Why Jesus died many times for our sins

St. Augustine was sure that Jesus died just once for our sins. However, Jesus died not only in our particular universe but also in many other parallel universes that are as real as ours.

Let’s explore the chain of reasoning behind this claim. One assumption is that whether a particular parallel universe exists falls within the field of astrophysics, not theology nor logic.

Astrophysics’ well-accepted Big Bang theory with eternal inflation implies a multiverse containing an unlimited number of parallel universes obeying the same scientific laws as in our particular universe. These other universes (which the physicist Max Tegmark calls Type 1 universes) are distant parts of physical reality. They are not abstract objects. Some contain flesh and blood beings.

Parallel universes are not parallel to anything. They are very similar to what David Lewis called possible worlds, but they aren’t the same because his possible worlds must be spatiotemporally disconnected from each other.

I cannot state specific criteria for transuniverse identity, but we do need the assumption that, in a universe, personal identity (whatever it is) supervenes on the physical realm. That is, a person can’t change without something physical changing. It is also reasonable to require that in any parallel universe in which Jesus exists he has Mary and Joseph as parents.

The claim that Jesus in our universe is identical to Jesus in another universe does conflict with the intuitively plausible metaphysical principle that a physical object is not wholly in two places at once. This principle is useful to accept in our ordinary experience, but it is not accepted in contemporary physics. The Schrödinger equation of quantum field theory describes the extent to which a particle is wholly in many places at once. This is why physicists prefer to say the nucleus of a hydrogen atom is surrounded by an electron cloud rather than by an electron. In the double-slit interference experiment, a single particle goes through two slits at the same time. So, the metaphysical principle should not be used a priori to refute our claim about the transuniverse identity of Jesus.

Our universe is the product of our Big Bang that occurred 13.8 billion years ago. It is approximately that part of physical reality we can observe, which is an expanding sphere with the Earth at the center, having a radius of 13.8 billion light years.

Our universe once was a tiny bit of explosively inflating material. The energy causing the inflation was transformed into a dense gas of expanding hot radiation. This expansion has never stopped. But with expansion came cooling, and this allowed individual material particles to condense from the cooling radiation and eventually to clump into atoms and stars and then into Jesus.

The other Type 1 parallel universes have their own Big Bangs, but they are currently not observable from Earth. However, they are expanding and might eventually penetrate each other. But, they might not. It all depends on whether inflation of dark energy is creating intervening space among the universes faster than the universes can expand toward each other. Scientists don’t have a clear understanding of which is the case.

Why trust the Big Bang theory with eternal inflation? Is it even scientific, or is it mere metaphysical speculation? The crude answer is that the theory has no better competitors, and it is has been indirectly tested successfully. Its testable implications are, for example, that the results of measuring cosmic microwave-background radiation reaching Earth should have certain specific quantitative features. These features have been discovered—some only in the last five years. The theory also implies a multiverse of parallel universes having our known laws of science but perhaps different histories. If we accept a theory for its testable implications, then it would be a philosophical mistake not to accept its other implications.

One other important assumption being made is that the cosmic microwave-background experiments have not detected any overall curvature in our universe because our universe is in fact not curved. Our universe being curved but finite is also consistent with all our observations. Similarly, if you are standing on a very large globe, it can look flat to you. If our 3-D universe is finite but curved like the surface of a 4-D hypersphere, then space would be extremely large with a very small curvature, but there would be only a finite number of parallel universes, and the argument about Jesus would break down. The most common assumption now among astrophysicists is that our universe is in fact infinite, the multiverse is infinite, and matter is approximately uniformly distributed throughout the multiverse. As Max Tegmark has pointed out, twenty years ago there were many astrophysicists opposed to parallel universes. They would say, “The idea is ridiculous, and I hate it.” Now, there are few opponents of parallel universes, and they say, “I hate it.”

Having established that there are infinitely many parallel universes with the same laws but perhaps different histories, let’s return to the issue of whether Jesus died in more than one of them. One implication of the Big Bang theory with eternal inflation is that some universes are exact duplicates of each other. Here is why. If you shuffle a deck of playing cards enough times, then eventually you will have duplicate orderings. The duplicate orderings are the same, not just “David Lewis counterparts.” Similarly, if you have enough finite universes, which are just patterns of elementary particles, and each has a finite number of possible quantum states, then every universe has an infinite number of duplicates.

One controversial assumption used here is the holographic principle: Even if spacetime were continuous, it is effectively discrete or pixilated at the Planck level. This means that it can make no effective difference to anything if an object is at position x meters as opposed to position x + 10 ^-35 meters.

This completes the analysis of the chain of reasoning for why Jesus died more than once for our sins. Have you noticed any weak links?

Brad Dowden

Department of Philosophy

Sacramento State

A dilemma for Utilitarians

How do Utilitarians understand the judgments they derive from the Utilitarian calculus? Let’s work with an example. Here’s one:

G: It is morally right (required) to give 10% of your income to people who are less fortunate than yourselves (because doing so would maximize utility).

I’m not interested in whether G is true. Let’s assume it is. I’m interested in how Utilitarians understand G.

One way they might understand G is to say, well, G is a moral judgment. Moral judgments are (by definition) normative. They are claims or directives asserting that there are quite strong reasons for acting. G, then, can be roughly translated as

G1 “You have significantly weighty reason to give 10% of your income to the less fortunate.” Or,

G2 (“You must) give 10% of your income to the less fortunate.”

More: if these claims are genuinely moral, truly justified, then they can’t legitimately be simply shrugged off. So you can add to the translation above by saying

G3 “If you don’t give 10% of your income to the less fortunate, then you’re blameworthy.” And,

G4 “If you don’t give 10% of your income to the less fortunate, then you should feel guilty.”

What if I don’t agree that I have this significantly weighty reason? (I reflect and introspect about my reasons, and that one just ain’t there. How does the Utilitarian know better than me what reasons for action I have?) What if rather I think it would be really nice for me to do it, but it isn’t required and so guilt and blame would be inappropriate. I can understand how nice it would be, but I don’t understand anyone getting angry at me if I don’t. I mean I know (we’re supposing) that doing this will maximize utility, but why must I do that?

But on this first way of understanding G for a Utilitarian (where G implies G1-G4), my view about what reasons I have don’t matter. Only the Utilitarian calculus does (or the Utilitarian’s calculation of net aggregate happiness does). Utilitarians don’t care about my view about what I have reason to do. They don’t care about whether G1-G4 make sense from my considered point of view. But that seems oppressive. It seems less like a justified pronouncement of moral authority and more like authoritarianism – Utilitarians just bossing me around or using moral language to manipulate me into doing what they want me to do.

I have Utilitarian friends (well, can Utilitarians actually be friends?) who will deny that G means G1-G4. Instead they say nothing practical straightforwardly follows from G. It’s good, in some sense, when it happens that utility is maximized, but it turns out that moral judgments aren’t actually judgments about what people have reason to do. “Giving 10% of your income to the less fortunate is ‘right’” these Utilitarians would be saying, “but I don’t know what to tell you to do.” So, people who fail to give 10% of their income to the less fortunate would be failing to maximize utility, but that doesn’t mean they’re blameworthy or that they acted against really strong reasons for action. Therefore, the judgment isn’t authoritative; G is just a claim about what would maximize utility and so, according to Utilitarianism, the “right” action. But you might not have particularly strong reason to do the “right” action.

But if G is understood in this way, instead of being oppressive, it’s simply inert. These ‘moral’ judgments seem like abstract theoretical claims and don’t even claim normativity for themselves. This option is at least odd because morality is typically thought to be normative, playing an important practical role in human relations.

Either way, Utilitarianism seems like a pretty revisionist view, and not in a good way.

Kyle Swan

Department of Philosophy

Sacramento State

The explanatory reductio

“It ain’t what you don’t know that gets you into trouble. It’s what you know for sure that just ain’t so.”

                                                                                                                                     ~ Mark Twain

One simple way of identifying the defining characteristic of an explanation is to distinguish it from an argument. Whereas an argument provides reasons we should believe something, an explanation provides reasons why something we already believe, actually occurs.  In rhyme:

• An argument says how we know. 
• An explanation says why it is so.

This is an excellent general purpose way to think about the nature of explanation (and argument) and I recommend tattooing it somewhere special. 

But it isn't the whole story. To appreciate why, let's begin with Twain's lovely remark: Sometimes what we know just ain't so.  Of course, if you are accustomed to philosophical usage, you'll see that this is paradoxical: knowledge implies truth. So, in more quotidian terms, Twain is observing that we are often utterly convinced of things that turn out to be false.

I doubt any reader of this blog will need to be convinced of Twain's fundamental point, that passionate commitment to falsehoods can cause far greater harm than simple ignorance.  My point is that what we know that ain't so is also a nice way to  appreciate the fact that explanation has a larger role than simply accounting for the facts.

Consider an everyday example.  I get a check in the mail saying that I have just won 10 million dollars. Do I even bother to open it?  Nope.  I can partly defend this by appeal to probability and expected value: It is so fantastically unlikely that 10 million dollars would simply drop out of the sky that the time it would take to inquire is far more trouble than its worth. But the other, equally important way of accounting for it is explanatory in nature: Why the hell would anyone just give me 10 million dollars? If there is no plausible explanation, maybe that's because they didn't.

Now, what exactly am I doing when I put the matter this way?  Am I accepting it as actual fact that I won 10 million dollars and proceeding to explain said fact?  No, rather, I am engaging in what I will call an explanatory reductio ad absurdum.  

You are familiar with the standard reductio:  We accept a claim for the sake of argument, and show that it implies an absurdity.  In the explanatory reductio we accept something for the sake of explanation, and show that it rests on an absurd understanding of the world.

Here is one of my favorite New Yorker cartoons, which makes the point beautifully.

So our powers of explanation do not, as our initial definition suggests, exist simply to help us understand independently established facts. Rather, we often engage in explanation in order to determine whether we've got hold of the right ones. 

Some other examples:

Did you see the movie A Beautiful Mind?  There is a poignant moment in which John Nash, a (real life) brilliant mathematician and game-theoretician suffering from schizophrenia uses the power of pure reason to break the grip of his mental illness and convince himself that a young girl appearing to him over a long period of time is not real. 

Nash uses an explanatory reductio:  If she is real, why doesn't she get older?

Another.  I recently read Philip Roth's book American Pastoral.  It is predicated on a sensationally unlikely event: A teenage girl raised in an affluent New York family by two devoted and loving parents (allegedly) bombs a local post office, killing a local man, an (apparently) loco act of protest against the Vietnam War, and then (unquestionably) disappears. Almost the entire book is an act of excruciating soul searching in which the girl's father attempts to understand how a child he raised could have performed such an abominable act. There is just no explanation for it compatible with his understanding of the world. Consequently- he often confidently concludes, only to reverse himself a moment later- she simply could not have done it.

Or consider an example from science.  You are probably familiar with the Alvarez hypothesis (named after Walter Alvarez and his famous dad Luis) which claims that the massive extinction at the end of the Cretaceous period  (think dinosaurs) was caused by a massive asteroid. Although widely accepted today, it was initially met with scorn by the scientific community, especially by biologists who were deeply committed to the view that evolution necessarily occurs gradually. The gradualists employed an explanatory reductio: The very fact, Professors Alvarez, that you must appeal to Biblical scenarios like this one to explain this sudden massive extinction of the dinosaurs is a very good reason for thinking that no such extinction event ever occurred (i.e., that it is just an illusion created by an incomplete fossil record.)

The famous theoretical physicist Richard Feynman characterized the explanatory reductio about as elegantly as one can in this brief clip:

Ok, enough, now you are coming up with examples of your own. They're everywhere. So what is the subtler account of explanation that emerges here?

Try this: Explanation is fundamentally an attempt to improve our understanding of the world. Sometimes accepted facts will challenge our limited understanding and we are forced to develop better theories to account for them. Other times a better understanding of the world will challenge our 'facts', and we are forced to consider the possibility that what we know just ain't so. On those occasions, our understanding will be improved by explaining how we came to be convinced of a falsehood.  As I'll explain in a future post, a very large number of pivotal explanatory episodes in the history of science can be understood in this way, not as the explanation of accepted facts, but as the explanation of universal illusions.

G. Randolph Mayes
Department of Philosophy
Sacramento State

What are you reading this summer?

Brad Dowden

• Our Mathematical Universe: My Quest for the Ultimate Nature of Reality, by Max Tegmark

Randy Mayes

• Decoding the Universe: How the New Science of Information is Explaining Everything in the Cosmos, from Our Brains to Black Holes, by Charles Seife
• In the Light of What We Know: A Novel, by Zia Rahman

David Corner

• A Metaphysics for Freedom, by Helen Steward
• Things that Happen Because They Should, by Rowland Stout

Scott Merlino

• Italian Folktales, by Italo Calvino
• The Improbability Principle, by David Hand

Matt McCormick

• The Martian, by Andy Weir
• Big Gods: How Religion Transformed Cooperation and Conflict, by Ara Norenzayan
• Sex at Dawn, by Christopher Ryan
• Proving History:  Bayes' Theorem and the Quest for the Historical Jesus, by Richard Carrier

Clovis Karam

• Teilhard in the 21st Century: The Emerging Spirit of Earth, by Don St. John and Arthur Fabel, eds.

Christina Bellon

• Plato at the Googleplex: Why Philosophy Won't Go Away, by Rebecca Goldstein
• What Money Can't Buy:  The Moral Limits of Markets, by Michael J. Sandel
• Jerusalem: The Biography, by Simon Montefiore
• Nudge: Improving Decisions about Health, Wealth and Happiness, by Robert Thaler and Cass Sunstein

Jonathan Chen

• Half the Sky, by Nicholas Kristoff
• A Visit from the Goon Squad, by Jenifer Egan

Gale Justin

• Secrets of the Seasons: Orbiting the Sun in Our Backyard, by Kathleen Weidner Zoehfeld, illustrated by Priscilla Lamont
• Philosophos: Plato's Missing Dialogue, by Mary Louise Gill

Thomas Pyne

• Form and Matter: Themes in Contemporary Metaphysics, by David Oderberg, ed.
• Contemporary Aristotelian Metaphysics, by Tuomas Tahko
• Books by Patrick O'Brien, author of Master and Commander series
• The symphonies of Anton Bruckner

Kyle Swan

• The Grammar of Society: The Nature and Dynamics of Social Norms, Christina Bicchieri 
• Red Plenty by Francis Spufford

Russell DiSilvestro

• Just Babies: The Origin of Good and Evil,  by Paul Bloom
• The Screwtape Letters, by C.S. Lewis

Clifford Anderson

• The Sixth Extinction, by Elizabeth Kolbert
• 50 Myths and Lies That Threaten America's Public Schools, by David Berliner and Gene Glass

David Denman

• A Chorus of Stones: The Private Life of War, by Susan Griffin

Rationalize that!

If I could take one word back from the English language, change its common meaning without anyone noticing, it would be: rationalize.

Don't get me wrong.  I think it's cool that English words evolve over time, even when it's due to error. (Hey, that's how evolution works, right?)  I don't mind that it's now OK to say literally when you mean figuratively or nonplussed when you mean unperturbed.  I don't even really care about the plundering of philosophical terms like begs the question, which now means something completely different in the vernacular (raises the question) than it does when we use it in informal logic (takes for granted the point at issue).

But rationalize? Come on.  Certainly the obvious and intuitive meaning of rationalize is: to make more rational. But today the term has come to mean almost exclusively the opposite: to make something appear rational, when it is not. Dude, you know this is bullshit, you're just rationalizing.

Well, before I explain why I really find this meaning irritating, I have to admit that it isn't quite as perverse as I make out.  The suffix 'ize' means 'to cause to be or be like'.  And, of course, once you dance into the semantic cloud of similarity and appearance, it is a small step from 'be like' to 'seem like.'  Still, while the word rational isn't the only term to suffer izing in this way (moralize, criminalize, glamorize), it's worth noting that the vast majority of words that endinize do not experience this reversal of meaning.

OK, so what particularly bothers me about the ordinary meaning of the term is this: absent it's negative connotation, rationalization would be the absolutely best word in the English language for describing what philosophers are generally up to. The aim of philosophy is just to make the world a more rational place.  We examine systems of thought (scientific, religious, moral, aesthetic, legal, political, etc.) and we try to make them more reason friendly.

Take normative ethics. What's up with that?  Well, basically we have a bunch of different ways of thinking about morality which often produce contradictory moral judgments.  Philosophers are trying to rationalize the conceptual framework of ethics, so that competent users will more often arrive at the same answers to the same questions.

Or pick a topic in metaphysics, say free will.  Here we have a term in wide use, one that seems to be critical to our ascriptions of moral responsibility, but for which the most common meaning involves the attribution of supernatural abilities to human beings. Since we have fairly recently learned that humans are not supernatural beings, but exceedingly clever apes, we need to figure out how to rationalize the concept of free will; we need to make it compatible with what we know to be our true cognitive and behavioral capacities.

Or take my favorite area, philosophy of science. Within almost every scientific discipline there are tribes that disagree with each other, not just about empirical matters, but about terms and concepts. Physicists mostly agree about how to take measurements, but they do not agree about what a measurement is. Biologists all agree that species evolve, but they do not agree about what a species is. Economists agree that they study the behavior of agents under conditions of scarcity, but they do not agree what an agent is. Science is still remarkably under rationalized.

Note, when I say it's the business of philosophy to rationalize conceptual frameworks, I don't mean that this is always a necessary or useful thing to do.  The world benefits a great deal from people thinking differently about things, and part of what makes this possible is under rationalization.  In a prematurely rationalized system, everyone is on the same page, but it is the wrong page, and we can no longer turn it.

So is this just a rant, or is there any realistic hope of retrieving the word rationalize and purging it of its overwhelmingly negative connotations?  I think there is a ray of hope. Today it is increasingly common to speak of the goal of rationalizing industries. This is a term of art from economics. It describes the aim of eliminating inefficiency, the friction that impedes smooth commerce. It is particularly descriptive of the aims of the knowledge economy, which focuses on eliminating barriers to effective communication.  Everyone knows that it is fantastically easier today to make appointments, purchases, travel arrangements and financial transactions than ever before. Economists say that this is because these processes have all been rationalized to a significant degree.

Why not summon this use of the term back into common usage?

Dude, why is instant replay being used so much more in sports these days to review the calls of umpires and referees? Well, clearly, they are rationalizing the officiating process. You say that like it's a good thing. Well, of course it is, you want to get the call right don't you? I don't know, I kind of like the human element, maybe we're over rationalizing?  

Did you hear they've eliminated toll booths on the Golden Gate Bridge?  Yeah, it's cool. They're really starting to rationalize highway transportation. Can't wait for robot cars. Ick, not me.  I really like traffic jams and car crashes. Keeps life interesting you know? 

Hey, do you use Venmo? Oh, hell yes, it's awesome!  Totally rationalizes payback. Get it. Oh, I don't know. I don't think I want payback rationalized. I like the old days when you could bum money and then just, like, forget about it.

So talk like this from now on, I beseech you. Do your part to cleanse rationalization of its contronymity! Of course, I know this won't appeal to everyone, especially those who like to think of philosophy as having more profound aims than making our reasoning spaces more user friendly. But once rationalization has come to mean something good again, there's nothing preventing us from running with it.  Deep rationalization, anyone?

G. Randolph Mayes
Department of Philosophy
Sacramento State

What is so philosophical about measurement?

Let’s start by framing some analytical questions.

Scientific engagement with the world by making measurements tells us something about reality. Engagement by measurement involves a physical interaction with the world. Scientists use instruments to monitor, examine, and sometimes poke and prod the objects of measurement. Engagement by measurement also involves gathering information about the world. Through measurement we get outputs that tell us something about the objects of measurement. What does engagement by measurement tell us about reality? This can be broken down into two simpler questions. First, what sort of physical interaction occurs during measurement? That is, what is the relationship between measurement practice and the thing measured? Answering this question will depend on characterizing both the process of measurement and the target of measurement—sometimes referred to as ‘the phenomenon’ or ‘the real system’. Second, what sort of information does scientific measurement provide? This is a question about the reliability of scientific measurement practices and also about the kind of realism that these practices ground.

Why is measurement important for the philosopher as well as the scientist?

A theory of measurement useful for philosophers and scientists should account for interaction and information. Cartwright and Chang (2008) nicely summarize the interests of scientists and philosophers when it comes to asking questions about measurement. Cartwright and Chang write, “To the practitioner, the all-important question is whether measurements are carried out correctly” (2008, 367). In a scientific context, questions about correct measurement break down to questions about reliability and error within the measurement process. Some examples of practical questions during measurement might be: did we calibrate the instrument properly; were confounding variables controlled for; can we reproduce these results within an independent experiment? These are questions about how to measure reliably. According to Cartwright and Chang, the fundamental question about correct measurement is fleshed out and given significance by the philosopher in the following form, “does a measurement operation really measure what it purports to measure” (2008, 367)? We can break this question down into two parts. First, does the presumed target of measurement (quantity, quality, phenomenon, etc.) really exist? Second, are our measurement practices “latching onto” the target? When asking questions of the latter kind, like—did scientists really detect the motion of the aether? Do IQ tests really measure intelligence? Do neutrinos really travel faster than the speed of light?—we’re combining questions about the physical interaction of measurement with questions about reliability and error in information gathering. In order to answer them we must have a technical account of measurement. This account should satisfy the philosopher by illustrating what reliability and error are while also satisfying the scientist by demonstrating how to apply a reliable method of measurement.

So how have philosophers of science addressed such questions? Let’s take a brief look at the evolution of measurement theory.

Early accounts of measurement focus on the systematic assignment of quantitative values (e.g. numbers or vectors) to objects in the world (see Hemholtz 1887; Campbell 1920). Nagel (1932) characterizes this approach to measurement as “the correlation of numbers with entities which are not numbers” (7). These early accounts approach the assignment of numbers to objects by looking at the conditions that make number assignment possible. This begins a technical area of measurement theory that has as its focus the mathematical representability of the physical world—echoing Galileo’s metaphor that Nature speaks the language of mathematics. This technical area of measurement theory is later continued by Stevens 1946; Suppes 1969; Ellis 1960, 1966; Pfanzagl 1968—among others; and is referred to by philosophers of science as the ‘representation theory of measurement’.

Many problems arise for the representational theory of measurement--including: 1) How do we develop non-arbitrary methods for assigning abstract things (numbers) to concrete things (physical objects)? 2) Are numerical descriptions necessary and/or sufficient for making/describing measurements? 3) What is the relation between the measurement procedure and number assignment? These problems call into question the standards of the early representational theories of measurement, but do not imply that representation is the wrong approach to a theory of measurement, but rather that number assignment may be the wrong way to express representation in measurement.

After decades of technical assessment of physical-to-mathematical correspondence, van Fraassen (2009) re-envisions the role of representation in measurement theory to solve problems like the ones listed above.

He maintains the representational aspect of measurement theory while loosening the strict mathematical standards of correspondence rules. On van Fraassen’s view of measurement, the relation between measurement and the world is not rigidified by physical-to-mathematical correspondence rules. Sometimes representations are mathematical, and other times they are physical. According to van Fraassen (2009) we can represent empirical phenomena by means of “artifacts,” both “concrete/physical” and “abstract/mathematical” (1-2). The key aspects of representation through measurement are:

1.  Measurement tells us what things look like (from a specified vantage point), rather than what they are like. 
2. Measurement involves selective perspectival input. 

Van Fraassen uses the analogy of visual perspective to illustrate (1) and (2). Think of measurement as taking a vantage point on some phenomenon. For example, when we measure evolutionary processes, the scientist decides the perspective (e.g. the view from the gene, epigene, individual, population, niche, etc.). Each view will give us a limited view of the phenomenon. For instance, if you’re focused on the gene’s eye view, you may miss epigenetic feedback loops and phenotypic development. Think of this as partitioning a phenomenon into variables and parameters and then representing a limited set of each.

So where does this leave us?

Van Fraassen’s expression of the representational theory of measurement is refreshing. We’re no longer bogged down with formalization. The philosophy of measurement can work collaboratively with the science of measurement to figure out useful perspectives to take on phenomena and to combine those perspectives under elegant theoretical models. But there’s one major problem. This view of measurement may be wrong. To see why, you’ll have to keep reading Dance of Reason.

References:

Campbell, N. R. (1957). Foundations of Science, the Philosophy of Theory and
Experiment. New York: Dover.

Cartwright, N., Chang, H. (2008). Measurement. In Psillos, S. and Curd, M. (eds), The
Routledge Companion to Philosophy of Science (pp. 375-387). New York: Routledge.

Ellis, B. (1960) Some Fundamental Problems of Direct Measurement, Australasian
Journal of Philosophy, 38, 3747.

Ellis, B. (1966). Basic Concepts of Measurement. London: Cambridge University Press.

Helmholtz, H. V. (1887) Zählen und Messen erkenntnis-theoretisch betrachet, in

Helmholtz, Schriften zur Erkenntnistheorie, pp. 70-108. Engl trans,. Numbering and Measuring from an Epistemological Viewpoint, in Helmoltz, Epistemological Writings, 72-114.

Nagel, E. (1930) On the Logic of Measurement (Stanford University Press).

Pfanzagl, J. (1968) Theory of Measurement. New York: Wiley.

Stevens, S. S. (1946) ‘On the Theory of Scales of Measurement’, Science 103, 667-680.

Suppes, P. (1969) Studies in the Methodology and Foundations of Science. Dordrecht:
Reidel.

van Fraassen, B. C. (2009). Scientific representation: Paradoxes of perspective. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

Living in the Garden

My topic is religious environmental ethics. Many of my readers may lack sympathy with a religious approach to the environment, but dialog with those who take such an approach is important given the influence these people have on environmental decision making. Also, philosophers of religion may be interested in illuminating what it is to believe in God, and this extends to thinking about how belief in God might influence our thinking about the environment.

I want to look at two approaches that a theist might take to the environment. The first is an anthropocentric approach, which limits our concern for the environment to its impact on human interests. An anthropocentrist might argue, for example, that we should reduce our emission of greenhouse gases because global warming is a threat to human welfare. She places value on plants, animals, and mountains only insofar as these things contribute to the wellbeing of humanity.

Deep ecology, by contrast, holds that nonhuman components of our environment have value in their own right, and not just by virtue of how they benefit human beings. A deep ecologist will argue that the harm of global warming extends beyond its impact on human beings; she will be concerned with its effect on plants and animals- the biosphere generally- and perhaps go so far as to suggest that there is intrinsic wrong in the alteration it makes to the ecological balance of the earth, apart from its effect on living things.

Which of these approaches is most consistent with Western theism? There appear to be two creation stories in Genesis, and they offer different models of environmental concern. In Genesis 1 God gives humanity dominion over the earth and charges Adam and Eve to subdue it. He instructs them to rule over all living creatures, and gives them seed-bearing plants and fruit trees for their food. I will refer to this as the gift model of theistic environmental ethics.

Lynn White (1969) attributes our current ecological problems to the dominance of this gift model, which poses no barrier to the exploitation of the natural environment by human beings. Other authors, however, have argued that a proper regard for the natural environment as a gift from God calls for us to feel gratitude toward the Creator; Charles Taliaferro (2005), for example, suggests that such gratitude should evoke in us a respect for nature.

It seems to me, however, that the gift model is irredeemably anthropocentric. First, consider the nature of a gift. The value of a gift lies in the benefit it offers to its recipient. My Aunt Hattie, who gives me a brand new Ferrari, has given me a wonderful gift. It would be a moral failing on my part if I were not disposed to feel gratitude toward her. And if I did not properly care for this gift, I might be accused of failing to properly appreciate it; arguably this would constitute a lapse of gratitude on my part. But caring for my car by maintaining it etc. means nothing more than preserving it so as to facilitate my continued exploitation of it.

If the Earth is God’s gift to humanity, it falls on us to treat it with respect. But if this is the sort of respect that is normally due to a gift, it implies only that we must do our best to maintain it for our own exploitation. This is anthropocentrism.

The second model of theistic environmental ethics comes from Genesis 2. There God appoints Adam as caretaker of the Garden of Eden. Nothing is said there of the garden being given to him. Now being a caretaker carries with it certain responsibilities. If I ask Bertrand to care for my home while I am away on vacation- and give him permission to pick fruit from my trees for his sustenance (as God does Adam) - I will be very put out if I return to find that he has cut down my trees, eaten my dog, and dug a 30-foot hole in my front yard. If Bertrand accepts the responsibility of caring for my home, he is obligated to exercise concern for my interests. Asking him to care for my home is very different from giving it to him. I retain a continuing concern and involvement with it..

The caretaker model moves beyond anthropocentrism. On this model, we must consider God’s interests in our treatment of the Earth and its inhabitants, and while it may not be obvious what concerns God has for the nonhuman elements of our environment, it is clear, at least in principle, that our own interests are not dispositive in regard to environmental issues.

Is there any theological reason to prefer the caretaker model over the gift model in constructing a theistic environmental ethic? I offer no knock-down argument here, but theistic religious practice tends to encourage the relationship of human beings with the divine. A God who gives us the Earth as a gift need not remain nearby; little is required of us other than to send thanks his way occasionally, like a message in a bottle. By contrast, as caretakers we are encouraged to think of God as retaining an active involvement with nature; a relationship with the divine in this case calls for us to look toward God, and past our own self-concern.

The caretaker model does not give us deep ecology, however, for while the regard we show to the natural environment on that model extends beyond our self-interest, it still does not give us any ground for thinking that the non-human parts of nature have any intrinsic value. On this model, their value derives from whatever interest God has in them. I do think that a theistic deep-ecology is possible, and I envision such a view as abandoning property metaphors and looking more carefully into the possibility that God is actively present in nature, but that is a subject for a future post.

David Corner
Department of Philosophy
Sacramento State

BIBLIOGRAPHY

Lynn White, Jr. (1967), “The Historical Roots of Our Ecological Crisis”, Science, New Series, Vol. 155, No. 3767

Charles Taliaferro, “Vices and Virtues in Religious Environmental Ethics” (2005), in Ronald Sandler and Philip Califano (eds), Environmental Virtue Ethics, Oxford: Rowman and Littlefield