics and New Atheists can agree on.  Isn’t that nice? 

Review of Jaworski

DSPT Symposium

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God, Reason and Reality is a new anthology edited by Anselm Ramelow.  In addition to Fr. Ramelow, the contributors include Robert Sokolowski, Robert Spaemann, Thomas Joseph White, Lawrence Dewan, Stamatios Gerogiorgakis, John F. X. Knasas, Paul Thom, Michael Dodds, William Wainwright, and Linda Zagzebski.  The table of contents and other information about the book can be found here.

The Dominican School of Philosophy and Theology in Berkeley, CA will be hosting a symposium on the book on November 8, 2014.  The presenters will be Fr. Ramelow, Fr. Dodds, and me.  Further information can be found here.

Thomas Aquinas, Henry Adams, Steve Martin

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In his conceptual travelogue Mont-Saint-Michel and Chartres -- first distributed privately in 1904, then published in 1913 -- historian Henry Adams devoted a chapter to Thomas Aquinas.  There are oversimplifications and mistakes in it of the sort one would expect from a non-philosopher interested in putting together a compelling narrative, but some interesting things too.  Adams rightly emphasizes how deep and consequential is the difference between Aquinas’s view that knowledge of God starts with sensory experience of the natural order, and the tendency of mystics and Cartesians to look instead within the human mind itself to begin the ascent to God.  And he rightly notes how important, and also contrary to other prominent theological tendencies, is Aquinas’s affirmation of the material world.  (This is a major theme in Denys Turner’s recent book on Aquinas, about which I’ve been meaning to blog.)  On the other hand, what Adams says about Aquinas and secondary causality is not only wrong but bizarre.

Most important for present purposes, though, is Adams’ motif of drawing parallels between theological tendencies and medieval structures.  The view of those who see the relation between God and man in terms of force is compared by Adams to Mont-Saint-Michel.  The view that the relation is best seen in terms of faith, he compares to Chartres Cathedral.  And he compares Aquinas’s appeal to reason to the cathedrals at Beauvaisand Amiens.  Writes Adams:

The architects of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries took the Church and the universe for truths, and tried to express them in a structure which should be final.  Knowing by an enormous experience precisely where the strains were to come, they enlarged their scale to the utmost point of material endurance, lightening the load and distributing the burden until the gutters and gargoyles that seem mere ornament, and the grotesques that seem rude absurdities, all do work either for the arch or for the eye; and every inch of material, up and down, from crypt to vault, from man to God, from the universe to the atom, had its task, giving support where support was needed, or weight where concentration was felt, but always with the condition of showing conspicuously to the eye the great lines which led to unity and the curves which controlled divergence; so that, from the cross on the flèche and the keystone of the vault, down through the ribbed nervures, the columns, the windows, to the foundation of the flying buttresses far beyond the walls, one idea controlled every line; and this is true of St. Thomas’ Church as it is of Amiens Cathedral.  The method was the same for both, and the result was an art marked by singular unity, which endured and served its purpose until man changed his attitude toward the universe.

In his book of surrealist humor Cruel Shoes -- first distributed privately in 1977, then published in a longer edition in 1979 -- comedian and onetime philosophy major Steve Martin devotes one of the best pieces in the volume to a fanciful recounting of the “Demolition of the Cathedral at Chartres.”  Here it is in its entirety:

Mr. Rivers was raised in the city of New York, had become involved in construction and slowly advanced himself to the level of crane operator for a demolition company.  The firm had grown enormously, and he was shipped off to France for a special job.  He started work early on a Friday and, due to a poorly drawn map, at six-thirty one morning in February began the demolition of the Cathedral at Chartres.

The first swing of the ball knifed an arc so deadly that it tore down nearly a third of a wall and the glass shattered almost in tones, and it seemed to scream over the noise of the engine as the fuel was pumped in the long neck of the crane that threw the ball through a window of the Cathedral at Chartres.

The aftermath was complex and chaotic, and Rivers was allowed to go home to New York, and he opened up books on the Cathedral and read about it and thought to himself how lucky he was to have seen it before it was destroyed.  (pp. 19-20)

Suppose we depart from Adams a little by identifying Aquinas’s system with Chartres Cathedral instead, and then read Adams’ analogy in light of Martin’s absurd scenario.  What do we get?

What we get, perhaps, is a parable for the nouvelle theologie revolution as described by Rusty Reno in a First Things article a few years ago, which I quoted at length in a recent talk at Thomas Aquinas College.  In the wake of the nouvelle theologie critique of Neo-Scholastic Thomism, Reno writes, “the old theological culture of the Church has largely been destroyed,” while the nouvelle theologie thinkers themselves “did not, perhaps could not, formulate a workable, teachable alternative to take its place…”  Indeed, their own work is not intelligible except within the context of the system they found inadequate, a context they swept away.  Hence, judges Reno, “the collapse of neoscholasticism has not led to the new and fuller vision [they] sought… It has created a vacuum filled with simple-minded shibboleths.”  Some of the nouvelle theologie thinkers -- such as Balthasar and de Lubac -- deplored this simple-mindedness, and the heterodoxy that has come with it.  But it was an unintended consequence of their own theological revolution.  They’re a little like Steve Martin’s Mr. Rivers, wistfully contemplating the loss of a glorious structure they had themselves demolished

So thoroughly has the nouvelle theologiecaricature of Neo-Scholasticism and traditional Thomism permeated the intellectual life of the Church that you will hear it parroted in the most unexpected contexts.  For instance, during lunch at a conference some time ago, a couple of well-meaning conservative Catholic academics matter-of-factly remarked how awful the Neo-Scholastic manuals were, how you couldn’t learn Aquinas from Thomists, etc. -- even as they praised my own work and the high-octane Thomism I was defending during the conference!  I thought: “Where the hell do you think I got it from?”

Whenever I encounter this kind of cluelessness, I reach for my copy of Cruel Shoes.

Meta-comedy

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While we’re on the subject of Steve Martin, consider the following passage from his memoir Born Standing Up.  Martin recounts the insight that played a key role in his novel approach to doing stand-up comedy:

In a college psychology class, I had read a treatise on comedy explaining that a laugh was formed when the storyteller created tension, then, with the punch line, released it... With conventional joke telling, there's a moment when the comedian delivers the punch line, and the audience knows it's the punch line, and their response ranges from polite to uproarious.  What bothered me about this formula was the nature of the laugh it inspired, a vocal acknowledgment that a joke had been told, like automatic applause at the end of a song...

These notions stayed with me for months, until they formed an idea that revolutionized my comic direction: What if there were no punch lines?  What if there were no indicators?  What if I created tension and never released it?  What if I headed for a climax, but all I delivered was an anticlimax?  What would the audience do with all that tension?  Theoretically, it would have to come out sometime.  But if I kept denying them the formality of a punch line, the audience would eventually pick their own place to laugh, essentially out of desperation.  This type of laugh seemed stronger to me, as they would be laughing at something they chose, rather than being told exactly when to laugh.

To test my idea, at my next appearance at the Ice House, I went onstage and began: “I’d like to open up with sort of a ‘funny comedy bit.’ This has really been a big one for me... it's the one that put me where I am today.  I'm sure most of you will recognize the title when I mention it; it's the Nose on Microphone routine [pause for imagined applause].  And it's always funny, no matter how many times you see it.”

I leaned in and placed my nose on the mike for a few long seconds.  Then I stopped and took several bows, saying, “Thank you very much.”  “That's it?” they thought.  Yes, that was it. The laugh came not then, but only after they realized I had already moved on to the next bit. (pp. 111-12)

Well, this kind of thing either works for you or it doesn’t.  No doubt Martin’s facial expressions and body language helped make it work on the occasions when it did.  But Martin evidently thought his unorthodox approach to relieving comic tension might play well on the printed page too.  A good example comes from his 1979 book Cruel Shoes.  The piece is titled “Sex Crazed Love Goddesses” and here it is in its entirety:

Little Billy Jackson had to go to the store for his mother to pick up some postage stamps.  When he got there, he found the stamp machine to be out of order, and decided to walk the extra three blocks to the post office.  On the way there, he passed a hardware store, a variety store and a lamp shop.  The line was short at the post office and he got the stamps quickly and returned home.  His dog, “Spider,” bounded out to greet him as his mom waved from the porch.  Billy’s mother was pleased at the job he did and congratulated him on having enough sense to go to the post office when he found the stamp machine broken.  Billy had a nice dessert that night and went to bed. (p. 55)

I know what you’re thinking, but the story is actually better in the book, because it runs to the bottom of the page and it isn’t clear until you turn the page that that was it

Well, again, this kind of thing either works for you or it doesn’t.  It got a laugh out of me but it probably helps that I’ve got a taste for the abstract and the absurd.  The joke will be either blindingly obvious to you or utterly opaque.  Either way, here it is: Even though you know it’s a gag piece in a Steve Martin book, the title “Sex Crazed Love Goddesses” cannot fail to raise in your mind the expectation that something salacious is to follow.  Hence as you read this utterly banal and irrelevant narrative about a kid buying stamps, etc., you feel sure that the story is going to shift gears at any moment.  Then it suddenly ends without having done so.  The comic “tension” Martin speaks of breaks precisely when it hits you that it’s never going to break, and that’s what gets the laugh.

In making a joke out of what we expect a joke to be or out of what we expect a story to be, Martin is doing something we might call meta-comedy.   Comedy itself and its conventions become the subject matter.  Notice how the “Nose on Microphone” bit can work only insofar as Martin gets his audience explicitly to think to themselves: “OK, here we all are watching a comedian, and we’re about to hear a really funny comedy bit.  Here it comes…”  Thatis the set-up of the joke, rather than something internal to the joke itself (“A priest and a rabbi walk into a bar…”), as we’d normally expect.  It is only when we become self-conscious about what we thought the joke would be and how it didn’t meet that expectation that the “payoff” can be delivered.  Normally we become “lost in” a joke, just as we become lost in the action of a movie or play and don’t constantly think to ourselves “These are actors, none of this really happened but they are trying to make it convincing” etc.  Martin’s joke works precisely by not letting us forget that “This is a stand-up comedian, and he is trying to make us laugh by telling us jokes,” like a movie or play that “breaks the fourth wall.” 

Similarly, in the case of the Cruel Shoes piece, the joke can work only insofar as we are notlost in the story, but instead start thinking about the conventions of story titles and how they relate to the content of a story: “Why would a story with a title like ‘Sex Crazed Love Goddesses’ be about something as mundane as a kid buying stamps?  Oh wait, that mismatch is the joke…”

Martin’s act during his stand-up days relied on this kind of thing to a very great extent, even if not entirely.  A big part of his shtick required that the audience have it at the forefront of their minds that this guy is a famous comedian who is here to entertain us.  (Consider this bit and this bit from The Tonight Show, as well as various clips of stand-up material you can find on YouTube.) 

Meta-comedy is essentially an instance of what, in a post from several years ago, I called “meta-art” -- art the theme of which is art itself, and the method of which involves a self-conscious stretching of art’s boundaries.  Martin was to stand-up comedy what Duchamp was to visual art, Schoenberg to classical music, and Ornette Coleman to jazz.  Meta-art, art gone self-conscious, is theory-driven in a way just-plain-old-art-without-the-“meta”-thank-you-very-much is not.  (It cannot be a coincidence that Martin was a philosophy major and has long been an art collector!)

This comparison of Martin’s stand-up comedy to other instances of meta-art prompts two reflections.  First, as I indicated in the post just linked to, while meta-art can be interesting, it can also be arid and repetitive and descend into self-parody.  Martin did not rely on meta-comedy entirely, and where he did the results do not always hold up well.  (Most of Cruel Shoes does not hold up well.  I’m not sure how well some of it held up in 1979.)  As he makes clear in Born Standing Up (which is a very good book), Martin was burned out by the early 80s.  The following passage is telling:

The act was still rocking, but audience disruptions, whoops and shouts, sometimes killed the timing of bits, violating my premise that every moment mattered.  The days of the heckler comebacks were over.  The audiences were so large that if someone was calling or signaling to me, only I and their immediate seatmates could hear them.  My timing was jarred, yet if I had responded to the heckler, the rest of the audience wouldn't have known what I was talking about. Today I realize that I misunderstood what my last year of stand-up was about.  I had become a party host, presiding not over timing and ideas but over a celebratory bash of my own making.  If I had understood what was happening, I might have been happier, but I didn't.  I still thought I was doing comedy. (p. 185)

Martin does not put it this way, but it’s as if the meta-comedy had, without his realizing it, gone meta-meta.  People no longer showed up to hear meta-comedy anymore, let alone comedy.  They showed up to see the guy who was famous for doing the meta-comedy.  This couldn’t last, and Martin wisely made a transition into movies -- and, with them, a more conventional brand of comedy.

A second thought, though, is that it is quite remarkable how popular Martin’s stand-up then was given its often esoteric and “meta” character.  Meta-art is typically characterized by its lack of mass appeal.  Indeed, as Born Standing Up recounts, Martin’s act was by no means an overnight success.  But eventually it caught on in a big way.  Why?

One reason, of course, is that, as I have said, Martin’s stand-up comedy was not all of the surreal Cruel Shoes type.  It was a departure from the usual thing, but not a total departure.  (Thelonious Monk perhaps provides a better jazz analogy for Martin’s stand-up than Ornette Coleman does -- I compared Monk and Coleman in another earlier post.)  

A second reason is that the intentional absurdity of some meta-art, while a stumbling block to a popular audience in the case of visual arts, literature, and music, can have mass appeal in the case of meta-comedy because of its similarity to slapstick.  If you present the man on the street with Duchamp’s Fountain readymade as art or an Ornette Coleman pieceas music, he will be offended by it.  But if you present it to him as comedy -- say, in a Three Stooges episode where the fellas are hired as musicians and start playing like Coleman, or try sculpture but produce only a urinal -- then he’ll probably love it.  Meta-comedy is just the next step.  “Sure it’s absurd, but then this is supposedto be comedy, so…” And Martin mixed old-fashioned slapstick in with his meta-comedy in any event (both onstage and via movies like The Jerk).  To a popular audience it all might have seemed more like Moe Howard than artistic modernism.

Finally, there is, possibly (especially in light of Martin’s “celebratory bash” remarks), what we might call the “Money for Nothing” factor.  Just as the average guy might both resent and admire the pop star for his ability to attract fame, wealth, and women with (so he assumes) little effort, so too might he be as drawn to, as annoyed by, a guy who acts goofy onstage for a couple of hours and gets tons of money for it.  The stand-up comic in a suit, chatting with Johnny Carson on TV, can have a sex appeal that the sullen and impoverished avant-garde painter or novelistdoes not.  Meta-comedy is not pretty, but boy its rewards are!

Science dorks

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Suppose you’re trying to teach basic arithmetic to someone who has gotten it into his head that the whole subject is “unscientific,” on the grounds that it is non-empirical.  With apologies to the famous Mr. Parker (pictured at left), let’s call him “Peter.”  Peter’s obviously not too bright, but he thinks he is very bright since he has internet access and skims a lot of Wikipedia articles about science.  Indeed, he proudly calls himself a “science dork.”  Patiently, albeit through gritted teeth, you try to get him to see that two and two really do make four.  Imagine it goes like this:

You: OK, Peter, let’s try again.  Suppose you’re in the garden and you see two worms crawling around.  Then two more worms crawl over.  How many worms do you have now?

Peter: “Crawling” means moving around on your hands and knees.  Worms don’t have hands and knees, so they don’t “crawl.”  They have hair-like projections called setae which make contact with the soil, and their bodies are moved by two sets of muscles, an outer layer called the circular muscles and an inner layer known as the longitudinal muscles.  Alternation between these muscles causes a series of expansions and contractions of the worm’s body.

You: That’s all very impressive, butyou know what I meant, Peter, and the specific way worms move around is completely irrelevant in any case.  The point is that you’d have four worms.

Peter: Science is irrelevant, huh?  Well, do you drive a car?  Use a cell phone?  Go to the doctor?  Science made all that possible.

You: Yes, fine, but what does that have to do with the subject at hand?  What I mean is that how worms move is irrelevant to how many worms you’d have in the example.  You’d have four wormsThat’s true whatever science ends up telling us about worms.

Peter: You obviously don’t know anything about science.  If you divide a planarian flatworm, it will grow into two new individual flatworms.  So, if that’s the kind of worm we’re talking about, then if you have two worms and then add two more, you might end up with five worms, or even more than five.  So much for this a priori “arithmetic” stuff. 

You: That’s a ridiculous argument!  If you’ve got only two worms and add another two worms, that gives you four worms, period.  That one of those worms might later go on to be divided in two doesn’t change that!

Peter: Are you denying the empirical evidence about how flatworms divide?

You: Of course not.  I’m saying that that empirical evidence simply doesn’t show what you think it does

Peter: This is well-confirmed science.  What motivation could you possibly have for rejecting what we know about the planarian flatworm, apart from a desperate attempt to avoid falsification of your precious “arithmetic”? 

You: Peter, I think you might need a hearing aid.  I just got done saying that I don’t reject it.  I’m saying that it has no bearing one way or the other on this particular question of whether two and two make four.  Whether we’re counting planarian flatworms or Planters peanuts is completely irrelevant.

Peter: So arithmetic is unfalsifiable.  Unlike scientific claims, for which you can give rational arguments.

You: That’s a false choice.  The whole point is that argumentation of the sort that characterizes empirical science is not the only kind of rational argumentation.  For example, if I can show by reductio ad absurdum that your denial of some claim of arithmetic is false, then I’ve given a rational justification of that claim.

Peter: No, because you haven’t offered any empirical evidence.

You: You’ve just blatantly begged the question!  Whether all rational argumentation involves the mustering of empirical evidence is precisely what’s at issue.

Peter: So you say now.  But earlier you gave the worm example as an argument for the claim that two and two make four.  You appeal to empirical evidence when it suits you and then retreat into unfalsifiability when that evidence goes against you.

You: You completely misunderstand the nature of arithmetical claims. They’re not empirical claims in the same sense that claims about flatworm physiology are.  But that doesn’t mean that they have no relevance to the empirical world.  Given that it’s a necessary truth that two and two make four, naturally you are going to find that when you observe two worms crawl up beside two other worms, there will be four worms there.  But that’s not “empirical evidence” in the sense that laboratory results are empirical evidence.  It’s rather an illustration of something that is going to be the case whatever the specific empirical facts turn out to be.

Peter: See, every time I call attention to the scientific evidence that refutes your silly “arithmetic,” you claim that I “just don’t understand” it. Well, I understand it well enough.  It’s all about trying to figure out flatworms and other things science tells us about, but by appealing to intuitions or word games about “necessary truth” or just making stuff up.  It’s imaginary science.  What we need is real, empirical science, like physics.

You: That makes no sense at all.  Physics presupposes arithmetic!  How the hell do you think physicists do their calculations?

Peter: Whatever.  Because science.  Because I @#$%&*! love science.

The Peter principle

Now, replace Peter’s references to “arithmetic” with “metaphysics” and you get the sort of New Atheist type who occasionally shows up in the comboxes here triumphantly to “refute” the argument from motion (say) with something cribbed from The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Physics.  And like Peter, these critics are, despite their supreme self-confidence, in fact utterly clueless about the nature of the ideas they are attacking.

Like arithmetic, the key metaphysical ideas that underlie Aristotelian-Thomistic arguments for God’s existence -- the theory of act and potency, the principle of causality, the principle of finality, and so forth -- certainly have implications for what we observe in the empirical world, but, equally certainly, they are not going to be falsified by anything we observe in the empirical world.  And like arithmetic, this in no way makes them any less rationally defensible than the claims of empirical science are.  On the contrary, and once again like arithmetic, they are presupposedby any possible empirical science. 

That by no means entails that empirical science is irrelevant to metaphysics and philosophy of nature.  But how it is relevant must be properly understood.  How we apply general metaphysical principles to various specific empirical phenomena is something to which a knowledge of physics, chemistry, biology, etc. is absolutely essential.  The metaphysical facts about the essence of water specifically, or the nature of local motion specifically, or bacterial physiology specifically are not going to be determined from the armchair.  But the most general metaphysical principles themselves are not matters for empirical science to settle, precisely because they concern what must be true if there is to be any empirical world, and thus any empirical science, in the first place.

Hence, consider hylemorphism.  Should we think of water as a compound of substantial form and prime matter?  Or should we think of it as an aggregate of substances, and thus as having a merely accidental form that configures secondary matter?  The empirical facts about water are highly relevant to this sort of question.  However, whether the distinctions between substantial and accidental form and prime versus secondary matter have application at all in the empirical world is not something that can possibly be settled by empirical science.  In short, whether hylemorphism as a general framework is correct is a question for metaphysics and philosophy of nature, not for empirical science; but how the hylemorphic analysis gets applied to specific cases is very definitely a question for empirical science.

Or consider the principle of finality.  Should we think of sublunar bodies as naturally “directed toward” movement toward the center of the earth, specifically, as Aristotle thought?  Or, following Newton, should we say that there is no difference between the movements toward which sublunar and superlunar bodies are naturally “directed,” and nothing special about movement toward the center the earth specifically?  The empirical facts as uncovered by physics and astronomy are highly relevant to this sort of question.  However, whether there is any immanent finality or “directedness” at all in nature is not something that can possibly be settled by physical science.  In short, whether the principle of finality is correct is a question for metaphysics and philosophy of nature, not for empirical science; but how that principle gets applied to specific cases is very definitely a question for empirical science.

Or consider the principle of causality, according to which any potential that is actualized is actualized by something already actual.  Should we think of the local motion of a projectile as violent, or as natural insofar as it is inertial?  Should we think of inertial motion as a real change, the actualization of a potential?  Or should we think of it as a “state”?  Howwe characterize the cause of such local motions will be deeply influenced by how we answer questions like these (which I’ve discussed in detail hereand elsewhere), and thus by physics.  But whether there is some sort of cause is not something that can possibly be settled by physics.  In short, whether the principle of causality is true is a question for metaphysics and philosophy of nature, not for empirical science; but how that principle gets applied to specific cases is very definitely a question for empirical science.

Why the theory of act and potency, the principle of causality, the principle of finality, hylemorphism, essentialism, etc. must be presupposed by any possible physical science, is something I have addressed many times, and at greatest length and in greatest depth in Scholastic Metaphysics.  The point to emphasize for present purposes is that the arguments for God’s existence one finds in classical (Neoplatonic/Aristotelian/Scholastic) philosophy, such as Aquinas’s Five Ways, rest on general metaphysical principles like these, and not on any specific claims in physics, biology, etc.  Hence when examples of natural phenomena are used in expositions of the arguments -- such as the example of a hand using a stick to move a stone, often used in expositions of the First Way -- one completely misunderstands the nature of the arguments if one raises quibbles from physics about the details of the examples, because nothing essential to the arguments rides on those details.  The examples are meant merely as illustrations of deeper metaphysical principles that necessarily hold whatever the empirical details turn out to be. 

For example, years ago I had an atheist reader who was obsessed with the idea that there is a slight time lag between the motion of the stick that moves the stone, and the motion of the stone itself, as if this had devastating implications for Aquinas’ First Way.  This is like Peter’s supposition that the biology of planarian flatworms is relevant to evaluating whether two and two make four.  It completely misses the point, completely misunderstands the nature of the issues at hand.  Yet no matter how many times you explain this to certain New Atheist types, they just keep repeating the same tired, irrelevant physics trivia, like a moth that keeps banging into the window thinking it’s going to get through it next time. 

Of course, often these “science dorks” don’t in fact really know all that much science.  They are not, after all, really interested in science per se, but rather in what they falsely perceive to be a useful cudgel with which to beat philosophy and theology.  But even when they do know some science, they don’t understandit as well as they think they do, because they don’t understand the nature of an empirical scientific claim, as opposed to a metaphysical or philosophical claim.  Just as someone who not only listens to a lot of music but also knows some music theory is going to understand music better than the person who merely listens to a lot of it, so too the person who knows both philosophy and science is going to understand science better than the person who knows only science.

Vince Torley, the Science Guy

Anyway, it turns out that you needn’t be a New Atheist, or indeed even an atheist at all, to deploy the inept “Peter”-style objection.  You might have another motivation -- say, if you’re an “Intelligent Design” publicist who is really, reallysteamed at some longtime Thomist critic of ID, and keen to “throw the kitchen sink” at him in the hope that something finally sticks.  Case in point: our old pal Vincent Torley, whose characteristic “ready, fire, aim” style of argument we saw on display in a recent exchange over matters related to ID.  In a follow-up post, Torley devotes what amounts to 15 single-spaced pages to what he evidently thinks is a massive take-down of the version of the Aristotelian argument from motion (the first of Aquinas’s Five Ways) that I presented in a talk which can be found at Vimeo.  (Longtime readers will note that verbose as 15 single-spaced pages sounds for a blog post, it’s actually relatively short for the notoriously logorrheic Mr. Torley.)

Now, what does that argument have to do with ID or the other issues discussed in our recent exchange?  Well, nothing, of course.  But his motivation for attacking it is clear enough from some of the remarks Torley makes in the post, especially when read in light of some historical context.  A quick search at Uncommon Descent (an ID site to which Torley regularly contributes, and where this new post appears) reveals that over the last four years or so, Torley has written at least fifteen (!) Torley-length posts criticizing various things I’ve said, usually about ID but sometimes about other, unrelated matters.  (And no, that’s not counting the occasional positive post he’s written about me, nor is it counting critical posts written about me by other UD contributors.  Nor is it counting the many lengthy comments critical of me that Torley has posted over the years in various comboxes, both here at my blog and elsewhere.)  An uncharitable reader might conclude that Torley has some kind of bee in his bonnet.  A charitable reader might conclude pretty much the same thing.

Now, how Torley wants to spend his time is his business, and I’m flattered by the attention.  The trouble is that he always seems to think he has scored some devastating point, and gets annoyed when I don’t acknowledge or respond to it.  In fact, as my longtime readers know from experience, Torley regularly just gets things wrong -- and, again, at unbelievable, mind-numbing length.  (You’ll recall that the last blog post of his to which I replied alone came to 42 single-spaced pages.)  There is only so much of one’s life that one can devote to reading and responding to tedious misrepresentations set out in prolix and ephemeral blog posts.  As I don’t need to tell most readers, I’ve got an extremely hectic writing and teaching schedule, not to mention a wife, six children, and other family members who have a claim on my time.  For some bizarre reason there is a steady stream of people who seem to think this means that I simply must have the time to respond to whatever treatise they’ve written up over the weekend, when common sense should have made it clear that this is precisely the reverse of the truth.  In Torley’s case, while I did reply to some of his early responses to my criticisms of ID, in recent years I simply haven’t had the time, nor -- as his remarks have become ever more frequent, long-winded, occasionally shrill, and manifestly designed to try to get attention -- the patience either. 

This evidently irks him, which brings us back to his recent remarks about my defense of a First Way-style argument.  Four years ago Torley expressed the view that “Professor Feser[‘s]… ability to articulate and defend Aquinas’ Five Ways to a 21st century audience is matchless.”  Three years ago he advised an atheist blogger: “I would also urge you to read Professor Edward Feser’s book, Aquinas.  It’s about the best defense of Aristotelian Thomism that you are ever likely to read, it’s less than 200 pages long, and its arguments merit very serious consideration. You would be ill-advised to dismiss it out of hand.”  Fast forward to the present and Torley’s attitude is mysteriously different.  Nowhe assures us, in this latest post, that “the holes in Feser’s logic are sowide that anyone could drive a truck through them” and that the argument “contains so many obvious logical errors that I could not in all good conscience recommend showing it to atheists” (!)

Now, Torley is well aware that the argument I presented in the video is merely a popularized version -- presented before an audience of non-philosophers, and where I had a time limit -- of the same argument I defended in my book on Aquinas.  And yet though four years ago he said that my “ability to articulate and defend” that argument is “matchless,” today he says that the “holes” in the argument are “so wide that anyone could drive a truck through them”!  Three years ago he told an atheist that what I said in that book (including, surely, what I said about the First Way) is “about the best defense of Aristotelian Thomism that you are ever likely to read” and that atheists “would be ill-advised to dismiss it out of hand”; today he says he “could not in all good conscience recommend showing [Feser’s argument] to atheists”!

What has changed in the intervening years?  Well, for one thing, while I am still critical of ID, I no longer bother replying to most of what Torley writes.  Hence his complaint in this latest post that “Feser has yet to respond to my critique of his revamped version of Aquinas’ Fifth Way.”  Evidently Torley thinks some score-settling is in order.  He writes:

[I]f the argument [presented in the Vimeo talk] fails, Feser, who has ridiculed Intelligent Design proponents for years for making use of probabilistic arguments, will have to publicly eat his words… (emphasis in the original)

To be sure, Torley adds the following:

Let me state up-front that I am not claiming in this post that Aquinas’ cosmological argument is invalid; on the contrary, I consider it to be a deeply insightful argument, and I would warmly recommend Professor R. C. Koons’ paper, A New Look at the Cosmological Argument… I note, by the way, that Professor Koons is a Thomist who defends the legitimacy of Intelligent Design arguments. (emphasis in the original)

So, it isn’t the argument itself that is bad, but just my presentation of it -- even though Torley himself has praised my earlier presentations of it!  Apparently, the key to giving a good First Way-style argument is this: If in your other work you “defend the legitimacy of Intelligent Design arguments,” then your take on Aquinas is to be “warmly recommended.”  But if you have “ridiculed Intelligent Design proponents for years,” then even if your take on Aquinas is otherwise “matchless,” you must be made to “publicly eat your words.”  It seems that for Torley, what matters at the end of the day when evaluating the work of a fellow theist is whether he is on board with IDID über alles.  (And Torley has the nerve to accuse meof a “My way or the highway” attitude!)

Certainly it is hard otherwise to explain Torley’s shameless flouting of the principle of charity.  Torley surely knows that the presentation of the argument to which he is responding is a popular version, presented before a lay audience, where I had an hour-long time limit.  He knows that given those constraints I could not possibly have given a thorough presentation of the argument or answered every possible objection.  He knows that I have presented the argument in a more academic style in various places, such as in Aquinas and in my ACPQ article “Existential Inertia and the Five Ways.”  He knows that I have answered various objections to my version of the argument both in those writings and in a great many blog posts.  Yet his method is essentially to ignore all that and focus just on what I say in the video itself.

And sure enough, in good “science dork” fashion, Torley complains that the examples I use in the talk “are marred by faulty science.”  Hence, in response to my remark that a desk which holds up a cup is able to do so only because it is in turn being held up by the earth, Torley, like a central casting New Atheist combox troll, starts to channel Bill Nye the Science Guy:

How does the desk hold the coffee cup up? From a physicist’s point of view, it would be better to ask: why doesn’t the cup fall through the desk? In a nutshell, there’s a force, related to a system’s effort to get rid of potential energy, that pushes the atoms in the cup and the atoms in the desk away from each other, once they get very close together.  The Earth has nothing to do with the desk’s power to act in this way…

In any case, the desk doesn’t keep the coffee cup “up,” so much as away: the atoms comprising the wood of which the desk is made keep the atoms in the cup from getting too close…

[Etc. etc.]

Well, after reading what I said above, you know what is wrong with this.  And Torley should know it too, because he is a regular reader of this blog and I’ve made the same point many times (e.g. here, here, here, here, and here).  The point, again, is that the scientific details of the specific examples used to illustrate the metaphysical principles underlying Thomistic arguments for God’s existence are completely irrelevant.  In the case at hand, the example of the cup being held up by the desk which is in turn being held up by the earth was intended merely to introduce, for a lay audience, the technical notion of an essentially ordered series of actualizers of potentiality.  Once that notion is understood, the specific example used to illustrate it drops out as inessential.  The notion has application whatever the specific physical details turn out to be.  When a physicist illustrates a point by asking us to imagine what we would experience if we fell into a black hole or rode on a beam of light, no one thinks it clever to respond that photons are too small to sit on or that we would be ripped apart by gravity before we made it into the black hole.  Torley’s tiresomely pedantic and point-missing objection is no better.

Anyway, that’s what Torley says in the first section of his 15 single-spaced page opus.  Torley writes:

For the record, I will not be retracting anything I say in this post. Professor Feser may try to accuse me of misrepresenting his argument, but readers can view the video for themselves and see that I have set it out with painstaking clarity.

…as if stubbornly refusing to listen to a potential criticism somehow inoculates him in advance against it!

Well, don’t worry Vince, I won’t be accusing you of misrepresenting me in whatever it is you have to say in the remainder of this latest post of yours.  I haven’t bothered to read it.

Della Rocca on PSR

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The principle of sufficient reason (PSR), in a typical Neo-Scholastic formulation, states that “there is a sufficient reason or adequate necessary objective explanation for the being of whatever is and for all attributes of any being” (Bernard Wuellner, Dictionary of Scholastic Philosophy, p. 15).  I discuss and defend PSR at some length in Scholastic Metaphysics (see especially pp. 107-8 and 137-46).  Prof. Michael Della Roccadefends the principle in his excellent article “PSR,”which appeared in Philosopher’s Imprintin 2010 but which (I’m embarrassed to say) I only came across the other day.

Among the arguments for PSR I put forward in Scholastic Metaphysics are a retorsion argument to the effect that if PSR were false, we could have no reason to trust the deliverances of our cognitive faculties, including any grounds we might have for doubting or denying PSR; and an argument to the effect that a critic of PSR cannot coherently accept even the scientific explanations he does accept, unless he acknowledges that there are no brute facts and thus that PSR is true.  Della Rocca’s argument bears a family resemblance to this second line of argument.

Della Rocca notes, first, that even among philosophers who reject PSR, philosophical theses are often defended by recourse to what he calls “explicability arguments.”  An explicability argument (I’ll use the abbreviation EA from here on out) is an argument to the effect that we have grounds for denying that a certain state of affairs obtains if it would be inexplicable or a “brute fact.”  Della Rocca offers a number of examples of this strategy.  When physicalist philosophers of mind defend some reductionist account of consciousness on the grounds that consciousness would (they say) otherwise be inexplicable, they are deploying an EA.  When early modern advocates of the “mechanical philosophy” rejected (their caricature of) the Aristotelian notion of substantial forms, they did so on the grounds that the notion was insufficiently explanatory.  When philosophers employ inductive reasoning they are essentially rejecting the claim that the future will not be relevantly like the past nor the unobserved like the observed, on the grounds that this would make future and otherwise unobserved phenomena inexplicable.  And so forth.  (Della Rocca cites several other specific examples from contemporary philosophy -- in discussions about the metaphysics of dispositions, personal identity, causation, and modality -- wherein EAs are deployed.)

Now, Della Rocca allows that to appeal to an EA does not by itself commit one to PSR.  But suppose we apply the EA approach to the question of why things exist.  Whatever we end up thinking the correct answer to this question is -- it doesn’t matter for purposes of Della Rocca’s argument -- if we deploy an EA in defense of it we will implicitly be committing ourselves to PSR, he says, because PSR just is the claim that the existence of anything must have an explanation.

In responding to these different examples of EAs, one could, says Della Rocca, take one of three options:

(1) Hold that some EAs are legitimate kinds of argument, while others -- in particular, any EA for some claim about why things exist at all -- are not legitimate.

(2) Hold that no EA for any conclusion is legitimate.

(3) Hold that all EAs, including any EA for a claim about the sheer existence of things, are legitimate kinds of argument.

Now, the critic of PSR cannot take option (3), because that would, in effect, be to accept PSR.  Nor could any critic of PSR who applies EAs in defense of other claims -- and the EA approach is, as Della Rocca notes, a standard move in contemporary philosophy (and indeed, in science) -- take option (2).

So that leaves (1).  The trouble, though, is that there doesn’t seem to be any non-question-begging way of defending option (1).  For why should we believe that EAs are legitimate in other cases, but not when giving some account of the sheer existence of things?  It seems arbitrary to allow the one sort of EA but not the other sort.  The critic of PSR cannot respond by saying that it is just a brute fact that some kinds of EAs are legitimate and others are not, because this would beg the question against PSR, which denies that there are any brute facts.  Nor would it do for the critic to say that it is just intuitively plausible to hold that EAs are illegitimate in the case of explaining the sheer existence of things, since Della Rocca’s point is that the critic’s acceptance of EAs in other domains casts doubt on the reliability of this particular intuition.  Hence an appeal to intuition would also beg the question.

So, Della Rocca’s argument is that there seems no cogent way to accept EAs at all without accepting PSR.  The implication seems to be that we can have no good reason to think anythingis explicable unless we also admit that everythingis.

Naturally, I agree with this.  Indeed, I think Della Rocca, if anything, concedes too much to the critic of PSR.  In particular, he allows that while it would be “extremely problematic” for someone to bite the bullet and take option (2), it may not be “logically incoherent” to do so.  But this doesn’t seem correct to me.  Even if the critic of PSR decides to reject the various specific examples of EAs cited by Della Rocca -- EAs concerning various claims about consciousness, modality, personal identity, etc. -- the critic will still make use of various patterns of reasoning he considers formally valid or inductively strong, will reject patterns of reasoning he considers fallacious, etc.  And he will do so precisely because these principles of logic embody standards of intelligibility or explanatory adequacy.

To be sure, it is a commonplace in logic that not all explanations are arguments, and it is also sometimes claimed (less plausibly, I think) that not all arguments are explanations.  However, certainly many arguments are explanations.  What Aristotelians call “explanatory demonstrations” (e.g. a syllogism like All rational animals are capable of language, all men are rational animals, so all men are capable of language) are explanations.  Arguments to the best explanation are explanations, and as Della Rocca notes, inductive reasoning in general seems to presuppose that things have explanations.

So, to give up EAs of any sort (option (2)) would seem to be to give up the very practice of argumentation itself, or at least much of it.  Needless to say, it is hard to see how that could fail to be logically incoherent, at least if one tries to defend one’s rejection of PSR with arguments.  Hence, to accept the general practice of giving arguments while nevertheless rejecting EAs of the specific sorts Della Rocca gives as examples would really be to take Della Rocca’s option (1) rather than option (2).

Della Rocca also considers some common objections to PSR.  In response to the claim that PSR is incompatible with quantum mechanics, Della Rocca refers the reader to Alex Pruss’s response to such objections in his book The Principle of Sufficient Reason, but also makes the point that appealing to QM by itself simply does nothing to rebut his own argument for PSR.  For even if a critic of PSR thinks it incompatible with QM, he still owes us an answer to the question of where we are supposed to draw the line between legitimate EA arguments and illegitimate ones, and why we should draw it precisely where the critic says we should.  (For my own response to QM-based objections, see pp. 122-27 and 142 of Scholastic Metaphysics.)

Della Rocca also considers an objection raised by philosophers like Peter van Inwagen and Jonathan Bennett to the effect that PSR entails necessitarianism, the bizarre claim that all truths, including apparently contingent ones, are really necessary truths.  Della Rocca thinks van Inwagen and Bennett are probably right, but suggests that the defender of PSR could simply bite the bullet and accept necessitarianism, as Spinoza notoriously did.  And in that case, to reject Della Rocca’s argument for PSR on the grounds that necessitarianism is false would just be to beg the question.

Here again I think Della Rocca concedes too much.  As I argue in Scholastic Metaphysics(pp. 140-41), objections like the one raised by van Inwagen and Bennett presuppose that propositions are among the things PSR says require an explanation, and that for an explanans to be a sufficient reason for an explanandum involves its logically entailing the explanandum.  But while rationalist versions of PSR might endorse these assumptions, the Thomist understanding of PSR does not.

Della Rocca also remarks: 

I suspect that many of you simply will not see the force of the challenge that I am issuing to the non-rationalist. (I speak here from long experience, experience that prompted me to call my endeavor here quixotic.)  Philosophers tend to be pretty cavalier in their use of explicability arguments -- using them when doing so suits their purposes, refusing to use them otherwise, and more generally, failing to investigate how their various attitudes toward explicability arguments hang together, if they hang together at all.  We philosophers -- in our slouching fashion! -- are comfortable with a certain degree of unexamined arbitrariness in our use of explicability arguments.  But my point is that a broader perspective on our practices with regard to explicability arguments reveals that there is a genuine tension in the prevalent willingness to use some explicability arguments and to reject others. 

Amen to that.  As with the urban legend about First Cause arguments resting on the premise that “everything has a cause,” the notion that the PSR is a relic, long ago refuted, is a mere prejudice that a certain kind of academic philosopher stubbornly refuses to examine.  It doesn’t matter how strong is an argument you give for PSR; he will remain unmoved.  He “already knows” there must be something wrong with it, because, after all, don’t most members of “the profession” think so? 

Why, it’s almost as if such philosophers don’t wantthe PSR to be true, and thus would rather not have their prejudice against it disturbed.  Can’t imagine why that might be, can you?

Some related posts: 

Marmodoro on PSR and PC

Nagel and his critics, Part VI [on rationalism, PSR, and the principle of causality]

Could a theist deny PSR?

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We’ve been talking about the principle of sufficient reason (PSR).  It plays a key role in some arguments for the existence of God, which naturally gives the atheist a motivation to deny it.  But there are also theists who deny it.  Is this a coherent position?  I’m not asking whether a theist could coherently reject some versions of PSR.  Of course a theist could do so.  Ireject some versions of PSR.  But could a theist reject all versions?  Could a theist reject PSR as such?   Suppose that any version of PSR worthy of the name must entail that there are no “brute facts” -- no facts that are in principle unintelligible, no facts for which there is not even in principle an explanation.  (The “in principle” here is important -- that there might be facts that our minds happen to be too limited to grasp is not in question.)  Could a theist coherently deny that?
 
I don’t think so, certainly not on a Thomistic or other classical theist conception of God.  For suppose there are “brute facts.”  Either they would be facts about God or they would be facts about something other than God.  But surely no facts of the latter sort could be “brute facts” if theism is true.  For if some fact about something other than God was a brute fact, that would entail that it had no cause, no explanation, no source of intelligibility of any sort.  That would entail, among other things, that it did not have Godas a cause, explanation, or source of its intelligibility.  Hence it would be something which does not depend on God for its being.  And that would conflict with the classical theist position that (as the First Vatican Council puts it) “the world and allthings which are contained in it, both spiritual and material, were produced, according to their whole substance, out of nothing by God” (emphasis added).

But couldn’t a theist hold that while there are no brute facts concerning anything other than God, there are brute facts concerning God himself?  Could he not say that God’s existence is a brute fact, or that God’s having a certain attribute is a brute fact? 

Again, not on a classical theist conception of God.  Suppose God is, as Aristotelians hold, pure actuality with no potentiality; or that he is, as Thomists hold, subsistent being itself.  Then he exists of absolute necessity, and thus has his sufficient reason in his own nature, and thus is not a “brute fact.”  So, to make God’s existence out to be a brute fact, one will have to deny that he is pure actuality or subsistent being itself.  That entails that he is a mixture of actuality and potentiality, and of an essence together with a distinct “act of existence” (to use the Thomist jargon).  But that in turn entails that he is composite rather than absolutely simple.  And that is incompatible with the classical theist position that divine simplicity is essential to theism, as well as with the de fide teaching of the Catholic Church (declared at the First Vatican Council as well as at the Fourth Lateran Council) that God is simple or non-composite.  Even to say that while God exists necessarily, his having some particular attribute is a “brute fact,” would also conflict with divine simplicity.  For if his having the attribute is a brute fact, then he does not have it necessarily but only contingently.  (If he had it necessarily, it would follow from his nature and for that reason would not be a brute fact.)  But if he is necessary while the attribute in question is contingent, then it is distinct from him and thus he is composite and not simple.

Nor, as it cannot be emphasized too strongly, is divine simplicity some eccentricity the classical theist arbitrarily tacks on to theism.  It is at the very core of the logic of theism.  If God were composite then it would make sense to ask how it is that his component parts -- act and potency, essence and existence, substance and attributes, or whatever -- happen to be combined together to form the composite.  It would make sense to ask “What caused God?,” in which case we would not really be talking about God anymore, because we would no longer be talking about the ultimatesource of things.  Even if it were suggested that “God” so conceived has no cause and that it is just a “brute fact” or a matter of sheer chance that the composite exists, we will for that very reason be talking about something that couldin principle have had a cause and might not have existed.  Why anyone would want to call that “God” I have no idea; certainly it bears no relationship to what classical theists mean by “God,” and by virtue of being composite, contingent, etc. it would in fact be the sort of thing classical theists would regard as creaturely rather than the Creator.  You might as well worship the Flying Spaghetti Monster.

So, just as PSR leads to theism, theism leads to PSR.  There is no circularity here, because one could accept PSR even if he didn’t think it leads to theism, and it takes additional premises to get from PSR to theism in any case.  But there is a natural affinity between the views, and this affinity shows how very far away from reality is the stupid caricature of theism as somehow irrationalist.  On the contrary, to see the world as intelligible or rational through and through is implicitly to be a (classical) theist, and to be a (classical) theist is implicitly to see the world as intelligible or rational through and through.  And by the same token, despite the rhetoric of its loudest contemporary proponents, atheism is implicitly irrationalist insofar as it must deny PSR so as to avoid theism. (More on these themes in some of the posts linked to at the end of the previous post.)

Nudge nudge, wink wink

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Suppose you go out on a blind date and a friend asks you how it went.  You pause and then answer flatly, with a slight smirk: “Well, I liked the restaurant.”  There is nothing in the literal meaning of the sentence you’ve uttered, considered all by itself, that states or implies anything negative about the person you went out with, or indeed anything at all about the person.  Still, given the context, you’ve said something insulting.  You’ve “sent the message” that you liked the restaurant but notthe person.  Or suppose you show someone a painting and when asked what he thinks, he responds: “I like the frame.”  The sentence by itself doesn’t imply that the painting is bad, but the overall speech act certainly conveys that message all the same.  Each of these is an example of what H. P. Grice famously called an implicature, and they illustrate how what a speaker says in a communicative act ought not to be confused with what his words mean.  Obviously there is a relationship between the two, but they are not always identical.

Implicatures can be used to mislead someone without lying to him (and as I have argued in previous posts, such mental reservations can sometimes be morally justifiable).  But as the example just given indicates, they can also be used to “say something without saying it.”  And sometimes they can do double duty.  Suppose a second friend is also present when the first one asks you how the date went, but that this second friend knows the person you went on the date with and you don’t want him to know what you really think.  Suppose also, though, that he is a bit naïve.  If you say “I liked the restaurant,” this time with a little enthusiasm and without the pause or smirk, the first friend might still “get the message” that you didn’t like the person, while the second friend might think you had a good time.

Implicature, sexual morality, and politics

In his 1984 essay “Why Homosexuality is Abnormal,” Michael Levin applies Grice’s notion of implicature to an analysis of the decriminalization of homosexual acts, and other liberal policies vis-à-vis homosexuality.  (The essay originally appeared in The Monist and has been reprinted in several anthologies, such as the third edition of Alan Soble’s The Philosophy of Sex.)  As you can guess from the title, Levin holds that such acts are bad (on sociobiological rather than theological or natural law grounds, as it happens).  But it is worth emphasizing that his application of Grice does not stand or fall with whether or not you agree with him about that.  Levin’s claim is that liberal policies cannot, given our cultural circumstances, be neutralconcerning homosexuality.  They will inevitably “send a message” of approval rather than mere neutrality or indifference.  The essay is thirty years old, and it goes without saying that in the age of “same-sex marriage” things have gone considerably beyond mere decriminalization (which has been a dead issue legally since Lawrence v. Texas).  But his remarks are if anything only more plausible as an analysis of the effects of policies currently being pushed.  Here is what he says:

[L]egislation “legalizing homosexuality” cannot be neutral because passing it would have an inexpungeable speech-act dimension.  Society cannot grant unaccustomed rights and privileges to homosexuals while remaining neutral about the value of homosexuality.  Working from the assumption that society rests on the family and its consequences, the Judaeo-Christian tradition has deemed homosexuality a sin and withheld many privileges from homosexuals.  Whether or not such denial was right, for our society to grant these privileges to homosexuals now would amount to declaring that it has rethought the matter and decided that homosexuality is not as bad as it had previously supposed…  Someone who suddenly accepts a policy he has previously opposed is open to the… interpretation [that] he has come to think better of the policy.  And if he embraces the policy while knowing that this interpretation will be put on his behavior, and if he knows that others know that he knows they will so interpret it, he is acquiescing in this interpretation.  He can be held to have intended, meant, this interpretation.  A society that grants privileges to homosexuals while recognizing that, in the light of generally known history, this act can be interpreted as a positive re-evaluation of homosexuality, is signalling that it now thinks homosexuality is all right… What homosexual rights activists really want [from anti-discrimination laws] is not [merely] access to jobs but legitimation of their homosexuality.  Since this is known, giving them what they want will be seen as conceding their claim to legitimacy.  And since legislators know their actions will support this interpretation, and know that their constituencies know they know this, the Gricean effect or symbolic meaning of passing anti-discrimination ordinances is to declare homosexuality legitimate…

Legislation permitting frisbees in the park does not imply approval of frisbees for the simple reason that frisbees are new; there is no tradition of banning them from parks. The legislature's action in permitting frisbees is not interpretable, known to be interpretable, and so on, as the reversal of long-standing disapproval.  It is because these Gricean conditions are met in the case of abortion that legislation -- or rather judicial fiat-- permitting abortions and mandating their public funding are widely interpreted as tacit approval.  Up to now, society has deemed homosexuality so harmful that restricting it outweighs putative homosexual rights.  If society reverses itself, it will in effect be deciding that homosexuality is not as bad as it once thought.  (pp. 119-20 of Soble)

Whether or not this was a plausible bit of Gricean analysis in 1984, it is surely plausible now.  “Same-sex marriage” and antidiscrimination laws are now routinely defended, not on grounds of neutrality, but on the basis of the decidedly non-neutral judgment that moral (or any other) disapproval of homosexuality can only possibly stem from bigotry, ignorance, religious fanaticism, or plain mean-spiritedness.  As Justice Scalia famously complained, opponents of “same-sex marriage” are now treated as if they were the “enemies of the human race,” and their defeat is widely regarded both as a moral imperative and the inevitable next stage in the progress of civilization.  Meanwhile, whether out of fear, lack of conviction, or both, the most prominent conservatives don’t even bother to address the fundamental moral question anymore, but feebly retreat into considerations of secondary importance, such as federalism or judicial activism.  And even then, everything they say is hedged with panicky assurances of their tolerance and compassion.  The moralistic fervor is now all on the liberal side, and as any serious conservative should know, you cannot beat moralism with quibbles about procedure.

So, the “dominant narrative” on the pro-“same-sex marriage” side is: “We have the moral high ground, history is on our side, and conservatives’ retreat from the moral field, desperate resort to secondary issues, and semi-apologetic, defensive presentation show that deep down they know it’s true.”  Now, judges, lawmakers, and political candidates know that this is the “dominant narrative,” and they know that “same-sex marriage” advocates and society at large know that they know it.  They know also that endorsement of “same-sex marriage,” or even just surrender to it where it is imposed, will be widely interpreted as an acknowledgement that that narrative is correct.  So, under these circumstances, endorsement or surrender will inevitably “send the message” that that narrative is correct, and thus that disapproval of homosexuality has no rational basis, and thus that no one should disapprove of homosexuality.  Of course, a sentence like “’Same-sex marriage’ should be legalized,” considered in isolation, doesn’t entail all that, but that is irrelevant.  The point is that that is nevertheless the Gricean implicatureof such an endorsement or surrender, given circumstances now and for the foreseeable future. 

Now as Grice points out, an implicature can be “cancelled.”  Suppose that after saying “I liked the restaurant” you added, with a smile: “And I really liked [her, him]!” Whereas the first utterance by itself gave the impression that you did not like the person you were out with, that message would be cancelled by this addition.  The implicature associated under current circumstances with an endorsement or surrender on “same-sex marriage” could also be cancelled -- for instance, if a public official who endorsed or surrendered to it explicitly repudiated the “dominant narrative.”  For example, suppose a candidate for political office in a state in which “same-sex marriage” was imposed by the judiciary declined to support a challenge to it either in the courts or the legislature, and explained his position by saying: “I don’t think there’s any way to reverse ‘same-sex marriage’ in this state given public opinion and the makeup of the appeals courts.  But I am utterly opposed to it and would reverse it in a second if I thought that was possible.”  Whatever the merits of this position, it would cancel the implicature that the surrender to “same-sex marriage” would otherwise have.  However, if a politician repeatedly declined to say or do anything that would cancel the implicature, the implicature would if anything only be reinforced.  It will also be reinforced if the only public remarks the politician ever makes about homosexuality and related matters are positive – calls for tolerance and compassion, condemnations of workplace discrimination, etc.

Note that such a politician would not actually have to believe the “dominant narrative” in order for the implicature to be reinforced.  He may decline to cancel the implicature out of naivete, cynical calculation, or cowardice rather than out of conviction.  But he will nevertheless have “sent the message” that the “dominant narrative“ is correct, even if he thinks it is not correct.  And it would be silly for him to claim otherwise by saying (in private): “All I’ve done is to decline trying to roll back ‘same-sex marriage’ and endorsed being civil to fellow citizens who happen to be homosexual.  There is nothing in that by itself that entails that I think homosexual acts are morally justifiable or that I agree that critics of ‘same-sex marriage’ really are bigots!”  That is true, but irrelevant.  The meaning of the sentences he’s uttered, considered in isolation, might not entail all that, but that is simply not the only thing that determines an implicature. 

Implicature, sexual morality, and Catholicism

Now, what goes for politicians goes for churchmen.  It is part of the “dominant narrative” that the opposition of the Catholic Church and other Christian bodies to homosexual acts is, like  such opposition more generally, rooted in ignorance and bigotry, without rational foundation, and ought to be given up.  Bishops and other churchmen know that this is the “dominant narrative,” and they know that homosexual rights activists and society at large know that they know it.  Hence when they make statements that accentuate the positive vis-à-vis homosexuality (emphasizing inclusiveness, condemning discrimination, etc.) and/or imply that the Church has historically been too harsh or put too much emphasis on the issue -- while at the same time saying little or nothing clearly to reaffirm the traditional condemnation of homosexual acts -- the implicature, the message that is sent, is that there is truth in the “dominant narrative.” 

Here as in other cases, it is irrelevant that the specific sentences that are uttered considered by themselves do not strictly entail any concession to the “dominant narrative.”  There needn’t be such an entailment for an implicature.  Nor does it matter that the churchmen in question do not actually agree with the “dominant narrative.”  If you say “I like the frame” or “I liked the restaurant” in the contexts described above, you have in fact said something insulting, whether or not that was your intention and despite the fact that the literal meaning of the words does not by itself strictly entail an insult.  And if a churchman comments on issues concerning homosexuality with nothing but happy talk, he has in fact “sent the message” that there is truth in the “dominant narrative,” even if that is not his intention and despite the fact that the literal meaning of his words might not by itself strictly entail that there is truth in it.  The implicature is only reinforced by the fact that the average listener entirely lacks any theological training and thus cannot be expected to draw fine distinctions, to assess the doctrinal weight of off-the-cuff remarks made in interviews, etc.  Since churchmen know (or should know) how their misleading words are bound to be taken by the average listener, and since the average listener knows that these churchmen know (or should know) this -- and yet the churchmen say these things anyway -- the implicature is further cemented.

Hence while it is true that secular news outlets routinely read too much into such statements and spin them to their own purposes, they are by no means entirely to blame.  They have been given ammunition.  Some conservative Catholic commentators have tied themselves in knots trying to put a positive face on these sorts of remarks, usually via a pedantic emphasis on what is strictly entailed by the literal meaning of a certain remark considered in isolation, while completely ignoring the glaring implicatures.  At best this reflects an astounding naiveté about how language works; at worst it is itself a kind of intellectually dishonest spin-doctoring.  And it does real damage by giving the false impression that to be a Catholic you have to become a shill and pretend not to see the obvious. 

Judging from the Extraordinary Synod on the Family which ended last week, the messages churchmen send via such implicatures may not always be unintentional.  A key topic of debate in the lead-up to the Synod and at the Synod itself was Cardinal Walter Kasper’s proposal that divorced and “remarried” Catholics could be admitted to Holy Communion.  Now, the teaching of the Church is that a validly married person cannot divorce and remarry someone else while his spouse is still living.  Such a “remarriage” is adulterous and thus mortally sinful.  The Church also teaches that to go to Communion while one is in a state of mortal sin is itself mortally sinful.  Hence, to suggest that such “remarried” Catholics might be able to go to Communion is to implicate or “send the message” that such “remarriages” are not mortally sinful after all and that the Church can and should change her teaching on that subject. 

Cardinal Kasper denies that he favors such a change, but again, an implicature can exist even when one does not intend it.  Furthermore, to “cancel” the implicature in this case would require far more than Cardinal Kasper issuing such a denial in a journal article, interview, or the like, because most Catholics have never heard of Cardinal Kasper and will know nothing about such denials.  To cancel the implicature would require that the Church loudly and clearly reaffirm that it is mortally sinful to divorce and “remarry” and that no one in a state of mortal sin should take Communion.  The trouble, though, is that loudly and clearly to say this would offend Catholics who have “remarried,” and the whole point of Kasper’s proposal is to make such people feel “welcome.”  Doing what is required to cancel the implicature would thus make Kasper’s proposed policy pointless.  So, there simply is no plausible way to implement such a policy without “sending the message” that the Church can and should change her teaching.

Whatever Cardinal Kasper intends, though, Cardinal George Pell has indicated that some of the churchmen who favor Kasper’s policy do intend the implicature.  As Cardinal Pell has said:

Communion for the divorced and remarried is for some -- very few, certainly not the majority of the synod fathers -- it's only the tip of the iceberg, it's a stalking horse. They want wider changes, recognition of civil unions, recognition of homosexual unions.  The church cannot go in that direction.  It would be a capitulation from the beauties and strengths of the Catholic tradition, where people sacrificed themselves for hundreds, and thousands of years to do this.

That this is the intention seems clear enough from a now-notorious set of passages from the first draft of the Synod report, which included the following lines:

Homosexuals have gifts and qualities to offer to the Christian community: are we capable of welcoming these people, guaranteeing to them a fraternal space in our communities? … Are our communities capable of providing that, accepting and valuing their sexual orientation, without compromising Catholic doctrine on the family and matrimony?...

Without denying the moral problems connected to homosexual unions it has to be noted that there are cases in which mutual aid to the point of sacrifice constitutes a precious support in the life of the partners.

End quote.  The tone and indeed the content of this passage (“accepting and valuing their sexual orientation,” “precious support in the life of the partners”) are so radically different from what the Church has said historically -- indeed, it would have been unthinkable as recently as two years ago that such words could ever appear in a Vatican document -- that the bland references elsewhere in the document to the Church’s teaching on homosexuality cannot cancel the implicature that there is some truth in the liberal “dominant narrative” vis-à-vis homosexuality.  And those who would use Cardinal Kasper’s proposal as a “stalking horse” (as Cardinal Pell put it) surely intend their implicatures to do double duty.  When, in the example I gave above, you say “I liked the restaurant,” your more sophisticated friend will know that you did notlike the person you went on the blind date with, while your less sophisticated friend might think you did like the person.  Similarly, when liberal churchmen speak of “accepting and valuing [the homosexual] orientation without compromising Catholic doctrine on the family and matrimony,” gullible listeners will be reassured that no substantive change is being proposed, while more sophisticated listeners will “get” the real message.

Now, Cardinal Pell, Cardinal Raymond Burke, the African bishops, and others vigorously opposed this passage, which was ultimately rejected by the Synod as a whole.  But the fact that it got as far as it did in the first place itself“sends the message” that the Church might, if not now then in future, be open to the possibility of dramatic change vis-à-vis matters of sexual morality.   Given how far things have gone, effectively cancelling this implicature would require a vigorous reaffirmation both of the content and the permanence of Catholic teaching on sexual morality from Pope Francis himself.  Cardinal Burke has expressed the view that such a papal reaffirmation is “long overdue,” and another bishop has been even more frank about the damage he thinks the Synod has caused.  But such a reaffirmation seems unlikely given that it would conflict with the Pope’s aim of putting less emphasis on these matters and trying to find ways to attract those who disagree with the Church’s teaching about them.

Nudge nudge, wink wink, or Yes Yes, No No?

How have things gotten to this point?  There are in my view two main factors.  The first is what I have identified elsewhere as the chief cause of the collapse of Catholic apologetics, dogmatic and moral theology, and catechesis: the abandonment of Scholasticism.  Thomists and other Scholastic theologians and philosophers, and the churchmen of earlier generations who were given a Scholastic intellectual formation, emphasized precision in thought, precision in language, precision in argumentation, precision in doctrinal and public statements, and extreme caution about novel theses and formulations which might undermine the credibility of the Church’s claim to preserve and apply doctrine, and not manufacture or mutate it.  Say what you will about the (purported) limitations of Scholastic theology and philosophy, there was, in the days when Scholasticism held sway, never any doubt about exactly what a statement from a bishop or from the Vatican meant and about exactly how it squared with Catholic tradition. 

The tendency among some churchmen toward imprecision, and the appearance of a rupture with past teaching, is by no means limited to matters of sexual morality.  On capital punishment, ecumenism, interreligious dialogue, and other issues, even conservative Catholic churchmen have been fudging things for decades, speaking in ambiguous terms or in platitudes that seem to imply that the traditional teaching of the Church is wrong, and giving woolly arguments or no arguments at all instead of explaining how the new statements can be reconciled with past teaching.

For example, for two millennia the Church very heavily emphasized the urgency of conversion to the Catholic Faith as necessary for salvation.  Yet even many conservative churchmen today emphasize “dialogue” over conversion, condemn proselytizing, etc.  How can these attitudes be reconciled?  The question is generally simply ignored.  Modern churchmen often speak as if capital punishment were incompatible with human dignity and as if any Catholic must oppose it.  Yet Pope Innocent III, when reconciling the pacifist Waldensian heretics with the Church, made acceptance of the legitimacy of capital punishment a matter of basic orthodoxy; the Fathers and Doctors of the Church unanimously affirmed its legitimacy even when they were inclined toward leniency, and such unanimity has always been regarded within Catholicism as a mark of infallible teaching; Genesis 9:6 sanctions capital punishment precisely in the name of human dignity; and so on.  How can these attitudes be reconciled?  Again, the problem is generally ignored.  And so on for other issues.  Typically the novel statements are phrased in such a way that they can be given an interpretation that is not strictly incompatible with past teaching.  However, the implicature -- again, even if unintentional -- is that past teaching was mistaken. 

What is common to these examples is that they all tend to implicate a concession to liberalism.  And that brings me to what I think is the second factor behind the tendency of modern churchmen to speak in ways that seem to imply a rupture with the past: the utter hegemony of liberalism in the modern Western world, indeed in much of the modern world full stop.  Now, when I say “liberalism” I don’t mean merely the sort of thing that characterizes the modern Democratic Party.  I mean that broad tradition that begins with thinkers like Hobbes and Locke and whose basic assumptions are taken for granted by moral and political thinkers of almost every stripe today.  What liberals of all varieties -- from Hobbes and Locke to Kant to Rawls and Nozick -- share in common, whatever their significant differences, is an emphasis on the sovereignty of the will of the individual.  For liberalism, no demand on any individual is legitimate to which he does not in some sense consent.  The tendency is therefore to regard any such imposition as an affront to his dignity.  The liberty that the liberal wants to further is freedom from fetters on the individual’s will, whether those fetters are political, social, moral, religious, or cultural.  The individual will is sovereign, its dignity supreme.

Liberalism in this broad sense is the dominant way of thinking and feeling in modern times.  It is, essentially, the compulsory ethos, indeed the religion, of modern times.  It absolutely permeates contemporary political, social, moral, religious, and cultural life.  This is why the arguments even of political conservatives and Christians reputed for orthodoxy are constantly couched in the language of freedom, rights, the dignity of the individual, etc.  The pressure to conform one’s thinking and sensibility to basic liberal assumptions is nearly overwhelming.  Hence any appeal to freedom is considered all by itself a powerful argument, and any objection to a policy or view on the grounds that it conflicts with freedom is considered a powerful objection which it is imperative to answer.  Scratch many a modern conservative or Christian and you’ll find a liberal, in this broad sense of the word “liberal,” underneath. 

Liberalism is the offspring of Ockham’s voluntarism, the prioritizing of the will over the intellect.  Press voluntarism as far as it will go and you are bound to conclude that what the will chooses is more important that what the intellect knows.  Objective truth itself is bound to come to seem an oppressive imposition on the will.  For Aquinas, of course, this has things precisely backwards.  The will is subordinate to the intellect, and has as its final cause the pursuit of the objective truth that the intellect grasps.  And if the objective truth of the matter is that you deserve a punishment of death, or ought to convert to Catholicism, or ought to restrain your sexual impulses, then it is just tough luck for the will if what it wants is something else.  (I speak loosely, of course.  It is not really“tough luck” for the will; such submission is what is truly good for the will.) 

Now as every Thomist knows, there is some truth to be found in more or less any erroneous system of thought.  Hence there is, naturally, some truth in liberalism.  The free exercise of the will really is a good thing.  But it is a good that is subordinate to the higher end for which it exists, namely the pursuit of what is really true and good.  Furthermore, given the hegemony of liberalism in modern times and the consequent pressure to conform oneself to it, even those who do not see themselves as liberals are going to exaggerate the significance of whatever truth there is to be found in it.  Hence the tendency of modern churchmen relentlessly to emphasize the dignity of the individual and to pretend that an appeal to this dignity is somehow the master key to settling every moral and political controversy (when in fact what countsas a respect for human dignity is itself precisely what is at issue in disputes over sexual morality, abortion, capital punishment, etc. -- so that the appeal to human dignity by itself merely begs the question).

The tremendous pressure to conform to liberalism generates an eagerness to seek any way possible, rhetorically and substantively, to find common ground with it.  Now, punishment in general and capital punishment in particular all involve an obvious and unpleasant imposition on the will of the individual.  Hence the tendency of liberalism is to regard punishment, and capital punishment in particular, as an affront to the dignityof the individual.  Making an individual’s salvation contingent upon whether he accepts a certain religion is an even graver imposition on his will.  Hence the tendency of the liberal, if he is religious, is toward universalism.  Sexual desire is extremely powerful and the demands of sexual morality an especially irksome imposition on the will.  Hence the tendency of liberalism is to try as far as possible to eliminate or at least soften and minimize the importance of such demands.  And so forth. 

So, when churchmen find in Catholic tradition, alongside the persistent insistence on the legitimacy of (and in some cases need for) capital punishment, an inclination of some saints and theologians strongly to prefer leniency over resort to the punishment, the temptation is to take the more lenient tendency and run with it, while ignoring the other, balancing element in the tradition.  When they find in the tradition, alongside the doctrine that extra ecclesiam nulla salus, the idea that “invincible ignorance” can save those who are outside the visible structure of the Church, the temptation is strong to emphasize the latter and not worry too much about evangelization.  When they note that the Church has always taught forgiveness of sins and mercy toward sinners, the temptation is strong to talk a lot about that and not say too much about the actual sins themselves, especially if the sins are sexual.  And so forth.  Because the over-emphasized elements really are there in the tradition and the ignored elements are not explicitly denied, actual rupture with the past is avoided.  But because the resulting presentation of Catholic teaching is so one-sided, and one-sided in the direction of flattering liberalism, there is an appearanceof a rupture with the past, an unintended implicatureto the effect that liberal criticism of traditional Catholic teaching is correct.

This is not unprecedented in Church history.  The Arian heresy exerted enormous pressure on the Church.  It had political power, won the support of many bishops, and was difficult to combat because of the ambiguous language in which it was often formulated.  Even Pope Liberius, though he did not bind the Church to error, temporized.  The heresy took centuries to die out completely.  No doubt there were churchmen at the time keen to emphasize the “gifts and qualities” of Arians, to “accept and value” the depth and sincerity of their devotion to the Arian cause, and to affirm the “precious support” Arians provided one another. 

In light of what has happened at the Synod, some orthodox Catholics are inclined to channel Kevin Bacon in Animal House, while others are inclined to freak out.  Both tendencies are mistaken.  The truth is that things are pretty bad, and also that they are not thatbad.  This kind of thing sometimes happens in the Church.  Liberalism will suffer the same fate as Arianism, but it may take a very long time for the Church entirely to flush it out of its system, and things may get a lot worse before they get better.  For the moment and no doubt for some time to come, too many churchmen will continue to respond to the liberal spirit of the age with a nudge and a wink and glad-handing bonhomie.  But in the end the Church will, as she always does, heed the words of her Master: Let your ‘Yes’ be ‘Yes,’ and your ‘No,’ ‘No.’ (Matthew 5:37).

Voluntarism and PSR

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Aquinas holds that “will follows upon intellect” (Summa Theologiae I.19.1).  He means in part that anything with an intellect has a will as well, but also that intellect is metaphysically prior to will.  Will is the power to be drawn toward what the intellect apprehends to be good, or away from what it apprehends to be bad.  Intellect is “in the driver’s seat,” then.  This is a view known as intellectualism, and it is to be contrasted with voluntarism, which makes will prior to intellect, and is associated with Scotus and Ockham.  To oversimplify, you might say that for the intellectualist, we are essentially intellects which have wills, whereas the voluntarist tendency is to regard us as essentially wills which have intellects.

That is an oversimplification, though.  Voluntarism can come in milder forms which do not subordinate intellect to will but merely tend to put them on a par, and perhaps some writers who can sound like voluntarists really mean only to emphasize the importance of the will without intending thereby to assert anything about its metaphysical relationship to the intellect.  Augustine might be regarded as a voluntarist in a mild sense, and Ockham in a strong sense.  On the other side, even in Aquinas the claim that intellect is prior to will has to be qualified in light of the doctrine of divine simplicity, according to which God’s intellect and will are identical.  All the same, the tendency of the intellectualist is to understand the will always by reference to the intellect, whereas the tendency of the voluntarist is to conceive of the will independently of its relation to the intellect.

The implications of the dispute between intellectualism and voluntarism are many and profound, and I have discussed some of them in various places (e.g. here and here).  One of these implications is theological.  The intellectualist tends to think of God as essentially a Supreme Intellect, as (you might say) Subsistent Rationality Itself.  We might not always understand what he wills and does, given the limitations of our own finite intellects; all the same, in itself what God wills and does is always rational or intelligible through and through, and would be seen to be by a sufficiently powerful intellect.  By contrast, an extreme voluntarist conception of God would regard him primarily as a Supreme Will, indeed as (you might say) Subsistent Willfulness Itself.  On this sort of view, what God wills and does is not ultimately intelligible even in itself, for he is in no sense bound by rationality.  He simply wills what he wills, arbitrarily or whimsically, and there is ultimately no sense to be made of it.  If we borrow some analogies from Plato’s analysis in the Republic of the five types of regime, God as the intellectualist understands him is essentially the Philosopher-King write large, whereas God as the most extreme voluntarist understands him is like the tyrant writ large.

Some of the general theological consequences of these two conceptions of God as they were developed within the context of Christianity have been sketched by Michael Allen Gillespie in his book The Theological Origins of Modernity (which I reviewed here) and by Margaret Osler in Divine Will and the Mechanical Philosophy.  They are also relevant to what Pope Benedict XVI had to say about the difference between Christianity and Islam in his famous Regensburg lecture.  The Cartesian view that even mathematics and the laws of logic are the product of divine fiat, and could have been other than they are had God so willed, is a specific consequence of extreme theological voluntarism (though Osler thinks there is still a sense in which Descartes was an intellectualist -- again, the relationship between the two tendencies in the work of a particular thinker is not always as simple as it might at first seem).

Another specific theological implication has to do with the relationship between God and morality.  For Aquinas, what is good for us is necessarily good for us because it follows from our nature.  As such, even God couldn’t change it, any more than he could make two and two equal to five.  For the divine intellect knows the natures of things, and the divine will creates in accordance with this knowledge.  To be sure, the natures in question exist at first only as ideas in the divine mind itself; in this sense they are, like everything else, dependent on God.  Still, in creating the things that are to have these natures, the divine will only ever creates in light of the divine ideas and never in a way that conflicts with what is possible given the content of those ideas.  Aquinas’s position is thus at odds with the sort of “divine command ethics” according to which what is good is good merely because God wills it, so that absolutely anything (including torturing babies for fun, say) could have been good for us had he willed us to do it.  This sort of view was famously taken by Ockham, for whom God could even have willed for us to hate him, in which case that is what would have been good for us. 

In the Catholic context, at least a very strong whiff of voluntarism is to be found among those who think the pope could decide to teach -- contrary to scripture, tradition, and the constant teaching of previous popes -- that capital punishment is always and intrinsically immoral, or that it is not after all a mortal sin for a Catholic to divorce and “remarry.”  In fact, according to Catholic teaching the pope is not a dictator and cannot either reverse scripture and tradition or make up new teachings from scratch.  That would be contrary to the very point of the papacy, which is to preserve the “Deposit of Faith” without adding to or taking away from it.  In that sense the pope’s will is, like any other Catholic’s, subject to the Catholic Faith and does not create it.  The Catholic understanding of papal authority is, you might say, intellectualist rather than voluntarist.  Critics of Catholic claims about papal authority often read a voluntarist conception into it, but this is a caricature; Catholics (whether liberal or conservative) who suppose that a pope can teach whatever he wants essentially buy into this caricature. 

In philosophical anthropology, the dispute between voluntarism and intellectualism cashes out in the difference between what Servais Pinckaers calls the “freedom of indifference” and the “freedom for excellence.”  On the former conception of free will, developed by Ockham, the will is of its nature indifferent toward the various ends it might pursue, and the will is thus freer to the extent that it is at any moment equally capable of choosing anything.  The implication is that a will that is strongly inclined to choose what is good rather than what is evil is less free than a will that is not inclined in either direction.  By contrast, on the conception of free will as “freedom for excellence,” which is endorsed by Aquinas, the will is inherently directed toward the good in the sense that pursuit of the good is its final cause.  The implication is that the will is more free to the extent that it finds it easy to choose what is good and less free to the extent that it does not. 

The intellectualist is also naturally going to endorse the Aristotelian conception of man as a rational animal.  Contrast that with a view I recently found expressed by Philip K. Dick in an interview in What If Our World Is Their Heaven? The Final Conversations of Philip K. Dick.  Dick says:

[The] android figure… is my metaphor for the dehumanized person, as you know, who is someone who is less than human -- that essential quality that distinguishes a human being is essentially compassion or kindness, that -- it’s not intelligence.  An android -- or in the film Blade Runner it’s called “replicant” -- can be very intelligent, but it’s not really human.  Because it’s not intelligence that makes a human being; in my opinion it’s the quality of kindness or compassion or whatever -- you know, the Christians call “agape.” (pp. 63-64)

I imagine many people today would find this appealing and regard the traditional Aristotelian conception as too bloodless and insufficiently touchy-feely.  But from an intellectualist point of view Dick’s claim is just muddleheaded.  Love that is truly human is an act of will, which is why it can abide when sentiment wanes.  But will, and thus love, presupposes an intellect which can grasp the object of love qua good or lovable.  Hence man is a compassionate or loving animal precisely because he is, more fundamentally, a rational animal.  But neither, contra Dick’s portrayal of the replicants, could there be such a thing as an intelligent creature incapable of love in the sense of willing the good of another.  For will follows upon intellect, and it is of its nature directed toward what the intellect perceives as good or lovable.  Hence an intellectual creature always loves something (even if the object of its love is sometimes not what it should be). 

To make sense of Dick’s proposal you would, it seems to me, have to be committed to a kind of voluntarism, on which love -- the willing of someone’s good -- could float free of intellect.  (There is at least a family resemblance between Dick’s view and that of Scotus, whose position is summed up by the Catholic Encyclopedia as follows: “Because the will holds sway over all other faculties and again because to it pertains the charity which is the greatest of the virtues, will is a more noble attribute of man than is intelligence.”)

In ethics and politics, a kind of voluntarism is evident in the Hobbesian theses that the good is just whatever one happens to will, and that law is not something the intellect discovers in the nature of things, but rather something the sovereign creates in an act of will.  Hume’s claim that reason is but the “slave of the passions” is in the same ballpark, though of course the will and the passions are distinct.  Such ideas are known to have their echoes in modern social and political life.

Lately (hereand here) we’ve been discussing the principle of sufficient reason (PSR), according to which everything is intelligible.  How could that be the case if it is will rather than intellect that is fundamental?  To be sure, mild or localized versions of voluntarism could in theory be consistent with PSR.  Suppose you thought God’s intellect was prior to his will but that the laws that govern human societies were ultimately grounded in the sheer fiat of legislators.  Then everything might still have a sufficient reason.  The sufficient reason for the existence of some particular law was that it struck the fancy of some legislator to impose it, that it struck his fancy might be given an explanation in terms of his mood that day together with some end he hoped the law would realize, that he was in that mood might be explained by his circumstances together with his physiology at that moment, and the whole chain of causes could trace back to God who willed to set things up this way in light of what his intellect grasped to be good.  But suppose God as First Cause is himself conceived of in voluntarist terms.  Could this be consistent with PSR?

I think not, at least not if the voluntarism is extreme.  Suppose mathematics, the laws of logic, and everything else are the product of divine fiat, where God’s willing things the way he did is in turn in no way intelligible -- that it is unintelligible in itself, not merely unintelligible to us.  Since God’s willing the way he did is the ultimate cause of everything else, it would follow that everything is thus ultimatelyunintelligible.  At the bottom level of reality would be the “brute fact” that this is what God has willed, utterly arbitrarily, and that’s that.  PSR, which admits of no brute facts, would therefore be false.

Now if PSR is false, then the principle of causality is threatened as well, since if things are ultimately unintelligible, there is no reason to think that a potency might not be actualized even though there is nothing actual to actualize it and thus that something might come into being without any cause at all.  But then it would not be possible to argue from the world to God as cause of the world.  Hence it is no surprise that Ockham’s voluntarism went hand in hand with skepticism about the possibility of any robust natural theology and a retreat into fideism.  I’ve also suggested that theism itself, or at least classical theism, cannot be made consistent with a denial of PSR.  For rejecting PSR tends, for reasons given in that earlier post, to lead away from classical theism to a more crude and creaturely conception of God.  Hence it is no surprise that Ockham’s voluntarism was followed historically by such a conception.

Hence extreme theological voluntarism -- motivated though it seems to be by a desire to do honor to God and uphold divine power -- in fact undermines theism.  (Which is not surprising when you think about it, since voluntarist views have this self-undermining tendency elsewhere: Authoritarianism undermines authority by reducing it to lawless tyranny and thus destroying all respect for it; the view that the pope can teach just any old thing he wishes undermines the very point of the papacy and undermines the credibility of papal decrees in general; the Hobbesian idea that the good is just whatever we happen to will is not really an alternative theory of ethics but destroys the very possibility of ethics and replaces it with the notion of a non-aggression pact between self-interested preference maximizers; and so forth.)

Whether milder forms of theological voluntarism would have similar results depends on how they are formulated, but it is hard to see how any view which makes the divine will prior to the divine intellect (as opposed to being merely on a par with it) could avoid a similar result.

No post on voluntarism and PSR should fail to discuss Schopenhauer.  But as the supreme arbitrary dictator of this blog I hereby arbitrarily decree that this post will.  But that is not to rule out a future post on the subject.

Walking the web

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Bishop Athanasius Schneider is interviewed about the recent Synod on the Family.  On the now notorious interim report: “This document will remain for the future generations and for the historians a black mark which has stained the honour of the Apostolic See.” (HT: Rorate Caeli and Fr. Z

Meanwhile, as Rusty Reno and Rod Dreher report, other Catholics evidently prefer the Zeitgeist to the Heilige Geist.

Scientia Salon on everything you know about Aristotle that isn’t so.  Choice line: “While [Bertrand] Russell castigates Aristotle for not counting his wives’ teeth, it does not appear to have occurred to Russell to verify his own statement by going to the bookshelf and reading what Aristotle actually wrote.”

At The New Republic, John Gray on the closed mind of Richard Dawkins.

Recently published: J. Budziszewski’s new Commentary on Thomas Aquinas's Treatise on LawDetails at his website (and while you’re there, check out his blog).

Stephen Read is interviewed at 3:AM Magazine on the subject of medieval logic.

In the Claremont Review of Books, Michael Uhlmann on Catholicism and economics.

Eleven years since the last Steely Dan album.  Something Else! notes that a fine new album could be assembled just from outtakes from previous albums and other rarities.  (“The Second Arrangement”and “The Steely Dan Show”are already classics in my book.)

Several new books of interest reviewed at Notre Dame Philosophical Reviews: Lloyd Gerson’s From Plato to Platonism; Andrea Lavazza and Howard Robinson’s anthology Contemporary Dualism: A Defense; and Michael Ferejohn’s Formal Causes: Definition, Explanation, and Primacy in Socratic and Aristotelian Thought.


There might be a movie coming out over the next five years that isn’t a Marvel movie.  But I wouldn’t bank on it.  SNL comments in a now famous spoof.

DSPT interviews

DSPT symposium papers online (Updated)

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Last week’s symposium at the Dominican School of Philosophy and Theology in Berkeley was on Fr. Anselm Ramelow’s anthology God, Reason and Reality.  Some of the papers from the symposium are now available online.  In my paper, “Remarks on God, Reason and Reality,” I comment on two essays in the anthology: Fr. Ramelow’s essay on God and miracles, and Fr. Michael Dodds’ essay on God and the nature of life.  Fr. Ramelow’s symposium paper is “Three Tensions Concerning Miracles: A Response to Edward Feser.”

UPDATE 11/16: Fr. Dodds' paper "The God of Life: Response to Edward Feser"has now been posted at the DSPT website.  Also, a YouTube video of all the talks and of the Q & A that followed has been posted.

Augustine on the immateriality of the mind

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In Book 10, Chapter 10 of On the Trinity, St. Augustine argues for the immateriality of the mind.  You can find an older translation of the work online, but I’ll quote the passages I want to discuss from the McKenna translation as edited by Gareth Matthews.  Here they are:

[E]very mind knows and is certain concerning itself.  For men have doubted whether the power to live, to remember, to understand, to will, to think, to know, and to judge is due to air, to fire, or to the brain, or to the blood, or to atoms… or whether the combining or the orderly arrangement of the flesh is capable of producing these effects; one has tried to maintain this opinion, another that opinion.

On the other hand who would doubt that he lives, remembers, understands, wills, thinks, knows, and judges?  For even if he doubts, he lives; if he doubts, he remembers why he doubts; if he doubts, he understands that he doubts; if he doubts, he wishes to be certain; if he doubts, he thinks; if he doubts, he knows that he does not know; if he doubts, he judges that he ought not to consent rashly.  Whoever then doubts about anything else ought never to doubt about all of these; for if they were not, he would be unable to doubt about anything at all

[T]he mind knows itself, even when it seeks itself, as we have already shown.  But we can in no way rightly say that anything is known while its substance [or: essence] is unknown.  Wherefore, since the mind knows itself, it knows its own substance [or: essence].  But it is certain about itself, as is clearly shown from what we have already said.  But it is by no means certain whether it is air, or fire, or a body, or anything of a body.  It is, therefore, none of these things…

For the mind thinks of fire in the same way as it thinks of air or any other bodily thing of which it thinks.  But it can in no way happen that it should think of that which itself is, in the same way as it thinks of that which it itself is not.  For all these, whether fire, or air, or this or that body, or that part or it thinks of by means of an imaginary phantasy, nor is it said to be all of these, but one or the other of them.  But if it were any one of them, it would think of this one in a different manner from the rest.  That is to say, it would not think of it by means of an imaginary phantasy, as absent things or something of the same kind are thought of which have been touched by the sense of the body, but it would think of it by a kind of inward presence not feigned but real -- for there is nothing more present to it than itself; just as it thinks that it lives, and remembers, and understands, and wills.  And if it adds nothing from these thoughts to itself, so as to regard itself as something of the kind, then whatever still remains to it of itself, that alone is itself.  (pp. 55-57)

Useful discussions of these passages can be found in chapter 6 of Matthews’ book Augustine,and, more recently, in Bruno Niederbacher’s essay “The human soul: Augustine’s case for soul-body dualism” in the considerably revised 2014 second edition of The Cambridge Companion to Augustine.  (The bracketed alternative translation of Augustine’s word for “substance” as “essence” is not my addition, by the way, but is in the McKenna/Matthews translation.  Matthews and Niederbacher both regard this translation of substantia as equally plausible or even more plausible in this particular context.)

In the first two paragraphs quoted we have a version of what is sometimes called “the Augustinian cogito,” insofar as Augustine prefigures (here and in Book XI, Chapter 26 of The City of God) Descartes’ famous Cogito, ergo sum.  You cannot coherently doubt that you live, remember, understand, will, think, know, and judge, since, Augustine argues, the very act of doubting that one does these things itself involvesdoing them. 

Of course, you could doubt that you “live” in the sense of having a metabolism, etc., insofar as you can wonder (as Descartes did) whether you are really a spirit divorced from any body and are merely hallucinating that you have one.  But what Augustine means here is that even in that case you couldn’t coherently doubt that you “live” in the sense of existing as a disembodied, thinking thing.

Augustine also notes that even if one is committed to some version of materialism according to which our mental powers are to be attributed to the brain, to atoms, to some particular kind of arrangement of the flesh, or what have you, one could still at least coherently doubtthat this was the case in a way one cannot coherently doubt that one thinks, wills, etc.  In the remaining passages, Augustine develops this contrast in a manner intended to show that the mind cannot be material in these ways or any other way.  Of course, this approach to arguing for the mind’s immateriality also sounds very proto-Cartesian, though I think Augustine’s arguments here are not exactly the same as any of Descartes’.

Matthews plausibly suggests that, whether Augustine intended it or not, there are two distinct arguments to be found in the last two paragraphs quoted above.  Let’s consider them in order.  In the third paragraph the argument seems to me plausibly reconstructed in the following way (which, I should note, is not necessarily the way Matthews or Niederbacher would reconstruct it):

1. The mind knows itself with certainty.

2. But a thing is known only when its essence is known.

3. So the mind knows its own essence with certainty. 

4. But the mind is not certain that it is the brain, or atoms, or an arrangement of flesh, or anything else that is material.

5. So it is not part of the essence of the mind to be the brain, or atoms, or an arrangement of flesh, or anything else that is material.

What should we think of this argument?  I’m not certain, though some objections that might at first glance seem strong are not in fact decisive.  Matthews notes that functionalists claim that the mind could be realized in the brain but also in other material systems, such as a sufficiently complex computer.  Hence “a mind might know its own essence without knowing what matter it is realized in” (Matthews, Augustine, p. 46).  The point, I gather, is that while the mind can doubt that it is realized in this particular kind of matter or that kind, this may merely reflect the fact that it is realizable in multiple sorts of matter, and does not entail that it could exist apart from any matter at all

However, even apart from the deficiencies of functionalist theories of mind, this does not seem to me to be a good objection (though in fairness to Matthews I should emphasize that he considers this as an objection which might be raised against his own reconstruction of the argument, which is not exactly the same as mine).  Augustine’s point is not that there is something special about the particular examples he cites -- the brain, atoms, configurations of flesh, etc. -- that makes it possible for the mind to doubt that it is any of them.  His point is precisely that what is true of them is going to be true of anything material.  The mind, he could point out in response to our imagined functionalist, can doubt that it needs to be “realized” in anything material in the first place.  Even the functionalist would agree that it is at least possible coherently to doubt this, and that is all Augustine needs for the argument to go through (assuming it is otherwise unproblematic).

A functionalist may respond that it is also possible to doubt that the mind is realized in any postulated immaterial substrate.  But as I have pointed out when addressing parallel objections to Cartesian dualism (hereand here), this sort of objection just completely misses the dualist’s point.  In Descartes’ case, he is not (contrary to the stock caricature) postulating a ghostly kind of stuff (“ectoplasm” or whatever) in which thought merely contingently inheres, so that one might coherently suppose it possible in principle for the one to exist apart from the other.  For Descartes, the res cogitans is not merely a substrate which underlies thought, but just is thought.  There is no conceptual space between them by which the functionalist might pry them apart.  Augustine, it seems, is saying something similar.  In knowing with certainty that it thinks, wills, understands, etc., the mind knows its essence, not merely activity contingently related to that essence which might in principle exist apart from it.

Matthews also notes that a critic may object to the claim that a thing is known only when its essence is known.  He cites Aristotle’s example of thunder, which one could know is a noise in the clouds even if he does not know the essence of thunder.  Or we might note that someone could obviously know that water is the liquid which fills lakes and oceans and falls from the sky as rain even if he does not know that water is H2O. 

This is a stronger objection, but in reply it could be noted that premise 2 may not actually be essential to the argument.  Augustine need not claim of everythingthat when it is known, its essence is known.  Perhaps he could simply argue that this is true of the mind, specifically.  For as Niederbacher emphasizes in his discussion of this argument, Augustine takes the mind to have a special immediate access to itself that it does not have to other things.  (Hence Niederbacher calls the argument under discussion “the cognitive access argument.”)  In the preceding chapter, Augustine had written that “when it is said to the mind: ‘Know thyself,’ it knows itself at the very instant in which it understands the word ‘thyself’; and it knows itself for no other reason than that it is present to itself” (On the Trinity, Book 10, Chapter 9, p. 54).  The idea might be that absence of certainty is possible only where our access to a thing is not immediate.  For example, we can be less than certain about the things we see because our access to them is mediated by light, the optic nerve, stages of neural processing, etc., and this opens the door to the possibility of illusion and hallucination.  But the certainty that the “Augustinian cogito” shows that the mind has vis-à-vis itself implies that its access to itself is not mediated.

So, it may be that, given Augustine’s view about the mind’s immediate access to itself, it is steps 3 - 5 that are the really essential ones in the “cognitive access argument,” and the problematic premise 2 can drop out as inessential.  The basic idea would be that given the mind’s immediate access to itself, it has a certainty about its essence that it does not have about whether it is the brain, atoms, etc., so that nothing of the latter, material sort can be part of its essence.

But this brings us close to the thrust of the argument of the last passage from Chapter 10 quoted above, which Matthews judges to be not only a distinct argument but a stronger one.  In this passage, Augustine says of “fire, or air, or this or that body” that we think of them “by means of an imaginary phantasy,” or mental image.  But Matthews suggests that whether we always make use of mental images, specifically, when we think of material things is not really essential to Augustine’s point.  What is essential is rather the claim that we always make use of mental representationsof some sort or other.  Thus the mind’s cognitive access to material things is always mediated in a way Augustine thinks its cognitive access to itself is not. 

Thus we have what I take to be a plausible reconstruction of the overall thrust of the reasoning of the last passage from chapter 10 quoted above:

1. The mind knows itself directly, without the mediation of a mental image or any other representation.

2. But the mind knows material things only via the mediation of a mental image or some other representation.

3. So, the mind is not a material thing.

In defense of premise 1, Augustine would, again, presumably say that if we were to deny it, then we would be faced with the possibility of skepticism about the mind’s own existence.  Yet the “Augustinian cogito” shows that such skepticism is impossible.  So we must affirm premise 1.

In defense of premise 2, we could note that, apart from eliminative materialists, materialists themselvestend to affirm that all thought takes place by means of mental representations of some sort (whether “sentences in the head,” distributed representations, or whatever).  Hence they cannot consistently reject premise 2.  Augustine and materialists of the sort in question are essentially in agreement that in general, thought involves mental representations.  The difference is just that Augustine thinks the “Augustinian cogito” shows that there is an exception in the special case of the mind’s knowledge of itself. 

As Matthews notes, a critic might still object to premise 1 on Freudian grounds.  It might be claimed that in the case of unconscious mental states, the mind knows itself (insofar as it discovers that it has a repressed desire of some sort, say) but that it does not do so directly(since the desire is unconscious).  But as Matthews also notes, this wouldn’t really be a strong objection.  Much of the talk about “unconscious” mental states seems to me pretty loose.  John Searle argues that to attribute a so-called “unconscious mental state” to someone is really just to attribute to him a neural state with the capacity or disposition to cause a conscious mental state.  This seems to me essentially correct.  What is strictly mental is the conscious state caused by the neural state, so that we don’t really have a counterexample to the claim that the mind always knows itself directly.

Given Augustine’s emphasis on the mind’s direct and certain knowledge of itself, the arguments we’ve been examining have, as I have said, a clearly proto-Cartesian flavor about them.  It is worth noting, though, that whatever one thinks of it, Augustine’s reasoning is not the same as that of Cartesian “conceivability arguments” (which I have discussed critically hereand here).  There is no attempt to read off, from what we can conceive, conclusions about mind-independent reality, after the fashion of rationalist metaphysics.  The introspective approach to the study of the mind that Augustine shares with Descartes has no essential connection with Cartesian/Leibnizian rationalism. 

Interview with the metaphysician

Progressive dematerialization

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In the Aristotelian-Thomistic (A-T) tradition, it is the intellect, rather than sentience, that marks the divide between the corporeal and the incorporeal.  Hence A-T arguments against materialist theories of the mind tend to focus on conceptual thought rather than qualia (i.e. the subjective or “first-person” features of a conscious experience, such as the way red looks or the way pain feels) as that aspect of the mind which cannot in principle be reduced to brain activity or the like.  Yet Thomistic writers also often speak even of perceptual experience (and not just of abstract thought) as involving an immaterial element.  And they need not deny that qualia-oriented arguments like the “zombie argument,” Frank Jackson’s “knowledge argument,” Thomas Nagel’s “bat argument,” etc. draw blood against materialism.  So what exactly is going on here?

Here as in other areas of philosophy, misunderstanding arises because contemporary readers are usually unaware that classical (Aristotelian/Neo-Platonic/Scholastic) philosophers and modern (post-Cartesian) philosophers carve up the conceptual territory in radically different ways, and thus often don’t use key terms in the same sense.  In this case, terms like “matter” and “material” have a very different force when writers like Aristotle and Aquinas use them than they have when Descartes, Hobbes, or your average contemporary academic philosopher uses them.  There are at least three ways in which this is true. 

The matter of the moderns

First, and as I have noted many times, the tendency in post-Cartesian philosophy and natural science is to conceive of matter in exclusively quantitative terms and to regard whatever smacks as irreducibly qualitative as a mere projection of the mind.  This is the origin of “the qualia problem” for materialism.  The reason materialists cannot solve the problem is that since they have defined matter in such a way as to exclude the qualitative from it, qualia -- which are essentially qualitative, as the name implies -- are necessarly going to count as immaterial.  Materialist “explanations” of qualia thus invariably either change the subject or implicitly deny the existence of what they are supposed to be explaining.  (The basic point goes back to Cudworth and Malebranche and is the core of Nagel’s critique of physicalist accounts of consciousness.)

This is a point I‘ve developed at length many times (e.g. here, here, here, here, here, and here) and I won’t belabor it here.  Suffice it to say that for the A-T philosopher, while this is a strike against materialism it isn’t really an argument for dualism unless one accepts the purely quantitative conception of matter in question -- as Cartesians do but A-T does not.  From an A-T point of view, the modern “mathematicized” conception of matter is essentially incomplete.  It’s true as far as it goes, but it’s not the whole truth.  So, the failure of some feature to be analyzable in material terms as materialists and Cartesians understand “material” does not entail that it is not material full stop.  It might still count as material on some more robust conception of matter.  And there is a sense in which, for A-T, qualia are indeed material, at least if we use “material” as more or less synonymous with “corporeal.”  For A-T philosophers regard qualia as entirely dependent on physiology.  Our having the qualia associated with seeing a red object, for example, is entirely dependent on bodily organs like the retina, the optic nerve, the relevant processing centers in the brain, and so forth.

This brings us to the second way in which A-T philosophers carve up the conceptual territory in ways contrary to the assumptions typically made by modern philosophers.  For some modern dualists are bound to object: How, on any conception of matter, could qualia be entirely dependent on such bodily organs?  Don’t attempts to analyze qualia in terms of (say) neuronal firing patterns fail whether or not we think of matter as exhaustively quantitative?  The trouble with such objections, though, is that they think of materiality or corporeality in essentially reductionist terms.  They suppose that to say that such-and-such a feature is corporeal entails saying that it is reducible to some lower-level feature of the body.  Hence when they hear the A-T philosopher say that qualia are corporeal and dependent on bodily organs like the brain, they suppose that the A-T philosopher is claiming (as a materialist might) that an experience of red is “nothing but” the firing of such-and-such neurons, that an experience of pain is “nothing but” the firing of some other group of neurons, etc.

But that is simply a fundamental misunderstanding of the A-T position.  The A-T philosopher entirely rejects the reductionist assumption that lower-level features of a system are somehow “more real” than the higher-level features, or in any other way metaphysically privileged.  Hence he rejects the idea that to affirm that some feature of the world is both real and material is to suppose that it is exhaustively analyzable into, or entirely reducible to or emergent from, some collection of lower-level material features.  (The words “exhaustively” and “entirely” are crucial here.  Naturally, the A-T philosopher does not deny that a system can be analyzed into its parts and that this has explanatory value.  The point is that this is only part of the story.  The parts in turn cannot properly be understood except in relation to the whole, at least in a true substance as opposed to an artifact.  See chapter 3 of Scholastic Metaphysics for detailed treatment of this issue, including responses to the usual objections.)

Within the material world, A-T philosophers traditionally hold that there are at least four irreducible kinds of substance: inorganic substances; merely vegetative organic substances (in the technical Aristotelian sense of “vegetative”); sensory or animal substances; and rational animals or human beings.  Only in the case of the last does the A-T position hold that there is a strictly immaterial or incorporeal aspect.  Non-human animal life is irreducible to vegetative life and vegetative life is irreducible to the inorganic, yet all are still entirely material.  Again, materiality or corporeality simply has nothing essentially to do with reducibility.

So, in order to understand what A-T philosophers mean by “matter” and “material,” the reader must be careful not to read into their statements the exclusively quantitative construal of “matter” or the reductionist construal of “material” that are at least implicit in the usage of the average modern philosopher.  How, then, does the A-T philosopher understand “matter” and “material”?

Degrees of immateriality

This brings us to the third point, which is that from the A-T point of view, matter is to be understood primarily in contrast to form, where the matter/form distinction is a special case of the more general distinction between potentiality and actuality.  Consider a triangle drawn on a whiteboard with a dry-erase marker.  It is a composite of a certain form, triangularity, and a certain kind of matter, ink.  (Metaphysically, things are more complicated than that, since the triangle is an artifact and thus triangularity is an accidental form modifying something already having a substantial form; and the ink, accordingly, is a kind of secondary matter, rather than the prime matter that substantial forms inform.  But we can ignore all that for present purposes.  Again, see Scholastic Metaphysicsfor the full story.)

The ink qua ink is potentially a triangle, or a circle, or a square, or some other figure.  The form triangularitymakes it actually one of these rather than the others.  The form triangularityis of itself universal and one.  That is to say, it is the same one form -- triangularity -- that is instantiated in this triangle, in other triangles drawn on the whiteboard, in triangles drawn in geometry textbooks or in sand at the beach, etc.  By contrast, the specific bit of ink that has taken on that form on the whiteboard is particular, and makes of the triangle a mere particular instance of triangularity among multiple particular instances.  That it is made of this particular bit of ink also makes the triangle changeableand imperfect.  The triangle can be damaged or erased altogether, and even when it exists it does not instantiate triangularity perfectly, insofar as the sides of any material triangle are never perfectly straight, etc.  By contrast, triangularity as such is perfect triangularity, and indeed is the standard by reference to which particular instances of triangularity are judged more or less perfect or imperfect.  Triangularity as such is also permanent.  Individual triangles change and are generated and corrupted, but triangularity as such is timeless and unchanging. 

So, form qua form corresponds in A-T metaphysics to actuality, universality, unity, permanence, and perfection.  Matter qua matter corresponds to potentiality, particularity, multiplicity, changeability, and imperfection.  Now, these characteristics are susceptible of degrees, so that there is a sense in which materiality and immateriality can come in degrees.  The more something exhibits potentiality, particularity, multiplicity, changeability, and/or imperfection, the more matter-like it is.  The more something exhibits actuality, universality, unity, permanence, and/or perfection, the more immaterial it is.  It is in light of this that we can understand how, though A-T regards perceptual experience (and the qualia associated with it) as corporeal, there is nevertheless a sensein which it has an immaterial aspect.

For A-T epistemology, knowledge or cognition involves a kind of union of the knower and the thing known insofar as the former comes, in a sense, to possess the form of the latter.  Now, knowledge or cognition can be either of a sensory sort or of an intellectual sort.  The first sort we share with other animals; the second is the sort we have and other animals do not.  It is the second, intellectual sort of cognition that is in the strict sense immaterial and is thus incorporeal.  But sensory cognition, though corporeal, is immaterial in a loose sense insofar as there is a way in which it involves having the form of the thing known without having its matter.

Consider the perceptual representation of an apple that you form when you look at it.  The color, part of the shape, and the appearance of the texture of the apple are captured in the visual experience, whereas the interior of the apple, its weight, its solidity, and other characteristics are not captured.  By capturing the former without the latter, the visual experience involves a kind “dematerialization,” as it were.  It “pulls” the forms redness, roundness, etc. from the apple so that they exist as qualia of conscious experience rather than in the apple itself, while “leaving behind” the rest of the apple.  But this is not a strict dematerialization, of course, any more than is the “dematerialization” accomplished by a photorealistic still life painting of the apple (which also captures the color, shape, etc. without capturing the interior of the apple, its weight and solidity, etc.).  For just as the painting is itself embodied in canvas and paint, which are material, so too is the perceptual experience embodied in physiological activity, which is also material. 

Now, the loose sort of “dematerialization” accomplished by physiological activity can be more thoroughgoing than the sort involved in a perceptual experience.  The visual experience of the apple is an experience of this particular apple, capturing its particular color, shape, etc.  But a mental image of an apple might resemble many apples -- say, by virtue of more vaguely capturing the color or shape, or by leaving out features such as idiosyncratic indentations or areas of discoloration.  And other representations encoded physiologically (such as those posited by cognitive scientists) might be even further than a vague visual image is from physically resembling any particular thing, as a blueprint or wiring diagram is very far from resembling any actual building or computer.  This distance from the kind of close resemblance between a representation and particular thing represented that is involved in a perceptual experience gives mental images and more abstract neural representational states a kind of generality which can superficially resemble the universality of concepts.  This distance from the particular things thus makes these representations “immaterial” in a loose sense.

Still, strictly speaking, they are material.  And neither neural representations nor anything else material can in principle have the true universality of reference that concepts have, nor the determinate or unambiguous content that concepts can have.  For material representations will of their nature have particularizing features that prevent them from capturing the universality of a concept, and will be systematically indeterminate or ambiguous between alternative possible semantic properties.  Hence, just as you will never get a true circle from a polygon no matter how many sides you add to it, you will never get a true concept from a material representation, no matter how many particularizing features are removed from it, and no matter how many other representations you add to it in a system of material representations in order to narrow down the range of possible semantic contents.  In both cases, you can at best only get a simulation.  To be sure, the simulation might be very impressive.  A polygon with sufficiently many sides can fool the eye and appear to be a circle.  A sufficiently powerful computer program might appear to be intelligent.  But if you examine any polygon carefully enough its non-circularity is bound to become evident, and if you examine the outputs of any computer carefully enough its “sphexishness”is bound to become evident.

The thesis that concepts are in principle irreducible to material representations is something I’ve defended at length elsewhere, most systematically and in greatest depth in my ACPQ article “Kripke, Ross, and the Immaterial Aspects of Thought.” (Some relevant blog posts can be found here, here, here, here, and here.)  Anyway, arguing for the immateriality of thought is not the point of the present post.  The point is to note that on the A-T view, whereas sensation and imagination are immaterial in a loose sense, conceptual thought is immaterial in a strict sense. 

Even then there is the qualification to be made that the human intellect must constantly “turn to the phantasms,” as Aquinas puts it -- that is, it depends on sensation for the raw materials from which it abstracts concepts, and it makes use of mental imagery even when entertaining the most abstract concepts.  For instance, the concept triangularitycannot be identified with any mental image of a triangle nor with the word “triangle,” but we tend to form images either of the geometrical figure or of the word whenever we entertain the concept.  (Previous posts with some relevant discussion can be found here, here, here, and here.)  As rational animals we are composites of the corporeal and incorporeal and are thus not entirely divorced from matter even in our intellectual activity.  Only an essentially incorporeal intellectual substance -- an angel, or God -- would be that.

Hence we find in A-T writers a distinction between three degrees of immateriality:

1. The quasi-immateriality or “immateriality” in a loose sense of sensations, mental images, and other neural representations.  These we share with the lower animals.  The “immateriality” is loose because these are all corporeal or intrinsically dependent on matter. 

2. The strict immateriality of true concepts.  These we do not share with the lower animals.  But, though not intrinsically dependent on matter, our intellectual or conceptual activity is extrinsically dependent on matter insofar as we require sensation and mental imagery -- and thus sense organs and brain activity -- as a source of information and as an accompaniment to the act of thinking.

3. The absolute independence of matter of angelic intellects and the divine intellect, which do not require bodily organs even extrinsically.

Working the net

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The Daily Beastnominates Aristotle for a posthumous Nobel prize.  (Even Aristotle’s mistakes are interesting: Next time you see a European bison, you might not want to stand behind it.  Just in case.)

Physicist George Ellis, interviewed at Scientific American, criticizes Lawrence Krauss, Neil deGrasse Tyson, and scientism in general.  Some choice quotes: “[M]athematical equations only represent part of reality, and should not be confused with reality,” and “Physicists should pay attention to Aristotle’s four forms of causation.”

Richard Bastien kindly reviews my book Scholastic Metaphysics in Convivium Magazine.  From the review: “Feser’s refutation [of scientism]… alone makes the purchase of the book well worthwhile.”

At The Chronicle of Higher Education, philosopher Eric Schwitzgebel explains how David Chalmers’ book The Conscious Mind challenged his confidence in materialism, and scientist Andrew McAfee explains how Bjørn Lomborg’s book The Skeptical Environmentalist and the work of Julian Simon expose the ideological thinking underlying many environmentalist claims.

Mike Flynn calls attention to the new magazine Sci Phi Journal, which is devoted to science fiction and philosophy, naturally.  Here’sthe website, and here’sthe first issue.

While on the subject of science fiction: Jonathan Nolan is working on adapting Isaac Asimov’s Foundation series for HBO. 

Philosopher Anna Marmodoro is interviewed at 3:AM Magazineabout Aristotle, causal powers, philosophy of perception, and the Incarnation.

On causal powers, laws of nature, and the medieval-to-modern transition: Eric Watkins’ anthology The Divine Order, the Human Order, and the Order of Nature: Historical Perspectives is reviewed at Notre Dame Philosophical Reviews.


I called attention recently to the DSPT’s video interviews with participants in its summer 2014 conference.  New interviews have since been added to the DSPT YouTube playlist, including clips with Fr. Thomas Joseph White, Msgr. Robert Sokolowski, Steven Long, and Matthew Levering.

The Thinker-Artist, Mark Anderson’s e-book of philosophical fiction, will be available for free at Amazon this Friday (today) and Saturday.

Causality and radioactive decay

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At the Catholic blog Vox Nova, mathematics professor David Cruz-Uribe writes:

I… am currently working through the metaphysics of St. Thomas Aquinas as part of his proofs of the existence of God… [S]ome possibly naive counter-examples from quantum mechanics come to mind.  For instance, discussing the principle that nothing can change without being affected externally, I immediately thought of the spontaneous decay of atoms and even of particles (e.g., so-called proton decay).

This might be a very naive question: my knowledge of quantum mechanics is rusty and probably out of date, and I know much, much less about scholastic metaphysics.  So can any of our readers point me to some useful references on this specific topic? 

I’ve discussed this issue before, and one of Cruz-Uribe’s readers directs him to a blog post of mine in which I responded to a version of this sort of objection raised by physicist Robert Oerter.  Unfortunately, the combox discussion that ensues largely consists of a couple of Cruz-Uribe’s readers competing with each other to see who can emit the most squid ink (though Brandon Watson manfully tries to shine some light into the darkness).  One reader starts things out by writing:

Feser’s… argument seems to boil down to saying, “Just because we can’t find a cause for quantum phenomena doesn’t mean there isn’t one.” … Thing is, Bell has shown that you can’t have local unknown variables in quantum events. Bohm’s interpretation would give you the possibility of unknown variables (thus taking out the random, seemingly acausal, aspect), but at the price of locality (in short, such variables would be global, and not tied to a specific location; so you lose any predictability, anyway).

As readers of the post on Oerter know, this essentially just repeats the completely point-missing objection from Oerter that was the subject of the post, while ignoring what I said in the post in reply to the objection!  The combox discussion goes downhill from there, with so many points missed, questions begged and crucial distinctions blurred that you’d think you were reading Jerry Coyne’s blog. 

Cruz-Uribe’s reader accuses me of having a “weak” understanding of the relevant physics, which is why he launches into the mini lesson on Bell and Bohm.  But it’s his reading skills that are weak, since I made it clear in the post that I wasn’t in the first place making any claim about the physics of systems of the sort in question, and thus wasn’t saying anything that could be incompatible with what we know from physics.  In particular, I wasn’t advocating a “hidden variable theory” or the like, but rather making a purely philosophical point about causality that is entirely independent of such theories.

This is one of many factors that hinder fruitful discussion of these topics even with well-meaning people (like Cruz-Uribe) who know some science but know little philosophy.  They constantly translate philosophical claims into the physics terms that they feel more comfortable and familiar with, and proceed to run off at high speed in the wrong direction. 

This is why you really can’t address specific issues like radioactive decay without first doing some general philosophical stage-setting.  For it’s never really the empirical or scientific details that are doing the work in objections to Scholastic metaphysics like the one at issue.  What’s really doing the work is the ton of philosophical baggage that the critics unreflectively bring to bear on the subject -- the assumptions they read into the physics and then read back out again, thinking they’ve raised a “scientific” objection when what they’ve really done is raised a question-begging philosophical objection disguised as a scientific objection.  

(I imagine that educated religious people like Cruz-Uribe and his readers aren’t fooled by this kind of sleight of hand in other scientific contexts.  For instance, I’d wager that they would be unimpressed by arguments to the effect that neuroscience has shown that free will is an illusion.  As I have argued hereand here, neuroscience has shown no such thing, and such claims invariably rest not on science but on tendentious philosophical assumptions that have been read into the scientific findings.  But exactlythe same thing is true of claims to the effect that quantum mechanics has falsified the principle of causality, or that Newton or Einstein refuted the Aristotelian analysis of change.)

In what follows, then, I will first prepare the ground by calling attention to some common fallacies committed by critics of Scholastic metaphysics who appeal to modern physics -- fallacies some of which are committed by Cruz-Uribe’s readers in the course of their combox discussion.  Anyone wanting to comment intelligently on the subject at hand has to take care to avoid these fallacies.  Second, I will make some general remarks about what a philosophical approach to the subject at hand involves, as opposed to the approach taken by physics.  (I’ve discussed this issue many times before, and indeed did so in a couple of posts -- hereand here-- that followed up the post on Oerter that Cruz-Uribe and his readers were discussing.)  Finally, in light of this background I’ll address the specific issue of radioactive decay and causality.

Fads and fallacies in the name of science

So, let’s consider some of the confusions that are rife in discussions of the relationship between physics on the one hand and philosophy (and in particular Scholastic philosophy) on the other:

A. Conflating empirical and metaphysical issues: Those who know some science but not a lot of philosophy very often assume that when a Scholastic philosopher says something about the nature of causality, or substance, or matter, or the like, then he is making a claim that stands or falls with what physics tells us, or at any rate should stand or fall with what physics tells us.  But this is a category mistake.  Scholastic metaphysics is not in competition with physics, but approaches the phenomena at a different (and indeed deeper) level of analysis.  Its claims do not stand or fall with the findings of physics, any more than the claims of arithmetic stand or fall with the findings of physics.  Indeed, like arithmetic, the basic theses of Scholastic metaphysics are (so the Scholastic argues) something any possible physics must presuppose.

Sometimes the critics assume that Scholastic metaphysics is in competition with physics because they are themselves making question-begging metaphysical assumptions.  For instance, they might assume that any rationally justifiable claim about the nature of matter simply must be susceptible of formulation in the mathematical language of physics, or must be susceptible of empirical falsification.  They are essentially making a metaphysics out of physics.  Only physics can tell us anything about the nature of physical reality (so the critic supposes), so any claim about the nature of physical reality is implicitly, even if not explicitly, a claim of physics.  As we will see below, this cannot possibly be right.  Physics cannot even in principle tell us everythingthere is to know about physical reality (let alone reality more generally).  But even if the assumption in question could be right, it simply begs the question against the Scholastic merely to assert it, since the Scholastic rejects this assumption, and on the basis of arguments that need to be answered rather than ignored (arguments I’ll discuss below). 

Sometimes the conflation of empirical and metaphysical issues is due less to such large-scale philosophical assumptions than to a simple fallacy of equivocation.  Both physicists and Scholastic metaphysicians use terms like “cause,” “matter,” and the like.  A superficial reading therefore often leads critics to assume that they are addressing the same issues, when in fact they are very often not using the key terms in the same sense. 

Sometimes the conflation is due to sheer intellectual sloppiness.  Critics will formulate the issues in ridiculously sweeping terms, making peremptory claims to the effect that “Aristotelianism was refuted by modern science,” for example.  In fact, of course, the labels “Aristotelianism” and “modern science” each cover a large number of distinct and logically independent ideas and arguments, and these need carefully to be disentangled before the question of the relationship between Scholastic metaphysics and modern physics can fruitfully be addressed.  It is no good to say (for example) that since Aristotle’s geocentrism and theory of natural place have been falsified, “therefore” we should not take seriously his theory of act and potency or the account of causality that rests on it.  This is simply a non sequitur.  Such issues are completely independent of one another, logically speaking (regardless of the contingent historicalassociation between them).

B. Conflating genus and species: Even when physicists and Scholastic metaphysicians are using terms in the same sense, critics often confuse what is really only a specific instance of the general class named by a term with the general class itself.  For example, where the notion of “cause” is concerned, Scholastic metaphysicians distinguish between formal, material, efficient, and final causes.  Where efficient causes are concerned, they distinguish between principal and instrumental causes, between series of causes which are essentially ordered and those which are accidentally ordered, and between those which operate simultaneously versus those which are ordered in time.  They distinguish between total causes and partial causes, and between proximate and remote causes.  They regard causality as primarily a feature of substances and only secondarily as a relation between events.  They distinguish between causal powers and the operation of those powers, between active causal power and passive potencies.  And so forth.  All of these distinctions are backed by arguments, and the Scholastic maintains that they are all necessary in order to capture the complexity of causal relations as they exist in the actual world. 

Now, those who criticize Scholastic metaphysics on scientific grounds typically operate with a very narrow understanding of causality.  In particular, they often conceive of it as a deterministic relation holding between temporally separated events.  They will then argue (for example) that quantum mechanics has undermined causality thus understood, and conclude that it has therefore undermined causality full stop.  One problem with this, of course, is that whether quantum mechanics really is incompatible with determinism is a matter of controversy, though as I have said, nothing in the Scholastic position stands or falls with the defensibility of Bohmian hidden variable theories.  The deeper point is that it is simply fallacious to suppose that to undermine one kind of causality (and in one kind of context) is to undermine causality as such.  Certainly it begs the question against the Scholastic, who denies that all causality reduces to deterministic relations holding between temporally separated events.

The conflation of a general class with a specific kind within the general class is evident too in discussions of motion.  Scholastics and other Aristotelians think of motion in general as change, and change as the actualization of potency.  Local motion or change with respect to place or location is just one kind of actualization of a potency, and is metaphysically less fundamental than other kinds.  When motion is discussed in modern physics, however, it is of course local motion that is exclusively in view. 

There is nothing necessarily wrong with this focus, but it would be fallacious to draw, from what modern physics says about “motion” (in the sense of local motion), sweeping conclusions about what Aristotelians say about “motion” (in the sense of the actualization of potency).  This would be to confuse what is true of one kind of change for what is true of change as such.  Yet this kind of fallacious conflation is very common.  Of course, a critic of Scholastic metaphysics might claim that local motion is the only kind of change there really is, but merely to assertthis is simply to beg the question against the Scholastic, who has arguments for the claim that local motion cannotbe the only kind of change there is.  (I have addressed this particular issue in detail elsewhere, e.g. hereand here.)

C. Confusing general principles with specific applications of those principles: When a thinker, whether a philosopher or a scientist, puts forward a general principle, he sometimes illustrates it with examples that later turn out to be deficient.  But it simply doesn’t follow that the general principle itself is mistaken.  For example, people often think of the evolution of the horse as a neat transition from very small animals to ever larger ones, as in the kind of exhibit they might have seen in a natural history museum as a child.  It turns out that things aren’t quite so neat.  There is no hard and fast correlation between the size of a horse and where it appears in the fossil record.  It doesn’t follow, however, that modern horses did not evolve from much smaller animals.  That earlier accounts of the evolution of the horse turn out to be mistaken does not entail that the general principle that horses evolved is mistaken.  (ID enthusiasts are kindly asked to spare us any frantic comments about evolution.  This is not a post about that subject.  It’s just an example.) 

However, though philosophical naturalists never tire of making this point when Darwinism is in question, they suddenly forget it when Aristotelianism or Scholasticism is what is at issue.  For example, Aristotelians defend the reality of final causality -- the idea that natural substances and processes are inherently “directed towards” certain characteristic effects or ranges of effects.  In previous centuries, the idea was often illustrated in terms of Aristotle’s view that heavy objects are naturally directed toward the center of the earth as their “natural place.”  That turns out to be mistaken.  This is often treated as a reason for rejecting the idea of final causality as such, but this simply doesn’t follow.  In general, the deficiencies of this or that illustration of some Scholastic metaphysical thesis are simply not grounds for rejecting the thesis itself.  (I’ve addressed this issue at greater length before, e.g. here, here, and here.)

The limits of physics

So that’s one set of background considerations that must be kept in mind when addressing topics like the one at issue: the begged questions, blurred distinctions, and missed points which  chronically afflict the thinking of those who raise purportedly scientific objections to Scholastic metaphysics.  Let’s move on now to the second set of background considerations, viz. the limits in principle to what physics can tell us about physical reality, and the unavoidability of a deeper metaphysical perspective. 

As I have emphasized many times, what physics gives us is a description of the mathematical structure of physical reality.  It abstracts from any aspect of reality which cannot be captured via its exclusively quantitative methods.  One reason that this is crucial to keep in mind is that from the fact that something doesn’t show up in the description physics gives us, it doesn’t follow that it isn’t there in the physical world.  This is like concluding from the fact that color doesn’t show up in a black and white pen and ink drawing of a banana that bananas must not really be yellow.  It both cases the absence is an artifact of the method employed, and has nothing whatsoever to do with the reality the method is being used to represent.  The method of representing an object using black ink on white paper will necessarily leave out color even if it is there, and the method of representing physical reality using exclusively mathematical language will necessarily leave out any aspect of physical reality which is not reducible to the quantitative, even if such aspects are there.

But it’s not just that such aspects might be there.  They must be there.  The quantitative description physics gives us is essentially a description of mathematical structure.  But mathematical structure by itself is a mere abstraction.  It cannot be all there is, because structure presupposes something concrete which hasthe structure.  Indeed, physics itself tells us that the abstraction cannot be all there is, since it tells us that some abstract mathematical structures do not fit the actual, concrete material world.  For example, Einstein is commonly taken to have shown that our world is not really Euclidean.  This could only be true if there is some concrete reality that instantiates a non-Euclidean abstract structure rather than a Euclidean abstract structure.  So, physics itself implies that there must be more to the world than the abstract structure it captures in its purely mathematical description, but it does not and cannot tell us exactly what this concrete reality is like. 

That physics by itself only gives us abstract structure is by no means either a new point or a point emphasized by Scholastics alone.  It was made in earlier generations by thinkers like Poincaré, Russell, Eddington, Weyl, and others, and in recent philosophy has been emphasized by Grover Maxwell, Michael Lockwood, Simon Blackburn, David Chalmers, and others. 

Moreover, we know there must be more to causality specifically than physics does or could tell us about.  The early Russell once argued that causation must not be a real feature of the world precisely because it does not show up in the description of the world physics gives us.  For physics, says Russell, describes the world in terms of differential equations describing functional relations between events, and these equations make no reference to causes.  “In the motions of mutually gravitating bodies, there is nothing that can be called a cause, and nothing that can be called an effect; there is merely a formula” (“On the Notion of Cause,” pp. 173-74).  Russell’s position has been the subject of a fair bit of attention in recent philosophy (e.g. here). 

Now, I don’t myself think it is quite right to say that physics makes no use of causal notions, since I think that physics tells us something about the dispositional features of fundamental particles, and dispositionality is a causal notion.  Still, as other philosophers have argued, higher-level causal features -- such as the causation we take ourselves to experience continuously in everyday life, in the behavior of tables, chairs, rocks, trees, and other ordinary objects -- are more difficult to cash out in terms of what is going on at the micro level described by physics.  Hilary Putnam is one contemporary philosopher who has addressed this problem, as I noted in a post from a few years ago.  Trenton Merricks is another, and argues that at least macro-level inanimate objects are unreal, since (he claims) they play no causal role in the world over and above the causal role played by their microphysical parts.

Merricks thinks living things are real, and certainly a Russell-style across-the-board denial of causation would be incoherent, for a reason implicit in a fact that the later Russell himself emphasized.  Our perceptual experiences give us knowledge of the external physical world only because they are causally related to that world.  To deny causality in the name of science would therefore be to undermine the very empirical foundations of science. 

Now, if there must be causality at the macro level (at the very least in the case of the causal relations between the external world and our perceptual experiences of it), and this causality is not captured in the description of the world that physics itself gives us, then it follows that there is more to causality than physics can tell us.  And even if you dispute the views of Russell, Putnam, Merricks, et al., physics itself is not going to settle the matter.  For it is not an empirical matter, but a philosophical dispute about how to interpret the empirical evidence.

(Nor will it do to dismiss such disputes on the grounds that the competing views about them are “unfalsifiable.”  It may be that there is no human being more comically clueless than the New Atheist combox troll who thinks he can dismiss philosophy on grounds of falsificationism -- a thesis put forward by a philosopher, Karl Popper.  As Popper himself realized, falsificationism is not itself a scientific thesis but a meta-level claim about science.)

If physics in general raises philosophical questions it cannot answer, the same is if anything even more clearly true of quantum mechanics in particular.  Feynman’s famous remark that nobody understands quantum mechanics is an overstatement, but it is certainly by no means obvious how to interpret some of the theory’s stranger aspects.  Quantum mechanics has been claimed to “show” all sorts of things -- that the law of excluded middle is false, that scientific realism is false, that idealism is true, etc.  By itself it shows none of these things.  In each case, certain philosophical assumptions are first read intoquantum mechanics and then read out again.  But the same thing is true of claims to the effect that quantum mechanics undermines causality.  By itself it does not, and could not, show such a thing either.  Here as in the other cases, it is the metaphysical background assumptions we bring to bear on quantum mechanics that determine how we interpret it.  This is as true of philosophical naturalists, atheists, et al. as it is of Scholastics. 

Now, the Scholastic metaphysician argues, on grounds entirely independent of questions about how to interpret quantum mechanics, that there are a number of metaphysical theses that any possible empirical science is going to have to presuppose.  Most fundamentally, there is the Aristotelian theory of act and potency, according to which we cannot make sense of change as a real feature of the world unless we recognize that there is, in addition to what is actual on the one hand, and sheer nothingnesson the other, a middle ground of potentiality.  Change is the actualization of a potentiality, and unless we affirm this we will be stuck with a static Parmenidean conception of the world.  And that is not an option, because the existence of change cannot coherently be denied.  Even to work through the steps of an argument for the non-existence of change is itself an instance of change.  Sensory experience – and thus the observation and experiment on which empirical science rests – presupposes real change.  (Hence it is incoherent to suggest, as is sometimes done, that relativity shows that change is illusory, since the evidence for relativity presupposes sensory experience and thus change.)

Now, the main concepts of the Aristotelian-Scholastic metaphysical apparatus – substantial form and prime matter, final causality and efficient causality, and so forth – are essentially an outworking of the theory of act and potency.  You can argue about whether this or that object truly has a substantial form or is merely an aggregate, about whether we have correctly identified and characterized the teleological features of such-and-such a natural process, and so on.  What cannot be denied is that substantial form, teleology, etc. are bedrock features of the natural order and will inevitably feature in a complete picture of the physical world at somelevel of analysis.  All of that follows from a consistent application of the theory of act and potency.  It also cannot be denied that any potential that is actualized is actualized by something already actual.  That is the core of the “principle of causality,” and It follows from the principle of sufficient reason -- a principle which, rightly understood, also cannot coherently be denied.  

I spell out the reasons for all of this in detail, and also discuss the inherent limitations of empirical science, in Scholastic Metaphysics.  The point to emphasize for present purposes is that the Scholastic holds that there a number of general metaphysical truths which we can know completely independently of particular disputes within physics or any other empirical science, precisely because they rest on what any possible empirical science must itself presuppose.  (One of Cruz-Uribe’s readers insinuates that in resting its key theses on something other than empirical science, Scholastic metaphysics undermines the possibility of any common ground with its critics.  But this is precisely the reverse of the truth and once again completely misses the point.  Since Scholastic metaphysical arguments begin with what empirical science presupposes -- for example, the possibility of sensory experience, and the possibility of at least partial explanations -- they thereby begin precisely with what the critics already accept, not with what they reject.)

Radioactive decay

So, here is where we are before we even get to the issue of radioactive decay:  Purportedly physics-based objections to Scholastic metaphysics – including objections to Scholastic claims about causality -- are, as a matter of course, poorly thought out.  They commonly blur the distinction between empirical and philosophical claims, confuse what is really only one notion of causality with causality as such, and confuse mere illustrations or applications of general metaphysical principles with the principles themselves.  Meanwhile, we know on independent grounds that physics, of its very nature, cannot in principle tell us everything there is to know about physical reality, including especially the causal features of physical reality.  Its exclusively mathematical conceptual apparatus necessarily leaves out whatever cannot be captured in quantitative terms.  Physics also implies that there must be something more to physical reality than what it captures, since mathematical structure is of itself a mere abstraction and there must be some concrete reality which has the structure.

We also know that quantum mechanics in particular raises all sorts of puzzling metaphysical questions (not merely about causality) that it cannot answer.  And, the Scholastic argues, we know on independent grounds – grounds that any possible empirical science must presuppose – that there are a number of metaphysical truths that we must bring to bear on our understanding of the world whatever the specific empirical facts turn out to be, including the truth that causality must be a real feature of the world.

So, when critics glibly allege that radioactive decay or other quantum phenomena undermine causality, the trouble is that they are making a charge that doesn’t even rise to the level of being well thought out.  It is preposterous to pretend that the burden of proof is on the Scholastic to show that quantum mechanics is compatible with Scholastic claims about causality.  The burden of proof is rather on the critic to show that there really is any incompatibility.  (Few people would claim that the burden of proof is on anyone to prove that quantum mechanics doesn’t establish idealism, or doesn’tundermine the law of excluded middle, or doesn’t refute scientific realism.  It is generally realized that the claims in question here are very large ones that go well beyond anything quantum mechanics itself can be said to establish, so that the burden of proof is on anyone who wants to claim quantum mechanics has such sweeping implications.  So why is the burden of proof on the Scholastic to show that quantum mechanics doesn’t undermine causality?)

In particular, the critic owes us an account of why, since physics cannot in principle capture all there is to physical reality in the first place -- and in particular arguably fails entirely (as Russell held) to capture causality in general -- we should regard it as especially noteworthy if it fails to capture causality in one particular case.  If the critic, like the early Russell, denies that there is any causality at all, he owes us an account of how he can coherently take such a position, and in particular how he can account for our knowledge of the world physics tells us about if we have no causal contact with it.  If the critic says instead that genuine causality does exist in some parts of nature but not in the particular cases he thinks quantum mechanics casts doubt on, he owes us an account of why we should draw the line where he says we should, and how there could besuch a line.  (As we had reason to note recently with respect to PSR, it is difficult to see how it could be coherent to think that things are in principle explicable in some cases while denying that they are in general explicable in principle.  Yet to affirm the principle of causality in some cases and deny it in others seems similarly incoherent.) 

In short, anyone who claims that quantum mechanics undermines Scholastic metaphysical claims about causality owes us an alternative worked-out metaphysical picture before we should take him seriously (just as anyone who would claim that quantum mechanics undermines the law of excluded middle owes us an alternative system of logic if we are to take him seriously).  And if he gives us one, it would really be that metaphysical system itself, rather than quantum mechanics per se, that is doing the heavy lifting.

Now, no one expects a logician to launch into a mini treatise on quantum mechanics before setting forth a textbook exposition of classical logic, law of excluded middle and all.  The reason is that it is widely understood that it is just false to say flatly that “Quantum mechanics has undermined classical logic.”  Quantum mechanics has done no such thing.  Rather, some people have been led by their metaphysical speculations about quantum mechanics to wonder whether logic might be rewritten without the law of excluded middle.  Logicians who have independent grounds to think that the law of excluded middle cannotbe false have no reason to take these speculations very seriously or respond in detail to them when going about their ordinary work.

Similarly, there is no reason why a Scholastic metaphysician should be expected to launch into a detailed discussion of quantum mechanics before deploying the principle of causality in a general metaphysical context, or when giving an argument for the existence of God.  For it is also simply false to say that “Quantum mechanics has undermined the principle of causality.”  It has done no such thing.  The most that one can say is that some people have been led by their metaphysical speculations about quantum mechanics to wonder whether metaphysics might be rewritten in a way that does without the principle of causality.  But metaphysicians who have independent grounds to think that the principle of causality cannot be false have no reason to take these speculations very seriously or to respond in detail to them when going about their ordinary work.

Of course, logicians have examined proposed non-classical systems of logic, and classical logicians have put forward criticisms of these alternative systems.  The point is that their doing so is not a prerequisite of their being rationally justified in using classical logic.  Similarly, a Scholastic metaphysician, especially if he is interested in questions about philosophy of nature and philosophy of physics, can and should address questions about how to interpret various puzzling aspects of quantum mechanics.  But the point is that doing so is not a prerequisite to his being rationally justified in appealing to the principle of causality in general metaphysics or in presenting a First Cause argument for the existence of God.

But how might a Scholastic interpret phenomena like radioactive decay?  I hinted at one possible approach in the post on Oerter linked to above, an approach which is suggested by the way some Scholastic philosophers have thought about local motion.  Some of these thinkers, and Aquinas in particular, take the view that a substance can manifest certain dispositions in a “spontaneous” way in the sense that these manifestations simply follow from its nature or substantial form.  A thing’s natural tendencies vis-à-vis local motion would be an example.  These motions simply follow from the thing’s substantial form and do not require a continuously conjoined external mover.  Now, that is not to say that the motion in question does not have an efficient cause.  But the efficient cause is just whatever generated the substance and thus gave it the substantial form that accounts (qua formal cause) for its natural local motion.  (It is commonly but erroneously thought that medieval Aristotelians in general thought that all local motion as such required a continuously conjoined cause.  In fact that was true only of some of these thinkers, not all of them.  For detailed discussion of this issue, see James Weisheipl’s book Nature and Motion in the Middle Ages, from which I borrow the language of “spontaneity.”  I also discuss these issues in more detail here.)

Now, Aquinas himself elaborated on this idea in conjunction with the thesis that the “natural place” toward which heavy objects are inclined to move is the center of the earth, and he supposed also that projectilemotions required a conjoined mover insofar as he regarded them as “violent” rather than natural.  Both of these suppositions are outmoded, but the more general thesis summarized in the preceding paragraph is logically independent of them and can easily be disentangled from them.  One can consistently affirm (a) that a substance will tend toward a certain kind of local motion simply because of its substantial form, while rejecting the claim that (b) this local motion involves movement toward a certain specific place, such as the center of the earth.  (This is a point missed by one of the more clueless commentators in Cruz-Uribe’s combox, whose capacity for grasping obvious distinctions is not much better than his reading ability.  He ridicules the distinction I make here without offering the slightest explanation of what exactly is wrong with it.) 

Indeed, some contemporary Aristotelians have proposed that affirming (a) while rejecting (b) is the right way to think about inertialmotion: Newton’s principle of inertia, on this view, is a description of the way a physical object will tend to behave vis-à-vis local motion given its nature or substantial form.  (Again, see this article for discussion of the relevant literature.)  The point for present purposes, though, is that the idea just described also provides a model -- I don’t say it is the only model, just a model -- for understanding what is going on metaphysically with phenomena like radioactive decay. 

The idea would be this.  Let’s borrow an example from philosopher of science Phil Dowe’s book Physical Causation, since I’ll have reason to return to the use he makes of it in a moment.  Dowe writes:

Suppose that we have an unstable lead atom, say Pb210.  Such an atom may decay, without outside interference, by α-decay into the mercury atom Hg206.  Suppose the probability that the atom will decay in the next minute is x.  Then

                        P(E|C) = x

where C is the existence of the lead atom at a certain time t1, and E is the production of the mercury atom within the minute immediately following t1.  (pp. 22-23)

Now, applying the conceptual apparatus borrowed from Aquinas (which, I should add, Dowe himself does not do), we can say that the decay in question is “spontaneous” in something like the way Aquinas thought the natural local motion of a physical substance is “spontaneous.”  In particular, given the nature or substantial form of Pb210, there is a probability of x that it will decay in the next minute.  The probability is not unintelligible, but grounded in what it is to be Pb210 .  The decay thus has a cause in the sensethat (i) it has a formal cause in the nature or substantial form of the particular Pb210 atom, and (ii) it has an efficient cause in whatever it was that originally generated that Pb210 atom (whenever that was). 

It is worth noting that you don’t need to be a Scholastic to think that there really is causation in cases like this, which brings me to Dowe’s own use of this example.  As Dowe notes, even if it is claimed that decay phenomena are incompatible with deterministic causality, it doesn’t follow that there is no causality at all in such cases.  All that would follow is that the causality is not deterministic.  In defense of the claim that there is causality of at least an indeterministic sort in cases like the one he cites, he writes:

If I bring a bucket of Pb210into the room, and you get radiation sickness, then doubtless I am responsible for your ailment.  But in this type of case, I cannot be morally responsible for an action for which I am not causally responsible.  Now the causal chain linking my action and your sickness involves a connection constituted by numerous connections like the one just described.  Thus the insistence that C does not cause E on the grounds that there’s no deterministic link entails that I am not morally responsible for your sickness.  Which is sick.  (p. 23)

Dowe also points out that “scientists describe such cases of decay as instances of production of Hg206… [and] ‘production’ is a near-synonym for ‘causation’” (p. 23).  This sounds paradoxical only if we fallaciously conflate deterministiccausality and causality as such.

Interestingly, elsewhere in his book, Dowe argues that Newton’s first law should be interpreted as entailing, not that a body’s uniform motion has no cause, but rather that its inertia, conceived of as a property of a body, is its cause (pp. 53-54).  This dovetails with the analysis of inertial motion given by some contemporary Aristotelians, to which I alluded above.  John Losee, in his book Theories of Causality, discusses Dowe’s views and notes the parallel between what Dowe says about radioactive decay and what he says about inertia (p. 126).  The parallel, I would say (using notions neither Dowe nor Losee appeal to), is this: In both cases, Dowe is describing the way a thing will “spontaneously” tend to behave given its nature or substantial form (albeit the manifestation of the tendency is probabilistic in the case of Pb210 but not in the case of inertial motion). 

So, Dowe’s views seem to some extent to recapitulate the elements of the Aquinas-inspired account of radioactive decay sketched above, which I earlier put forward in the post replying to Oerter.  It is worth emphasizing that neither Dowe nor Losee has any Scholastic ax to grind, and that I came across their work long after writing that post -- so as to forestall any objection to the effect that the proposed account is somehow a merely ad hoc way to try to get round the objection from radioactive decay (an objection that would be absurd in any case given that the basic concepts made use of in the proposed account are centuries old).  On the contrary, it is an account that someone could accept whateverhis views about Scholastic metaphysics in general, or about the application of the principle of causality to arguments for God’s existence.

In any event, as I have said, the burden of proof is not on the Scholastic metaphysician to provide an account of how radioactive decay can be reconciled with the principle of causality, because claims to the effect that there is an incompatibility are not even well-motivated in the first place.  The burden of proof is rather on the critic of Scholastic metaphysics to develop an alternative metaphysical framework on which the rejection of the principle of causality is defensible, and within which the critic might embed his favored interpretation of quantum mechanics.  But don’t hold your breath.  For the Scholastic has grounds entirely independent of issues about quantum mechanics or radioactive decayto conclude that no such alternative metaphysics is forthcoming. 
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