Brandom: key contemporary thinker

1. [[0- Brandom (Key Contemporary Thinkers) by Ronald Loeffler]]

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1- Philosophy of Language_ Normative Pragmatism, Inferentialism, and Metalinguistic Expressivism

1. [[Philosophy of Language_ Lecture 1]] - 2018

THE GOSPEL OF MARK AND THE JEWISH WAR

In 66 C.E., a rebellion against Rome broke out among the Jews of Palestine. Jewish soldiers, recruited at first from the countryside by leaders of the revolt, fought with whatever weapons they could find. But as the revolt spread to towns and cities, the Jewish population divided. Some refused to fight: in Jerusalem, the priestly party and their city-dwelling allies tried to maintain peace with Rome. Among those who joined the revolt, many were convinced that God was on their side: all were passionately intent on ridding their land of foreign domination. Three years into the war, the future emperor Vespasian and his son, the future emperor Titus, marched against Jerusalem with no fewer than sixty thousand well-trained, fully equipped foot soldiers and cavalry and besieged the city. Some twenty years later, the Jewish historian Joseph ben Matthias, better known by his Romanized name, Flavius Josephus, who had served as governor of Galilee before joining in the fight against Rome, wrote an account of what he calls “not only the greatest war of our own time, but one of the greatest of all recorded wars.”1 Josephus is the only remaining guide to these events. Other accounts of the war have not survived. Although he is a vivid historian, Josephus is also partisan. Born into a wealthy priestly family of royal lineage, Josephus had traveled to Rome when he was about twenty-six—two years before the war—to intervene with the emperor Nero on behalf of several arrested Jewish priests. Rome's wealth and military power impressed the young man, who managed to meet one of Nero's favorite actors—a Jew, as it happened—and, through him, Nero's wife, Poppea. Poppea agreed to help with his mission, and Josephus returned to Palestine. There, he says in his autobiography,

[!quote] I found revolutionary movements already begun, and great excitement at the prospect of revolt from Rome. Accordingly, I tried to stop those preaching sedition . . . urging them to place before their eyes those against whom they were fighting; and to remember that they were inferior to the Romans, not only in military skill, but in good fortune.

Hebrew term for what others called Palestine—in turmoil. Guerrilla leaders such as John of Gischala and his followers dedicated themselves to fight for liberty in the name of God. In the spring of 67, John’s fighting men, having routed the Romans from Gischala, their provincial city, burst into Jerusalem. There, urging people to join the revolution, they attracted tens of thousands, Josephus says, and “corrupted a great part of the young men, and stirred them up to war.”3 Others, whom Josephus calls older and wiser, bitterly opposed the revolt. John and other revolutionaries coming into Jerusalem from the countryside escalated the conflict by capturing “the most powerful man in the whole city,” the Jewish leader Antipas—the city treasurer—and two other men also connected with the royal dynasty. Accusing their three prisoners of having met with the enemy while plotting to surrender Jerusalem to the Romans, the rebels called them “traitors to our common liberty” and slit their throats. Having managed first to hide and then to survive a suicide pact he made with his fellow refugees, Josephus was captured by the Romans. Brought before Vespasian, the Roman commander, Josephus announced that God had revealed to him that Vespasian would become emperor of Rome. Unimpressed, Vespasian assumed that this was a trick Josephus had contrived to save his life. But after Nero was assassinated, and three other emperors rose and fell within months, Vespasian did become emperor. One of his first acts was to order his soldiers to free Josephus from prison. Henceforth Josephus traveled in Vespasian's entourage as interpreter and mediator. He returned to Jerusalem with Vespasian's son Titus when the young general took over command of the war from his father in order to march against the holy city. By that time, Josephus says, three factions divided the city: the priestly party working for peace; the revolutionaries from the countryside; and contending against both of these, a second anti-Roman party, led by prominent Jerusalemites, “men of the greatest power,” who, according to Josephus, wanted to maintain their power against the radicals from the surrounding countryside. Titus and his staff, apparently curious, entered the Holy of Holies, the sacred room where the ark of the covenant was kept. Roman soldiers looted the treasury, seizing its priceless gold furniture, the golden trumpets, and the massive seven-branched lampstand; then they set the Temple afire and watched it burn. Later that night they hailed Titus’s victory and in triumph desecrated the Temple precincts by sacrificing there to their own gods. Having devastated the Jewish armies, they raped, robbed, and massacred thousands of Jerusalem’s inhabitants and left the city in ruins. e horrifying devastation that the city’s inhabitants suffered. What makes these events important for my purpose in this book is that the first Christian gospel was probably written during the last year of the war, or the year it ended.8 Where it was written and by whom we do not know; the work is anonymous, although tradition attributes it to Mark, a younger co-worker of the apostle Peter. What we do know is that the author of Mark’s gospel was well aware of the war and took sides in the conflicts it aroused, both among Jewish groups and between Jews and Romans. Dozens—perhaps even hundreds—of accounts were written about Jesus, including the long-hidden accounts found among the so-called secret gospels discovered at Nag Hammadi in Upper Egypt in 1945.9 But of these numerous accounts, only four gospels are included in the New Testament. According to Mark, Jesus protested at being arrested “like a robber” (Mark 14:48). The author of Luke, writing some ten to twenty years later, says that Jesus was charged, like those crucified along with him, as a robber (Luke 23:40).11 This Greek term testes, literally translated “robber” or “bandit,” was in the early first century a catchall term for an undesirable, a troublemaker or criminal. Josephus, however, writing after the Jewish war against Rome, most often uses the term to characterize those Jews who were inciting or participating in anti-Roman activities or in the war against Rome itself.12 I agree with many other scholars that Jesus himself is unlikely to have been a revolutionary, According to Mark, Pilate’s soldiers, aware of the charge, mocked and abused Jesus as a would-be king of the Jews; apparently the same charge was inscribed over his cross as a warning to others that Rome would similarly dispatch anyone accused of insurrection. The narratives that we know as the New Testament gospels were written by certain followers of Jesus who lived through the war, and who knew that many of their fellow Jews regarded them as a suspect minority. They wrote their own accounts of some of the momentous events surrounding the war, and the part that Jesus played in events preceding it, hoping to persuade others of their interpretation. We cannot fully understand the New Testament gospels until we recognize that they are, in this sense, wartime literature. As noted before, the gospel we call Mark (although we do not know historically who actually wrote these gospels, I use their traditional attributions) was written either during the war itself, perhaps during a temporary lull in the siege of Jerusalem, or immediately after the defeat, in 70 .E.14 Matthew and Luke wrote some ten to twenty years later, each using Mark as his basis and expanding Mark’s narrative with further sayings and stories. Most scholars believe that John wrote his gospel, perhaps in Alexandria, about a generation after the war, c. 90-95 C.E.15 Only one of Jesus’ followers whose writings were later incorporated into the New Testament—Paul of Tarsus—wrote before the war and could, of course, say nothing about Jesus in relation to it. Paul mentions little that concerns Jesus’ biography, repeating only a few “sayings of the Lord” (Acts 20:35 ).16 What fascinated Paul about Jesus’ death was not the crucifixion as an actual event, but what he saw as its profound religious meaning—that, as he says, “Christ died for our sins” (1 Cor. 15:3), that he became an atonement sacrifice, which, Paul believed, transformed the relationship between Israel’s God and the whole human race. If he knew the charges made against Jesus—that he was one of many Galileans whom Josephus regards as troublemakers17 for fomenting rebellion against Rome—Paul apparently regarded these charges as so transparently false or so irrelevant that they needed no rebuttal. Paul died c. 64—65 C.E. in Rome, executed, like Jesus, by order of Roman magistrates. Jesus’ followers believed that there was no point in fighting the Romans because the catastrophic events that followed his crucifixion were signs of the end—signs that the whole world was to be shattered and transformed (Mark 13:4 29). Some insisted that what they had seen—the horrors of the war—actually vindicated his call “Repent, for the Kingdom of God is near” (Mark 1:15). Mark shares the conviction, widespread among Jesus’ followers, that Jesus himself had predicted these world-shattering events— the destruction of the Temple and its desecration:

[!quote] “Do you see these great buildings? There will not be left here one stone upon another, that will not be thrown down. . . . But when you see the abominable sacrilege set up where it ought not to be (let the reader understand!), then let those who are in Judea flee to the mountains (Mark 13:1-14).”

This was exactly what had now happened. Others believed— and some dared to say—that these very catastrophes occurred as an angry God’s punishment upon his own people for the crime of rejecting their divinely sent Messiah. Mark says that these leaders now have rejected Mark and his fellow believers, calling them either insane or possessed by demons, the same charges that they directed against Jesus himself. Mark’s motives with regard to Pilate are not simple. Insofar as he addresses his narrative to outsiders, Mark is eager to allay Roman suspicions by showing that Jesus’ followers are no threat to Roman order, any more than Jesus himself had been. Mark may also have wanted to convert Gentile readers. Yet Mark is primarily interested in conflicts within the Jewish community— especially conflicts between his own group and those who reject its claims about Jesus. Yet Mark knows that to justify such claims about Jesus, he has to answer obvious objections. If Jesus had been sent as God’s anointed king, how could the movement he initiated have failed so miserably? How could his followers have abandoned him and gone into hiding, while soldiers captured him like a common criminal? Why did virtually all his own people reject the claims about him—not only the townspeople in Galilee but also the crowds he attracted on his travels throughout Judea and in Jerusalem? And wasn’t Jesus, after all, a seditionist himself, tainted in retrospect by association with the failed war, having been arrested and crucified as a rebel? Attempting to answer these questions, Mark places the events surrounding Jesus within the context not simply of the struggle against Rome but of the struggle between good and evil in the universe. The stark events of Jesus’ life and death cannot be understood, he suggests, apart from the clash of supernatural forces that Mark sees being played out on earth in Jesus’ lifetime. Mark intends to tell the story of Jesus in terms of its hidden, deeper dynamics—to tell it, so to speak, from God’s point of view. What happened, Mark says, is this: Jesus of Nazareth, after his baptism, was coming out of the water of the Jordan River when “he saw the heavens torn apart and the spirit descending like a dove on him” and heard a voice speaking to him from heaven (1:10-11). God’s power anointed Jesus to challenge the forces of evil that now dominate the world, and drove him into direct conflict with those forces.20 Mark frames his narrative at its beginning and at its climax with episodes in which Satan and his demonic forces retaliate against God by working to destroy Jesus. Mark begins by describing how the spirit of God descended upon Jesus at his baptism, and “immediately drove him into the wilderness, and he was in the wilderness forty days being tempted by Satan, and was with the animals, and the angels ministered to him” (1:12-13). From that moment on, Mark says, even after Jesus left the wilderness and returned to society, the powers of evil challenged and attacked him at every turn, and he attacked them back, and won. Matthew and Luke, writing some ten to twenty years later, adopted and elaborated this opening scenario. Each turns it into a drama of three temptations, that is, three increasingly intense confrontations between Satan and the spirit of God, acting through Jesus. Satan, although he seldom appears onstage in these gospel accounts, nevertheless plays a central role in the divine drama, for the gospel writers realize that the story they have to tell would make little sense without Satan. How, after all, could anyone claim that a man betrayed by one of his own followers, and brutally executed on charges of treason against Rome, not only was but still is God's appointed Messiah, unless his capture and death were, as the gospels insist, not a final defeat but only a preliminary skirmish in a vast cosmic conflict now enveloping the universe?As Jesus warns his interrogator at his trial, soon he will be vindicated when the “Son of man” returns in the clouds of heaven (Mark 14:62); here Mark has Jesus recall one of the prophet Daniel’s visions, in which “one like a son of man” (that is, a human being), comes “with the clouds of heaven” and is made ruler of God’s Kingdom (Dan. 7:13-14). Many of Mark’s contemporaries would have read Daniel’s prophecy as predicting the coming of a conqueror who would defeat Israel’s foreign rulers. While at first glance the gospel of Mark may look like historical biography, it is not so simple as this, for Mark does not intend to write history, as Josephus had, primarily to persuade people of the accuracy of his account of recent events and make them comprehensible on a human level. Instead Mark wants to show what these events mean for the future of the world, or, in the scholarly jargon, eschatologically. Mark and his colleagues combine a biographical form with themes of supernatural conflict borrowed from Jewish apocalyptic literature to create a new kind of narrative. These gospels carry their writers’ powerful conviction that Jesus’ execution, which had seemed to signal the victory of the forces of evil, actually heralds their ultimate annihilation and ensures God’s final victory.

The gospel writers want to locate and identify the specific ways in which the forces of evil act through certain people to effect violent destruction, above all, in Matthew’s words, “the righteous blood shed on earth, from the blood of innocent Abel to the blood of Zechariah the son of Barachiah” (23:35)— violence epitomized in the execution of Jesus, which Matthew sees as the culmination of all evils. The subject of cosmic war serves primarily to interpret human relationships—especially all-too-human conflict—in supernatural form. The figure of Satan becomes, among other things, a way of characterizing one’s actual enemies as the embodiment of transcendent forces. But how does the figure of Satan characterize the enemy? What is Satan, and how does he appear on earth? The New Testament gospels almost never identify Satan with the Romans, but they consistently associate him with Jesus’ Jewish enemies, primarily Judas Iscariot and the chief priests and scribes.As we shall see, Jesus’ followers did not invent the practice of demonizing enemies within their own group, although Christians (and Muslims after them) carried this practice further than their Jewish predecessors had taken it, and with enormous consequences. Yet who actually were Jesus’ enemies? What we know historically suggests that they were the Roman governor and his soldiers. The charge against Jesus and his execution were typically-Roman. Mary Smallwood observes that rounding up and killing troublemakers, especially those who ignited public demonstrations, was a routine measure for Roman forces stationed in Judea.22 During the first century the Romans arrested and crucified thousands of Jews charged with sedition— often, Philo says, without trial. But as the gospels indicate, Jesus also had enemies among his fellow Jews, especially the Jerusalem priests and their influential allies, who were threatened by his activities. The crucial point is this: Had Jesus’ followers identified themselves with the majority of Jews rather than with a particular minority, they might have told his story very differently—and with considerably more historical plausibility. They might have told it, for example, in traditional patriotic style, as the story of an inspired Jewish holy man martyred by Israel’s traditional enemies, foreign oppressors of one sort or another. The biblical book of Daniel, for example, which tells the story of the prophet Daniel, who, although threatened with a horrible death—being torn apart by lions—nevertheless defies the king of Babylon in the name of God and of the people of Israel (Dan. 6:1-28). The first book of Maccabees tells the story of the priest Mattathias, who defies Syrian soldiers when they order him to worship idols. Mattathias chooses to die rather than betray his devotion to God.23 But unlike the authors of Daniel or 1 Maccabees, the gospel writers chose to dissociate themselves from the Jewish majority and to focus instead upon intra-Jewish conflict—specifically upon their own quarrel with those who resisted their claims that Jesus was the Messiah. Nonetheless it is probably fair to say that in every case the decision to place the story of Jesus within the context of God's struggle against Satan tends to minimize the role of the Romans, and to place increasing blame instead upon Jesus’ Jewish enemies. This is not to say that the gospel writers simply intended to exonerate the Romans. Mark surely was aware that during his time, and for some thirty years after the war, the Romans remained wary of renewed sedition. Members of a group loyal to a condemned seditionist were at risk, and Mark probably hoped to persuade those outsiders who might read his account that neither Jesus nor his followers offered any threat to Roman order. But within Mark’s account, the Romans, even the few portrayed with some sympathy, remain essentially outsiders. Mark tells the story of Jesus in the context that matters to him most—within the Jewish community. And here, as in most human situations, the more intimate the conflict, the more intense and bitter it becomes. Mark opens his narrative with the account of John's baptizing Jesus and relates that at the moment of baptism the power of God descended upon Jesus, and “a voice spoke from heaven, saying ‘This is my beloved son’ ” (1:11). At that moment, all human beings disappear from Mark’s narrative and, as we have seen, the spirit of God drives Jesus into the wilderness to encounter Satan, wild animals, and angels. Mark’s account, then, moves direcdy from Jesus’ solitary struggle with Satan in the desert to his first public appearance in the synagogue at Capernaum, where immediately on the Sabbath he entered the synagogue and taught.

[!quote] And they were astonished at his teaching, for he taught as one who had authority, and not as the scribes (1:22).

There Jesus encounters a man possessed by an evil spirit who, sensing Jesus’ divine power, challenges him: “What have you to do with us, Jesus of Nazareth? Have you come to destroy us?” (1:24). According to Mark, Jesus has come to heal the world and reclaim it for God; in order to accomplish this, he must overcome the evil powers who have usurped authority over the world, and who now oppress human beings. So, Mark says,

[!quote] Jesus rebuked him, saying, “Be silent, and come out of him!” And the unclean spirit, convulsing him and crying with a loud voice, came out of him, and they were all amazed, so that they questioned among themselves, saying, “What is this?

Throughout this opening chapter, Mark emphasizes that Jesus healed “many who were sick with various diseases” and “drove out many demons” (1:34). He traveled throughout Galilee “preaching in the synagogues and casting out demons,” for, as he explains to Simon, Andrew, James, and John, who gather around him, “that is what I came to do” (1:38). During his next public appearance, as Mark tells it, the scribes immediately took offense at what they considered his usurpation of divine authority. By pronouncing forgiveness, Jesus claims the right to speak for God—a claim that, Mark says, angers the scribes:

[!note] “Why does this man speak this way? It is blasphemy! Who can forgive sins but God alone?” (2:7).

According to Mark, Jesus, aware of the scribes’ reaction, immediately performs a healing in order to prove his authority to his critics:

[!quote] And immediately Jesus, perceiving in his spirit that they thus questioned within themselves, said, “Why do you question thus in your hearts? . . . But so that you may know that the Son of man has power on earth to forgive sins”—he said to the paralytic—“I say to you, rise, take your pallet, and go home.” And he rose, and immediately picked up his pallet and went out before them all, so that they were all astonished, . . . saying, “We never saw anything like this!” (2:8-12, emphasis added).

When Jesus first appeared proclaiming “Repent: the Kingdom of God is at hand!,” he must have sounded to many of his contemporaries like one of the Essenes, who withdrew to the wilderness in protest against ordinary Jewish life. From the desert caves where they lived in monastic seclusion, the Essenes denounced the priestly aristocratic leaders in charge of the Jerusalem Temple—men like Josephus and those he admired—as being hopelessly corrupted by their accommodation to Gentile ways, and by collaboration with the Roman occupiers. The Essenes took the preaching of repentance and God’s coming judgment to mean that Jews must separate themselves from such polluting influences and return to strict observance of God's law— especially the Sabbath and kosher laws that marked them off from the Gentiles as God’s holy people.

Instead of fasting, like other devout Jews, Jesus ate and drank freely. And instead of scrupulously observing Sabbath laws, Jesus excused his disciples when they broke them:

[!note] One Sabbath he was going through the grainfields; and as they made their way, his disciples began to pick ears of grain. And the Pharisees said to him, “Look, why are they doing what is not lawful on the Sabbath?” (2:23-26).

Here Jesus dares claim, as precedent for his disciples’ apparently casual action, the prerogative of King David himself, who, with his men, broke the sacred food laws during a wartime emergency. Instead of postponing the healing for a day, Jesus had chosen deliberately to defy his critics by performing it on the Sabbath. Seeing this, Mark says:

[!quote] The Pharisees went out, and immediately conspired against him with the Herodians [the party of King Herod], how they might kill him (3:6).

For Mark the secret meaning of such conflict is clear. Those who are offended and outraged by Jesus’ actions do not know that Jesus is impelled by God’s spirit to contend against the forces of evil, whether those forces manifest themselves in the invisible demonic presences who infect and possess people, or in his actual human opponents. Mark suggests that Jesus recognizes that the leaders who oppose him are energized by unseen forces. Immediately after this powerful coalition has united against him, Jesus retaliates by commissioning a new leadership group, “the twelve,” presumably assigning one leader for each of the original twelve tribes of Israel. Jesus orders them to preach and gives them “power to cast out demons” (3:13). This escalation of spiritual conflict immediately evokes escalating opposition—opposition that begins at home, within Jesus’ own family. Mark says that when Jesus “went home ... his family . . . went out to seize him, for they said, ‘He is insane [or: beside himself]’ ” (3:21 ).26 Next “the scribes who came down from Jerusalem” charge that Jesus himself “is possessed by Beelzebub; by the prince of demons he casts out demons” (3:22). Jesus objects:

[!quote] “How can Satan cast out Satan? If a kingdom is divided against itself, that kingdom cannot stand. (3:23-27).

According to Mark, it is apparently the “house of Israel” that Jesus sees as a divided house, a divided kingdom. Jesus openly contends against Satan, who he believes has overtaken God's own household, which he has come to purify and reclaim: Jesus wants to “bind this enemy” and “plunder his house.” As for the scribes’ accusation that Jesus is possessed by the “prince of demons,” he throws back upon them the same accusation of demon-possession and warns that in saying this they are sinning so deeply as to seal their own damnation (3:28 30). For, he says, whoever attributes the work of God’s spirit to Satan commits the one unforgivable sin:

[!quote] “Truly, I say to you, all sins will be forgiven to human beings, and whatever blasphemies they utter; but whoever blasphemes against the holy spirit is never forgiven, but is guilty of an eternal sin”—because they said, “He is possessed by an evil spirit” (3:28-30).

Mark deliberately places these scenes of Jesus’ conflict with the scribes between two episodes depicting Jesus’ conflict with his own family. Mark suggests, “re-formed God's people.” From this point on, Jesus sharply discriminates between those he has chosen, the inner circle, and “those outside.” He still draws enormous crowds, but while teaching them, he offers riddling parables, deliberately concealing his full meaning from all but his intimates. Although he often criticizes the disciples—in 8:33 he even accuses Peter of playing Satan’s role—Jesus shares secrets with them that he hides from outsiders, for the latter, he says, quoting Isaiah, are afflicted with impenetrable spiritual blindness. Criticized by the Pharisees and the Jerusalem scribes for not living “according to the traditions of the elders” because he and his disciples eat without washing their hands, Jesus, instead of defending his action, attacks his critics as “hypocrites” and charges that they value their own traditions while breaking God’s commandments. Then he publicly calls into question the kosher laws themselves. again explaining his meaning to his disciples alone (7:14-23). Here Mark wants to show that although Jesus discards traditional kosher (“purity”) laws, he advocates instead purging the “heart”—that is, impulses, desires, and imagination. Now that Jesus has alienated not only the scribes, Pharisees, and Herodians, but also his relatives and many of his own townspeople, he travels with his small band of disciples, preaching to the crowds. Anticipating what lies ahead of him in Jerusalem, where he will challenge the priestly party on its own ground, Jesus nevertheless resolutely leads his followers there, walking ahead of them, while “they were astonished, and those who followed were terrified” (10:32).

Opposition to Jesus intensifies after he enters Jerusalem. Having prepared a formal procession to go into the city, Jesus is openly acclaimed, in defiance of the Romans, as the man who comes to restore Israel’s ancient empire: “Blessed is the kingdom of our father David that is coming!” Then, with his followers, he enters the great Temple and makes a shocking public demonstration there:

[!quote] He entered the Temple, and began to drive out those who sold and those who bought in the Temple, and he overturned the tables of the money changers and the seats of those who sold pigeons; and he would not allow anyone to carry anything through the Temple (11:15-16).

When the chief priests and scribes, joined by members of the Jewish council, demand to know by what authority he acts, Jesus refuses to answer. Instead he retells Isaiah’s parable of God’s wrath against Israel (12:1-12) in a way so transparent that even the chief priests, scribes, and elders recognize that he is telling it “against them” (12:12). Two days before Passover, Mark says, “the chief priests and the scribes were seeking how to arrest Jesus secretly and kill him, for they said, ‘Not during the festival, lest there be a tumult among the people,’ ” since so far the people remained on Jesus’ side. Shortly afterward, Judas Iscariot, obviously aware of the hostility his master had aroused among influential people, “went to the chief priests in order to betray [Jesus] to them, and when they heard it they were glad, and offered him money” (14:1-11). The armed men “brought him to the high priest,” apparently to his residence. Although the San hedrin traditionally was not allowed to meet at night, Mark tells us that on the night of Jesus’ arrest, “all the chief priests and the elders and the scribes were assembled” at the high priest’s residence to try his case in a formal proceeding. Now Mark presents the first of two trial scenes—the “trial before the Sanhedrin,” which he follows with the “trial before Pilate.” Most scholars assume that even if these events occurred, Jesus’ followers could not have witnessed what went on at either his appearance before the Jewish council or his arraignment by the Romans.28 But Mark is not concerned with reporting history. By introducing these scenes, Mark wants to show above all that the well-known charge against Jesus—sedition—not only was false but was invented by Jesus’ Jewish enemies; further, Mark says, the Roman governor himself realized this and tried in vain to save Jesus! According to Mark, the Sanhedrin had already prejudged the case. The trial was only a pretense in order “to put him to death” (14:55). After hearing a series of trumped-up charges and lying witnesses, some accusing Jesus of having threatened to destroy the Temple, the chief priest interrogates Jesus, demanding that he answer the charges against him. Here, for the first time in Mark’s gospel, Jesus publicly admits his divine identity to people other than his disciples, and goes on to warn his accusers that they will soon witness his vindication: “I am; and you will see the Son of man sitting at the right hand of power and coming with the clouds of heaven” (14:62). Then, Mark continues, the high priest, tearing his robe, says, “ ‘You have heard his blasphemy. What is your decision?’ And they all condemned him as deserving death” (14:64). Many scholars have commented on the historical implausibility of this account.29 Although we know little about Sanhedrin procedures during Jesus’ time,30 did this council actually assemble at night, contrary to what seems to have been its precedent? If so, why does Mark go on to add a second version of the council meeting to discuss this case—a meeting that takes place the following morning, as if nothing had happened the night before? For after Mark ends his first, more elaborate account, he lets slip what now becomes a redundancy: that “as soon as it was morning the chief priests, with the elders and scribes, and the whole council, held a consultation, and they bound Jesus, and led him away, and delivered him to Pilate” (15:1). We cannot, of course, know what actually happened, but Mark’s second version, which agrees with Luke’s, sounds more likely—that the council convened in the morning, and decided that the prisoner should be kept in custody and turned over to Pilate to face charges.31 The gospel of John, relying upon a source independent of Mark’s, offers another reconstructed account that gives a plausible interpretation of these events.32 According to John, the chief priests, alarmed by the crowds Jesus attracted, feared that his presence in Jerusalem during Passover and destroy our holy place and our nation” (11:48). The civil strife that preceded the Jewish war, as John and his contemporaries well knew, had verified the accuracy of such concerns about possible Roman reprisals. Many New Testament scholars who have analyzed the account of Jesus’ appearance before the Sanhedrin agree that Mark (or his predecessors) probably wrote the first version to emphasize his primary point: that Pilate merely ratified a previous Jewish verdict, and carried out a death sentence that he himself neither ordered nor approved—but a sentence unanimously pronounced by the entire leadership of the Jewish people.33 This does not mean, however, that Mark is motivated by malice toward the Jewish leaders. Indeed, Mark stops far short of the extent to which Matthew, Luke, and John will go to blame the Jewish leaders for the crucifixion, although the tendency to blame them had already begun before Mark’s time and had its effect on his narrative. It is no wonder, then, that, as one historian says, Mark wanted "to emphasize the culpability of the Jewish nation for the death of Jesus, particularly of its leaders. . . . [Mark’s] tendency was defensive rather than aggressive. He was concerned to avoid mentioning anything that would provoke Roman antagonism towards, or even suspicion of, the ideals for which he stood" Mark weaves into this account a contrapuntal story—the story of Jesus’ chief disciple, Peter, who, in terror, denies Jesus, an example of how not to act when on trial. For whereas Jesus stands up to the Sanhedrin and confesses his divine mission, boldly risking—and accepting—the death sentence, Peter claims not to have known Jesus. Having surreptitiously followed Jesus to the scene of the trial, Mark says, Peter stood warming his hands by the fire when one of the household servants said to him, “You, too, were with the Nazarene, Jesus” (14:67). But Peter denies this (“I do not know what you mean; . . . I do not know the man”) three times, with increasing vehemence, cursing and swearing, and finally escapes. After recognizing what he has done, Peter “broke down and wept” (14:72). Mark knows that those who publicly confess their conviction that Jesus is “the Messiah, the Son of God” (14:61) may put themselves in danger of abuse, ridicule, even threats to their lives. The terms Messiah and Son of God would probably have been anachronistic during the time of Jesus; but many of Mark’s contemporaries must have recognized them as the way Christians of their own time confessed their faith. In this dramatic scene, then, Mark again confronts his audience with the question that pervades his entire narrative: Who recognizes the spirit in Jesus as divine, and who does not? Who stands on God’s side, and who on Satan’s? By contrasting Jesus’ courageous confession with Peter’s denial, Mark draws a dramatic picture of the choice confronting Jesus’ followers: they must take sides in a war that allows no neutral ground.

Mark says that when Jesus refused to answer his questions, Pilate, instead of demonstrating anger or even impatience, “was amazed” (15:5). Mark goes further. Claiming to know the governor’s private assessment of the case, Mark says that Pilate “recognized that it was out of envy that they had handed him over” (15:10). But instead of making a decision and giving orders, Pilate takes no action. Then, hearing shouts from the crowd outside, he goes out to address them, asking what they want: “Do you want me to release for you the king of the Jews?” But the crowd demands instead the release of Barabbas, whom Mark describes as one of the imprisoned insurrectionists, who “had committed murder in the rebellion” (15:7). When the crowd shouts for Jesus’ crucifixion, Pilate in effect pleads with his subjects for justice: “Why, what evil has he done?” (15:14). But the shouting continues, and Pilate, “wishing to satisfy the crowd” (15:15), releases Barabbas and, having ordered Jesus to be flogged, acquiesces to their demand that he be crucified. The Pilate who appears in the gospels, as we have noted, has little to do with the historical Pilate—that is, with the man we know from other first-century historical and political sources, both Jewish and Roman, as a brutal governor. As Raymond Brown notes in his meticulous study of the passion narratives, except in Christian tradition, portraits of Pilate range from bitterly hostile to negative.36 Philo, an educated, influential member of the Jewish community in Alexandria, the capital of Egypt, was Pilate's contemporary. In one of his writings, his Embassy to Gains, he describes his experiences as a member of an official delegation sent to Rome to represent the interests of the Alexandrian Jewish community to the Roman emperor, Gaius Caligula. In the course of his narrative, Philo, referring to the situation of the Jewish community in Judea, describes governor Pilate as a man of “inflexible, stubborn, and cruel disposition,” and lists as typical features of his administration “greed, violence, robbery, assault, abusive behavior, frequent executions without trial, and endless savage ferocity.”37 Philo’s testimony is partly corroborated in Josephus's history of the same era. As we have seen, Josephus, like Philo, was a man of considerable political experience; as former Jewish governor of Galilee under the Romans, he writes his history under Roman patronage in a tone sympathetic to Roman interests. Yet Josephus records several episodes that show Pilate’s contempt for Jewish religious sensibilities. Pilate’s predecessors, for example, recognizing that Jews considered images of the emperor to be idolatrous, had instituted the practice of choosing for the Roman garrison in Jerusalem a military unit whose standards did not carry such images. But when Pilate was appointed governor he deliberately violated this precedent. First he ordered the existing garrison to leave; then he led to Jerusalem a replacement unit whose standards displayed imperial images, timing his arrival to coincide with the Jewish high holy days, the Day of Atonement and the Feast of Tabernacles. Pilate apparently knew that he was committing sacrilege in the eyes of his subjects, for he took care to arrive in Jerusalem at night, having ordered the standards to be covered with cloth during the journey. When Pilate refused, the crowds continued to demonstrate. After five days, Pilate, exasperated but adamant, decided to force an end to the demonstrations. Pretending to offer the demonstrators a formal hearing, he summoned them to appear before him in the stadium. There Pilate had amassed soldiers, ordered them to surround the crowd, and threatened to massacre the demonstrators unless they gave in. To Pilate’s surprise, the Jews declared that they would rather die than see their law violated. At this point Pilate capitulated and withdrew the unit. As Mary Smallwood comments:

[!note] The Jews had won a decisive victory in the first round against their new governor, but now they knew what sort of man they were up against, and thereafter anything he did was liable to be suspect. . . . But more was to follow.

Roman authorities also respected Jewish sensitivity by banning images considered idolatrous from coins minted in Judea. Only during Pilate’s administration was this practice violated: coins depicting pagan cult symbols have been found dated 29-31 C.E. Did Pilate order the change, as the German scholar E. Stauffer believes, “to force [his] subjects to handle representations of pagan culture”?39 Raymond Brown suggests that Pilate simply “underestimated Jewish sensitivity” on such matters.

Late in Pilate’s tenure as governor other provocative incidents prompted Jewish leaders to protest to the emperor Tiberius against Pilate’s attacks on their religion. In 31 C.E. Pilate angered his subjects by dedicating golden shields in the Herodian palace in Jerusalem. We cannot be certain what occasioned the protest; the scholar B. C. McGinny suggests that the shields were dedicated to the “divine” emperor, a description that would have incensed many Jews.43 Again Pilate faced popular protest: a crowd assembled, led by four Herodian princes. When Pilate refused to remove the shields, perhaps claiming he was acting only out of respect for the emperor, Josephus says, they replied, “Do not take [the emperor] Tiberius as your pretext for outraging the nation; he does not wish any of our customs to be overthrown.”44 When Pilate proved adamant, the Jewish princes appealed to the emperor, who rebuked Pilate and ordered him to remove the shields from Jerusalem. One recent commentator remarks that

[!note] the bullying of Pilate by his Jewish adversaries in the case of the shields resembles strongly the bullying of Pilate in [the gospel of] John’s account of the passion, including the threat of appeal to the emperor.

Yet characterizing these protests as “bullying” seems strange; what recourse did a subject people have to challenge the governor’s decision, except to appeal over his head to a higher authority? Pilate’s rule ended abruptly when the legate of Syria finally responded to repeated protests by stripping Pilate of his commission and dispatching a man from his own staff to serve as governor in his place. Pilate was ordered to return to Rome at once to answer charges against him, and disappeared from the historical record. Philo’s account coincides with Mark’s on one point: that Pilate, aware of the animosity toward him, was concerned lest the chief priests complain about him to the emperor. Yet Mark, as we have seen, presents a Pilate not only as a man too weak to withstand the shouting of a crowd, but also as one solicitous to ensure justice in the case of a Jewish prisoner whom the Jewish leaders want to destroy. Mark’s benign portrait of Pilate increases the culpability of the Jewish leaders and supports Mark’s contention that Jews, not Romans, were the primary force behind Jesus’ crucifixion. Furthermore, what Mark merely implies—that Jesus’ opponents are energized by Satan—Luke and John will state explicitly. Both Matthew and Luke, writing ten to twenty years after Mark, adapted the earlier gospel and revised it in various ways, updating it to reflect the situation of Jesus’ followers in their own times. Jesus' followers did not invent the practice of demonizing enemies within their own group. In this respect, as in many others, as we shall see, they drew upon traditions they shared with other first-century Jewish sects. The Essenes, for example, had developed and elaborated images of an evil power they called by many names—Satan, Belial, Beelzebub, Mastema (“hatred”)— precisely to characterize their own struggle against a Jewish majority whom they, for reasons different from those of Jesus’ followers, denounced as apostate. The relationship between Jesus’ followers and the rest of the Jewish community, however, especially during the first century, is anything but simple. Mark himself, like the Essenes, sees his movement essentially as a conflict within one “house”—as I read it, the house of Israel. Such religious reformers see their primary struggle not with foreigners, however ominously Roman power lurks in the background, but with other Jews who try to define the “people of God.”4

Even the images that Mark invokes to characterize the majority—images of Satan, Beelzebub, and the devil—paradoxically express the intimacy of Mark’s relationship with the Jewish community as a whole, for, as we shall see, the figure of Satan, as it emerged over the centuries in Jewish tradition, is not a hostile power assailing Israel from without, but the source and representation of conflict within the community.

Summary notes on Pagels, Elaine - The Origin of Satan_ How Christians Demonized Jews, Pagans, and Heretics (1996)

Introduction

In the ancient Western world, of which I am a historian, many—perhaps most—people assumed that the universe was inhabited by invisible beings whose presence impinged upon the visible world and its human inhabitants. Ancient Egyptians, Greeks, and Romans envisioned gods, goddesses, and spirit beings of many kinds, while certain Jews and Christians, ostensibly monotheists, increasingly spoke of angels, heavenly messengers from God, and some spoke of fallen angels and demons. This was especially true from the first century of the common era onward.

The pagan convert was baptized only after confessing that all spirit beings previously revered—and dreaded—as divine were actually only “demons”—hostile spirits contending against the One God of goodness and justice, and against his armies of angels. Becoming either a Jew or a Christian polarized a pagan’s view of the universe, and moralized it. The Jewish theologian Martin Buber regarded the moralizing of the universe as one of the great achievements of Jewish tradition, later passed down as its legacy to Christians and Muslims. When I began this work, I assumed that Jewish and Christian perceptions of invisible beings had to do primarily with moralizing the natural universe, as Buber claimed, and so with encouraging people to interpret events ranging from illness to natural disasters as expressions of “God's will” or divine judgment on human sin. But my research led me in unexpected directions and disclosed a far more complex picture. Such Christians as Justin Martyr (140 C.E.), one of the “fathers of the church,” attributes affliction not to “God's will” but to the malevolence of Satan. His student Tatian allows for accident in the natural world, including disasters, for which, he says, God offers solace but seldom miraculous intervention. As I proceeded to investigate Jewish and Christian accounts of angels and fallen angels, I discovered, however, that they were less concerned with the natural world as a whole than with the particular world of human relationships. Rereading biblical and extra-biblical accounts of angels, I learned first of all what many scholars have pointed out: that while angels often appear in the Hebrew Bible, Satan, along with other fallen angels or demonic beings, is virtually absent. But among certain first-century Jewish groups, prominently including the Essenes (who saw themselves as allied with angels) and the followers of Jesus, the figure variously called Satan, Beelzebub, or Belial also began to take on central importance. Mark deviates from mainstream Jewish tradition by introducing “the devil” into the crucial opening scene of the gospel, and goes on to characterize Jesus’ ministry as involving continual struggle between God’s spirit and the demons, who belong, apparently, to Satan’s “kingdom” (see Mark 3:23-27). Such visions have been incorporated into Christian tradition and have served, among other things, to confirm for Christians their own identification with God and to demonize their opponents—first other Jews, then pagans, and later dissident Christians called heretics. This is what this book is about. Thousands of years of tradition have characterized Satan instead as a spirit. Originally he was one of God's angels, but a fallen one. Now he stands in open rebellion against God, and in his frustrated rage he mirrors aspects of our own confrontations with otherness. Many people have claimed to see him embodied at certain times in individuals and groups that seem possessed by an intense spiritual passion, one that engages even our better qualities, like strength, intelligence, and devotion, but turns them toward destruction and takes pleasure in inflicting harm. Yet— historically speaking, at any rate—Satan, along with diabolical colleagues like Belial and Mastema (whose Hebrew name means “hatred”), did not materialize out of the air. Instead, as we shall see, such figures emerged from the turmoil of first-century Palestine, the setting in which the Christian movement began to grow. I do not intend to do here what other scholars already have done well: The literary scholar Neil Forsyth, in his excellent recent book The Old Enemy, has investigated much of the literary and cultural background of the figure of Satan. What interests me instead are specifically social implications of the figure of Satan: how he is invoked to express human conflict and to characterize human enemies within our own religious traditions. In this book, then, I invite you to consider Satan as a reflection of how we perceive ourselves and those we call “others.” Yet this virtually universal practice of calling one's own people human and “dehumanizing” others does not necessarily mean that people actually doubt or deny the humanness of others. Much of the time, as William Green points out, those who so label themselves and others are engaging in a kind of caricature that helps define and consolidate their own group identity:

[!quote] A society does not simply discover its others, it fabricates them, by selecting, isolating, and emphasizing an aspect of another people's life, and making it symbolize their difference

What may be new in Western Christian tradition, as we shall see, is how the use of Satan to represent one’s enemies lends to conflict a specific kind of moral and religious interpretation, in which “we” are God’s people and “they” are God's enemies, and ours as well. Those who adopt this view are encouraged to believe, as Jesus warned his followers, that “whoever kills you will think he is offering a service to God” (John 16:2). Such moral interpretation of conflict has proven extraordinarily effective throughout Western history in consolidating the identity of Christian groups; the same history also shows that it can justify hatred, even mass slaughter. This research, then, reveals certain fault lines in Christian tradition that have allowed for the demonizing of others throughout Christian history—fault lines that go back nearly two thousand years to the origins of the Christian movement. For nearly two thousand years, for example, many Christians have taken for granted that Jews killed Jesus and the Romans were merely their reluctant agents, and that this implicates not only the perpetrators but (as Matthew insists) all their progeny in evil.8 Throughout the centuries, countless Christians listening to the gospels absorbed, along with the quite contrary sayings of Jesus, the association between the forces of evil and Jesus’ Jewish enemies. Whether illiterate or sophisticated, those who heard the gospel stories, or saw them illustrated in their churches, generally assumed both their historical accuracy and their religious validity. Their critical analysis indicated that the authors of Matthew and Luke used Mark as a source from which to construct their amplified gospels. Many scholars assumed that Mark was the most historically reliable because it was the simplest in style and was written closer to the time of Jesus than the others were. But historical accuracy may not have been the gospel writers’ first consideration. Further analysis demonstrated how passages from the prophetic writings and the psalms of the Hebrew Bible were woven into the gospel narratives. Barnabas Lindars and others suggested that Christian writers often expanded biblical passages into whole episodes that “proved,” to the satisfaction of many believers, that events predicted by the prophets found their fulfillment in Jesus’ coming.9 Those who accepted such analysis now realized that the gospel of Mark, as James Robinson shows, is anything but a straightforward historical narrative; rather, it is a theological treatise that assumes the form of historical biography. But others objected to what Albert Schweitzer called the “quest of the historical Jesus,”11 pointing out that the earliest of the gospels was written more than a generation after Jesus’ death, and the others nearly two generations later, and that sorting out “authentic” material in the gospels was virtually impossible in the absence of independent evidence. 2 One of the primary issues to emerge from these critical studies was the question, What historical basis is there, if any, to the gospels' claim that Jews were responsible for Jesus’ death? What makes this question of vital interest is the gospels’ claim that this deed was inspired by Satan himself. One group of scholars pointed out discrepancies between Sanhedrin procedure described in the Mishnah and in the gospel accounts of Jesus’ “trial before the Sanhedrin,” and questioned the accuracy of the accounts in Mark and Matthew. Simon Bernfield declared in 1910 that “the whole trial before the Sanhedrin is nothing but an invention of a later date,”13 a view that has found recent defenders among Christian literary analysts.14 Noting that the charge against Jesus and the form of execution are characteristically Roman, many scholars, including Paul Winter in his influential book On the Trial of Jesus, published in 1961, argued that it was the Romans who executed Jesus, on political grounds, not religious ones. Recently, however, one group of scholars has renewed arguments to show that, in Josef Blinzler’s words:

[!quote] anyone who undertakes to assess the trial of Jesus as a historical and legal event, reconstructing it from the gospel narratives, must come to the same conclusion as the early Christian preachers did themselves, that the main responsibility rests on the Jewish side (emphasis added).

But scholars who take more skeptical views of the historical plausibility of these narratives emphasize Roman responsibility for Jesus’ execution, which, they suggest, the gospel writers tended to downplay so as not to provoke the Romans in the aftermath of the unsuccessful Jewish war against Rome.18 I agree as a working hypothesis that Jesus’ execution was probably imposed by the Romans for activities they considered seditious—possibly for arousing public demonstrations and (so they apparently believed) for claiming to be “king of the Jews.” “what really happened”—much less to persuade the reader of this or any other version of “what happened”—since, apart from the scenario briefly sketched above, I find the sources too fragmentary and too susceptible of various interpretations to answer that question definitively. Instead I try to show how the gospels reflect the emergence of the Jesus movement from the postwar factionalism of the late first century. In this book I add to the discussion something I have not found elsewhere—what I call the social history of Satan; that is, I show how the events told in the gospels about Jesus, his advocates, and his enemies correlate with the supernatural drama the writers use to interpret that story—the struggle between God's spirit and Satan. And because Christians as they read the gospels have characteristically identified themselves with the disciples, for some two thousand years they have also identified their opponents, whether Jews, pagans, or heretics, with forces of evil, and so with Satan.

In this part, Brandom engages with the philosophical legacy of Immanuel Kant and G.W.F. Hegel, exploring how their ideas influence his own inferentialist and pragmatist approach. Brandom sees these thinkers as central figures in the development of a modern understanding of reason, normativity, and the social nature of meaning.

Here are the key points covered:

1. Kant’s Influence on Normativity:
   • Brandom draws on Kant’s idea that reason is inherently normative. For Kant, rational agents are guided by norms—they act according to principles or rules that they recognize as binding. Brandom adopts this framework to argue that reasoning and communication are regulated by social norms that govern what counts as valid or appropriate in discourse.
2. Hegel’s Contribution to Social Practices:
   • Hegel builds on Kant’s framework by emphasizing the social dimension of normativity. For Hegel, norms are not individual constructs but arise from the interactions and mutual recognition of individuals within a community. Brandom aligns with this view, arguing that meaning and reasoning are fundamentally social practices governed by shared norms.
3. The “Mighty Dead”:
   • Brandom refers to Kant and Hegel as part of the “Mighty Dead”—philosophers whose ideas continue to shape contemporary thought. He sees his own work as part of this historical trajectory, aiming to build on their insights while addressing gaps or limitations in their frameworks.
4. Kant and Hegel’s Role in Brandom’s Project:
   • Brandom views Kant and Hegel as key figures in the development of a philosophical understanding of reason and normativity. While Kant establishes the normative nature of reason, Hegel extends this by emphasizing the social context in which norms operate. Brandom synthesizes these ideas to develop his own theory of meaning and reasoning.
5. Critique and Expansion:
   • While Brandom acknowledges the foundational importance of Kant and Hegel, he also critiques and expands on their ideas. For instance, he argues that Kant’s focus on individual autonomy must be complemented by Hegel’s recognition of the social dynamics that shape norms and reasoning. This combination forms the basis of Brandom’s inferentialist approach.

This subsection sets the stage for Brandom’s historical and theoretical project by positioning Kant and Hegel as pivotal figures in understanding the normative and social dimensions of meaning and reason.

et’s explore Topic 1: Kant’s Influence on Normativity in more detail.

Brandom begins by emphasizing Kant’s groundbreaking insight that reason is inherently normative. This means that rational activity is not just about following natural instincts or causal processes; it’s about acting according to principles or rules that an individual recognizes as binding. For Kant, this capacity to act according to norms is what distinguishes rational agents from non-rational beings.

Key Aspects of Kant’s Influence on Brandom:

1. Rational Agents and Self-Governance:
   • Kant’s concept of autonomy is central. Rational agents are autonomous in the sense that they can govern themselves by recognizing and following norms. Brandom adopts this view by arguing that reasoning and communication involve self-regulation according to shared norms of discourse.
2. Norms as Binding:
   • Kant emphasizes that norms are not arbitrary; they are binding in a way that is rooted in reason itself. For example, when a rational agent acknowledges a principle (like telling the truth), they do so because they see it as a universal rule that should guide their actions. Brandom translates this insight into the domain of language and reasoning, suggesting that norms govern not only moral behavior but also inferential relationships in discourse.
3. The Role of Principles:
   • For Kant, principles are central to rationality. Brandom draws a parallel here, arguing that principles also govern reasoning and meaning. For instance, the principles of valid inference determine how one statement can justify or support another within a conversation. These principles are not individual but shared, reflecting a normative framework that guides reasoning.
4. Kant’s Focus on Individual Autonomy:
   • While Brandom values Kant’s emphasis on individual autonomy, he notes a limitation in Kant’s framework: it focuses primarily on the individual’s capacity to follow norms. Brandom agrees that individuals must recognize norms as binding, but he also stresses that these norms are established and maintained through social practices—a point he borrows from Hegel.
5. Kant’s Legacy for Normative Pragmatics:
   • Brandom uses Kant’s insight into normativity as a foundation for his normative pragmatics. He argues that reasoning and communication are not just cognitive activities but normative ones, where participants engage with and uphold the shared rules of discourse. This Kantian perspective underpins Brandom’s view that meaning is inseparable from the norms that govern its use.

Examples from Brandom’s Discussion:

Brandom illustrates Kant’s influence by highlighting the connection between moral and linguistic norms. Just as Kant views moral norms (like honesty) as binding because they are grounded in reason, Brandom views linguistic norms (like providing reasons for a claim) as binding within discourse. Both kinds of norms require participants to recognize and uphold shared principles.

In summary, Kant’s influence on normativity is foundational for Brandom’s philosophy. Kant’s emphasis on principles, self-governance, and the binding nature of norms shapes Brandom’s view of reasoning as a normative practice regulated by shared rules.

discusses in more detail:

Key Aspects of Hegel’s Contribution:

1. Norms as Social Constructs:
   • Hegel views norms as emerging from the social interactions between individuals. Unlike Kant, who sees norms as universal principles derived from reason alone, Hegel argues that norms are created, maintained, and transformed within communities. For Brandom, this insight is crucial because it links meaning and reasoning to the shared practices of a linguistic community.
2. Mutual Recognition:
   • A central concept in Hegel’s philosophy is mutual recognition—the idea that individuals recognize each other as rational agents capable of following norms. This recognition is not just a moral or ethical process but also a linguistic one. For Brandom, mutual recognition is fundamental to reasoning and communication because it establishes the social framework in which norms are validated and shared.
3. The Social Nature of Reasoning:
   • Hegel emphasizes that reasoning is not a solitary activity but a socially embedded practice. Individuals reason together by engaging in dialogue, challenging each other’s claims, and justifying their positions. Brandom adopts this view, arguing that meaning arises from the social processes of giving and asking for reasons—a practice deeply rooted in Hegelian thought.
4. Norms as Dynamic and Historical:
   • Hegel also highlights the historical nature of norms. Norms are not fixed or eternal; they evolve over time as communities develop and change. Brandom incorporates this idea into his theory by emphasizing that the norms governing reasoning and communication are dynamic, shaped by ongoing social practices. This historical perspective helps explain how meaning and reasoning adapt to new contexts and challenges.
5. Overcoming Kant’s Limitation:
   • Brandom views Hegel’s focus on social practices as a necessary expansion of Kant’s framework. While Kant explains how individuals recognize and follow norms, Hegel shows how these norms are socially constructed and maintained. For Brandom, this combination of individual autonomy and social normativity is essential for understanding reasoning and meaning.

Examples from Brandom’s Discussion:

Brandom draws on Hegel’s philosophy to explain how linguistic norms are established. For example, the practice of making claims and providing reasons only works if participants in a conversation recognize each other as rational agents bound by the same norms. This mutual recognition creates a shared framework for reasoning, where meaning is negotiated and maintained collectively.

In summary, Hegel’s contribution to Brandom’s philosophy lies in his emphasis on the social dimension of normativity. By showing that norms are created and sustained through social practices, Hegel provides a foundation for understanding meaning and reasoning as communal activities grounded in mutual recognition and historical development.

The third topic in this subsection is The “Mighty Dead.” In this part, Brandom reflects on how figures like Kant and Hegel—whom he refers to as part of the “Mighty Dead”—continue to shape contemporary philosophical thought. He positions his own work within this historical trajectory, showing how his ideas build on and expand the insights of these foundational thinkers.

Key Points Covered:

1. Historical Continuity:
   • Brandom views philosophy as an ongoing dialogue with the Mighty Dead, thinkers whose ideas have defined major philosophical traditions. For Brandom, engaging with figures like Kant and Hegel is not merely about interpreting their works but about extending and reconfiguring their insights to address contemporary questions about reasoning, normativity, and meaning.
2. Kant and Hegel’s Central Roles:
   • Brandom identifies Kant and Hegel as particularly influential in his work because they represent two essential aspects of his own project:
     • Kant provides the framework for understanding normativity and autonomy.
     • Hegel complements this with a focus on the social and historical dimensions of normativity.
3. Philosophy as a Progressive Dialogue:
   • Brandom argues that philosophy is a progressive dialogue, where contemporary thinkers build on the work of their predecessors. He sees his inferentialist and pragmatist approach as part of this progression, synthesizing Kantian and Hegelian insights to address modern concerns about language, reasoning, and communication.
4. Adapting the Mighty Dead’s Ideas:
   • Rather than simply adopting Kant’s and Hegel’s ideas as they are, Brandom adapts them to fit the context of his own inferentialist framework. For example:
     • He integrates Kantian normativity into his theory of meaning, emphasizing the role of commitments and entitlements in discourse.
     • He uses Hegel’s social practices to explain how meaning is negotiated and maintained within linguistic communities.
5. The Relevance of the Mighty Dead Today:
   • Brandom highlights the enduring relevance of Kant and Hegel in addressing questions about reasoning and meaning. He argues that their insights into normativity, autonomy, and social practices remain crucial for understanding the challenges of contemporary philosophy, particularly in the realms of language and communication.

Examples from Brandom’s Perspective:

Brandom positions himself as both a critic and a successor to the Mighty Dead. While he critiques Kant’s limited focus on individual autonomy, he extends Hegel’s insights into the social nature of norms to create a unified framework that addresses the interplay between individual reasoning and communal practices.

Summary:

The “Mighty Dead” subsection highlights Brandom’s engagement with the philosophical legacy of Kant and Hegel. He positions his work as part of a historical dialogue, building on their ideas to develop his own inferentialist and pragmatist approach. For Brandom, engaging with the Mighty Dead is about refining and advancing their insights to address contemporary philosophical questions.

The fourth topic in this subsection is Kant and Hegel’s Role in Brandom’s Project. Here, Brandom explicitly details how Kant and Hegel's ideas form the foundation of his philosophical approach while highlighting how his work advances their insights into new domains.

Key Points Covered:

1. Kant’s Role in Brandom’s Project:
   • Brandom incorporates Kant’s emphasis on normativity into his theory of reasoning and meaning. Kant’s view that rational agents are guided by norms is central to Brandom’s understanding of how language functions in practice.
   • Brandom draws particularly on Kant’s idea of autonomy, where rational agents recognize norms as binding and act according to them. For Brandom, this autonomy is mirrored in discourse, where speakers commit to norms of reasoning when they make assertions or inferences.
2. Hegel’s Role in Brandom’s Project:
   • Brandom builds on Hegel’s focus on the social dimension of normativity. For Hegel, norms are not static principles but are developed and sustained through social interaction. Brandom uses this insight to argue that reasoning and meaning are fundamentally social practices.
   • He highlights Hegel’s idea of mutual recognition, where individuals acknowledge each other as rational agents, as a key element in understanding how norms are established and maintained in discourse.
3. Synthesizing Kant and Hegel:
   • Brandom views his work as a synthesis of Kant’s and Hegel’s ideas. Kant provides the framework for understanding the individual’s capacity to follow norms, while Hegel expands this by emphasizing the communal and historical nature of those norms. Brandom integrates these perspectives into his inferentialist approach, showing how individual reasoning and communal practices work together to create meaning.
4. Advancing Beyond Kant and Hegel:
   • While Brandom is deeply influenced by Kant and Hegel, he also critiques and extends their ideas. For example:
     • He critiques Kant’s focus on individual autonomy for neglecting the social dimension of normativity.
     • He advances Hegel’s ideas by providing a systematic account of how norms operate in reasoning and communication, grounded in inferentialist and pragmatic principles.
5. A Unified Framework:
   • Brandom’s project unifies Kant’s and Hegel’s insights into a single framework that explains meaning and reasoning as both normative and socially constructed. By doing so, he provides a comprehensive account of how language, thought, and interaction are intertwined.

Examples from Brandom’s Discussion:

Brandom illustrates this synthesis by showing how commitments and entitlements (derived from Kantian autonomy) are shaped and enforced through social practices (Hegelian mutual recognition). For instance, when a speaker makes an assertion, they take on a commitment that must be recognized and evaluated by the community, blending individual and social dimensions.

The fifth and final topic in this subsection is Critique and Expansion. Here, Brandom evaluates the limitations of Kant’s and Hegel’s frameworks while demonstrating how his own approach expands upon their ideas to address modern concerns about reasoning, normativity, and meaning.

Key Points Covered:

1. Kant’s Limitation: Individualism:
   • Brandom critiques Kant for focusing too heavily on individual autonomy in his account of normativity. While Kant provides a robust framework for understanding how individuals recognize and follow norms, he neglects the social dimension of how these norms are established and sustained.
   • Brandom addresses this limitation by incorporating Hegel’s insights into the social practices that underpin normativity, emphasizing that norms arise and are maintained through collective interactions rather than purely individual reasoning.
2. Hegel’s Strengths and Gaps:
   • Brandom praises Hegel for recognizing the social and historical nature of norms, particularly through his concept of mutual recognition. However, he notes that Hegel’s account lacks a clear, systematic explanation of how these norms operate in practical reasoning and communication.
   • Brandom expands on Hegel’s work by providing a detailed account of inferential roles and how they function within the social norms of discourse. This gives Hegel’s ideas a more precise application in the realm of language and meaning.
3. Building a Pragmatic Framework:
   • Brandom’s expansion involves integrating Kantian and Hegelian insights into a pragmatic framework that emphasizes the role of language use in shaping reasoning and meaning. By focusing on the practical activities of giving and asking for reasons, Brandom bridges the gap between Kant’s focus on principles and Hegel’s emphasis on social practices.
4. Reconciling Autonomy and Sociality:
   • One of Brandom’s key contributions is reconciling the autonomy of the individual with the sociality of normativity. He argues that individuals are autonomous in recognizing and following norms, but these norms are inherently social, shaped by collective practices and mutual recognition. This synthesis resolves the tension between Kant’s and Hegel’s approaches, creating a more comprehensive account of reasoning and meaning.
5. Addressing Contemporary Concerns:
   • Brandom uses this critique and expansion to address modern concerns in philosophy, particularly in the areas of semantics, pragmatics, and the philosophy of language. His approach provides a systematic way to understand how meaning arises from social interaction, how norms guide reasoning, and how individual autonomy fits within a communal framework.

Examples from Brandom’s Discussion:

Brandom illustrates his critique and expansion by showing how commitments and entitlements (a Kantian idea) operate within normative social practices (a Hegelian perspective). For instance, a speaker’s commitment to a claim is only meaningful if it is recognized and evaluated by the community, blending individual and social dimensions into a unified process.

Philosophy as an Ongoing Dialogue. Here, Brandom explains how he views philosophy as a continuous conversation with its past, where each new generation of thinkers builds on, critiques, and refines the ideas of their predecessors.

Key Details:

1. Engagement with Historical Thinkers:
   • Brandom sees engaging with figures like Kant and Hegel as part of an ongoing dialogue that bridges historical and contemporary philosophy. He argues that philosophical ideas are not isolated systems but contributions to a larger conversation that evolves over time. Engaging with the past helps to illuminate and address present philosophical challenges.
2. Building on Historical Insights:
   • Rather than treating historical ideas as finished or complete, Brandom views them as starting points for further exploration. He argues that philosophers should identify the strengths and limitations of past thinkers, using their insights as conceptual tools to address new questions and refine existing theories.
3. Philosophy as Progressive:
   • Brandom emphasizes the progressive nature of philosophy. Each generation of philosophers adds to the discipline by reinterpreting, adapting, and expanding the ideas of their predecessors. This process leads to a cumulative development of philosophical understanding, where contemporary thinkers improve upon and extend the insights of the past.
4. Kant and Hegel as Case Studies:
   • Brandom uses Kant and Hegel as examples of this progressive dialogue. While their ideas laid the groundwork for modern understandings of normativity and social practices, Brandom argues that their frameworks need to be updated and integrated into current philosophical discussions. For instance, he reinterprets Kant’s concept of autonomy and Hegel’s mutual recognition to align them with his inferentialist and pragmatist approaches.
5. Philosophy as Problem-Solving:
   • For Brandom, engaging with historical philosophers is not just an academic exercise—it is about problem-solving. He argues that the best way to address contemporary philosophical problems is to build on the insights of the past while adapting them to fit new contexts and challenges.

• In "The Normative Nature of Reason," Brandom focuses on the idea that reasoning is not merely a mechanical or descriptive process but an inherently normative activity, guided by rules and standards that define what counts as proper reasoning. He connects this to his broader inferentialist and pragmatist framework, emphasizing the role of social norms in shaping rational thought and communication.

Key Points Covered:

1. Reason as Rule-Governed:
   • Brandom argues that reason operates within a framework of rules and norms. Rational activity involves recognizing and following these rules, whether they pertain to valid inferences, logical consistency, or appropriate discourse practices. These norms are not arbitrary but are essential for ensuring that reasoning remains meaningful and coherent.
2. Commitments and Entitlements:
   • A central part of Brandom’s normative framework is the distinction between commitments and entitlements. When individuals engage in reasoning, they take on commitments by making claims or drawing inferences. They are also responsible for ensuring that these commitments are supported by appropriate entitlements—valid reasons or evidence that justify their claims.
3. Social Dimension of Normativity:
   • Brandom emphasizes the social nature of normativity in reasoning. The rules that govern reasoning are not established individually but arise from collective practices within a community. For reasoning to be recognized as valid, it must adhere to the norms shared and enforced by the community.
4. Evaluation and Accountability:
   • Reasoning involves an element of accountability, where individuals must justify their commitments when challenged. Others in the community evaluate whether the reasoning is valid according to the shared norms. This evaluative process ensures that reasoning remains aligned with the standards of the community and helps to refine those standards over time.
5. Dynamic and Evolving Norms:
   • Brandom highlights that the norms governing reasoning are not fixed but evolve as part of the community’s ongoing practices. As participants engage in discourse and encounter new challenges, they may revise or adapt the rules that guide their reasoning, making the normative framework dynamic and context-sensitive.
6. Reason as a Social Practice:
   • Reasoning is not an isolated, individual activity but a social practice that requires interaction with others. Through the exchange of reasons, participants in a discourse shape and reinforce the norms that define proper reasoning. This social aspect is fundamental to Brandom’s view of reason as a normative phenomenon.

Exploring the First Key Point: Reason as Rule-Governed

In this part of the subsection, Brandom argues that reasoning is fundamentally a rule-governed activity. This means that reasoning operates within a normative framework that specifies what counts as valid or invalid reasoning. The key points discussed are:

1. Rules and Standards of Reasoning:
   • Brandom emphasizes that reasoning is not arbitrary or freeform. It is guided by rules and standards that define what constitutes proper logical inferences, appropriate claims, and coherent discourse. These rules ensure that reasoning leads to meaningful and valid conclusions rather than incoherent or baseless ones.
2. Normativity of Logical Structures:
   • Logical principles, such as consistency, non-contradiction, and validity, are examples of the rules that govern reasoning. These principles are not mere descriptions of how reasoning happens but norms that specify how reasoning ought to proceed. For example, the rule of non-contradiction states that a statement and its negation cannot both be true simultaneously, and reasoning must conform to this rule to be considered valid.
3. Normative Force of Rules:
   • Brandom highlights that these rules have normative force, meaning they impose obligations on rational agents. When individuals engage in reasoning, they are expected to follow these rules and are held accountable if they deviate. This accountability is central to maintaining the integrity of reasoning as a normative practice.
4. Implicit and Explicit Rules:
   • Some rules of reasoning are explicit, such as formal logical principles, while others are implicit, embedded in the practices of reasoning itself. Brandom acknowledges that much of reasoning relies on an intuitive understanding of these implicit norms, which individuals acquire through participation in social practices.
5. Rules Enable Meaningful Reasoning:
   • Brandom argues that reasoning would not be meaningful without these rules. The rules provide a structure that allows individuals to evaluate reasoning, distinguish between valid and invalid arguments, and engage in productive discourse. Without a normative framework, reasoning would lose its coherence and purpose.

The Second Key Point: Commitments and Entitlements

In this part of the subsection, Brandom explains how reasoning involves taking on commitments and ensuring those commitments are backed by appropriate entitlements. This framework connects reasoning to normativity by showing how individuals are bound by rules of justification and accountability in discourse.

Key Details:

1. Commitments in Reasoning:
   • When a speaker makes a claim or draws an inference, they take on a commitment. This means they are asserting that their claim is valid and that they are willing to justify it if challenged. Commitments are normative because they carry the expectation that the speaker will provide reasons to support their claim.
2. Entitlements as Justification:
   • Entitlements refer to the speaker’s right to make a claim or inference. To be entitled, the speaker must have valid reasons or evidence to back up their commitment. For example, if someone claims “The ground is wet because it rained,” their entitlement depends on evidence that it actually rained. Without such evidence, their commitment lacks entitlement and becomes unjustified.
3. Normative Relationship Between Commitments and Entitlements:
   • Brandom highlights the interplay between commitments and entitlements as central to reasoning. A speaker’s commitments are only valid if they are supported by appropriate entitlements. Conversely, if a speaker lacks entitlement, their reasoning fails to meet the normative standards of discourse.
4. Accountability in Reasoning:
   • Taking on a commitment means accepting accountability within the norms of reasoning. Other participants in the discourse have the right to challenge a speaker’s commitments and demand justification. If the speaker cannot provide adequate reasons, they fail to meet the normative expectations of reasoning.
5. Dynamic Nature of Commitments and Entitlements:
   • Brandom emphasizes that commitments and entitlements are not static. They evolve through interaction in discourse. For instance, a speaker may lose entitlement if new evidence contradicts their claim, or they may gain entitlement by providing additional reasons or context. This dynamic nature reflects the adaptive and social aspects of reasoning.
6. Social Norms Regulate Commitments and Entitlements:
   • The standards for what counts as a valid commitment or entitlement are determined by the norms of the community. These norms define what types of reasons or evidence are acceptable and how commitments should be evaluated. Brandom argues that this social regulation is what makes reasoning a shared and meaningful practice.

Summary:

In this key point, Brandom explains how reasoning is governed by commitments (claims made by a speaker) and entitlements (the justification for those claims). These concepts highlight the normative nature of reasoning, where speakers are accountable for their commitments and must ensure they are supported by valid entitlements within the norms of discourse.

The Third Key Point: Social Dimension of Normativity

In this part of the subsection, Brandom argues that reasoning is fundamentally a social practice governed by shared norms. These norms are established, maintained, and enforced through collective interaction within a community, emphasizing the inherently communal nature of reasoning.

Key Details:

1. Norms as Social Constructs:
   • Brandom emphasizes that norms are not created by individuals in isolation. Instead, they are social constructs, emerging from the practices and agreements of a community. The validity of a claim or reasoning depends on its alignment with these socially shared norms.
2. Reasoning as a Social Practice:
   • Reasoning is described as a socially embedded activity, where individuals interact with others to evaluate, refine, and justify their claims. For example, when a speaker presents an argument, others in the discourse assess whether it adheres to the community’s norms of valid reasoning.
3. Mutual Accountability:
   • A key aspect of the social dimension is mutual accountability. In reasoning, participants hold each other accountable to the shared norms of discourse. This includes challenging unjustified claims, demanding evidence, and offering reasons to support one’s own assertions. This back-and-forth process ensures that reasoning remains normatively structured and meaningful.
4. Shared Standards for Evaluation:
   • The community establishes standards for evaluating reasoning. These standards determine what counts as valid evidence, acceptable inferences, and justified claims. Brandom highlights that these standards are not universal or fixed; they are shaped by the specific practices and history of the community.
5. Norms Are Enforced Through Interaction:
   • Norms are not abstract rules but are enforced through social interaction. When a participant violates a norm—such as by making an invalid inference—they are corrected or challenged by others in the community. This enforcement process reinforces the shared norms and helps participants refine their reasoning.
6. Dynamic and Evolving Norms:
   • Brandom emphasizes that the norms governing reasoning are dynamic, evolving over time as the community adapts to new challenges and contexts. This flexibility allows norms to remain relevant and effective in guiding reasoning and communication.
7. Individual Reasoning Within a Social Framework:
   • While reasoning is a social practice, individuals play a crucial role in contributing to and shaping the norms of their community. Brandom argues that individual reasoning gains its validity and meaning from its integration into the social framework of norms and practices.

Examples from Brandom’s Argument:

• In a debate, a speaker might present evidence to support their claim, only to have another participant challenge the evidence’s validity. This interaction highlights the social enforcement of norms, where the community collectively determines what counts as justified reasoning

In the "Autonomy" subsection, Brandom focuses on the concept of autonomy as central to understanding normativity and reasoning. He explores how autonomy, particularly in Kantian terms, relates to the capacity of individuals to act and reason according to norms they recognize as binding. Brandom further examines the role of autonomy in social practices and its connection to mutual recognition and norm-governed reasoning.

Key Points Covered:

1. Autonomy as Self-Governance:
   • Brandom draws on Kant’s definition of autonomy as the ability to self-govern by following norms that one recognizes as legitimate. For Kant, autonomy is the essence of rational agency, where individuals act according to principles rather than external pressures or mere inclinations. Brandom extends this idea to reasoning, where autonomy involves the capacity to make and justify claims based on recognized norms.
2. Autonomy in Reasoning:
   • In Brandom’s framework, autonomy is essential for reasoning because it enables individuals to take responsibility for their commitments. A rational agent must not only follow norms but also understand and endorse them as binding. This active engagement with norms reflects the autonomous nature of reasoning.
3. Social Dimension of Autonomy:
   • Brandom emphasizes that autonomy is not purely individualistic but has a social dimension. Autonomy arises and is sustained through participation in social practices, where individuals recognize and uphold the norms of their community. For Brandom, reasoning and autonomy are inseparable from the social context in which norms are created, shared, and enforced.
4. Mutual Recognition and Autonomy:
   • Brandom ties autonomy to the concept of mutual recognition, drawing on Hegel. He argues that autonomy is only meaningful within a framework where individuals recognize each other as rational agents capable of following norms. This recognition establishes the social space in which autonomy and reasoning can flourish.
5. Autonomy and Accountability:
   • Autonomy also entails accountability. An autonomous agent is not only guided by norms but is also accountable for their actions and reasoning. This accountability is exercised through the social practices of giving and asking for reasons, where individuals justify their commitments and respond to challenges.
6. Autonomy as Dynamic:
   • Brandom highlights that autonomy is not a fixed state but a dynamic process. Individuals develop and refine their autonomy through continuous interaction with others and engagement with norms. As norms evolve, so too does the exercise of autonomy within the community.

Summary:

In this subsection, Brandom explores autonomy as the capacity for self-governance in reasoning and action. He emphasizes its social dimension, connecting it to mutual recognition, accountability, and the dynamic nature of norm-governed practices. For Brandom, autonomy is foundational to understanding rational agency and its role in discourse.

Summary of this chapter:

Key Point 1: Autonomy as Self-Governance

Brandom begins by discussing autonomy in the Kantian sense as the capacity for self-governance. This means that an autonomous agent is one who acts according to norms or principles they recognize as binding, rather than being driven by external forces or mere impulses.

Key Details:

1. Kant’s Definition of Autonomy:
   • Autonomy is defined as the ability to legislate one’s own norms, to act according to rules or principles that one endorses as legitimate. For Kant, this is what distinguishes rational agents from non-rational beings, as rational agents can reflect on the norms they follow and accept them as binding.
2. Extension to Reasoning:
   • Brandom extends this concept to reasoning, arguing that autonomy involves more than just acting according to norms—it includes actively understanding and endorsing those norms. In reasoning, autonomous agents not only follow inferential rules but also recognize why those rules are valid and necessary for meaningful discourse.
3. Self-Governance in Discourse:
   • In discourse, autonomy manifests as the ability to take on commitments and justify them. When making a claim, an autonomous individual is responsible for ensuring that their reasoning adheres to the shared norms of discourse. This self-governance is essential for maintaining coherence and accountability in reasoning.
4. Practical vs. Theoretical Autonomy:
   • Brandom distinguishes between practical autonomy (governing one’s actions) and theoretical autonomy (governing one’s reasoning). Both involve recognizing and following norms, but theoretical autonomy specifically applies to the domain of reasoning, where individuals must navigate complex inferential relationships and justify their claims.

Examples:

• A person asserting, “The ground is wet because it rained,” demonstrates autonomy by:
  • Following the inferential norm that a cause (rain) justifies an effect (wet ground).
  • Recognizing this inferential norm as binding and being prepared to justify their claim if challenged.

Key Point 2: Autonomy in Reasoning

Brandom further elaborates on how autonomy is central to reasoning. He argues that reasoning requires individuals to take responsibility for their commitments and to engage with norms actively, rather than passively following rules.

Key Details:

1. Reasoning Requires Active Engagement:
   • Autonomous reasoning involves more than just following rules—it requires understanding and actively endorsing them. This distinguishes rational agents from machines, which can follow rules but lack the capacity to reflect on or justify them.
2. Responsibility for Commitments:
   • When reasoning, individuals take on commitments by making claims or drawing inferences. Autonomy entails accepting responsibility for these commitments, ensuring they are justified and align with the norms of discourse.
3. Endorsement of Norms:
   • Autonomous agents must endorse the norms that guide their reasoning. This means they see these norms not as external impositions but as principles they recognize and accept as legitimate.

Examples:

• In a debate, a participant demonstrates reasoning autonomy by:
  • Actively justifying their position using valid inferences.
  • Acknowledging the shared rules of argumentation and ensuring their reasoning aligns with those rules.

Key Point 3: Social Dimension of Autonomy

Brandom emphasizes that autonomy is not purely individualistic; it is inherently tied to social practices. Autonomy is sustained and validated through participation in a community.

Key Details:

1. Norms Are Socially Sustained:
   • While individuals recognize norms as binding, these norms are created and maintained within social practices. Autonomy, therefore, depends on the shared framework of norms established by the community.
2. Collaboration in Reasoning:
   • Reasoning autonomy requires collaboration, where individuals engage with others to refine and validate the norms they follow. Through dialogue and interaction, participants collectively uphold the rules that govern reasoning.
3. Autonomy and Belonging:
   • By participating in a normative community, individuals not only exercise autonomy but also contribute to the social practices that sustain it. This connection highlights the interplay between individual autonomy and collective normativity.

Key Point 4: Mutual Recognition and Autonomy

Drawing on Hegel, Brandom connects autonomy to mutual recognition, arguing that autonomy is only meaningful in a social context where individuals recognize each other as rational agents.

Key Details:

1. Recognition as Rational Agents:
   • For autonomy to function, individuals must recognize each other as capable of reasoning and following norms. This mutual recognition creates the shared framework in which norms are upheld and autonomy is exercised.
2. Social Validation of Autonomy:
   • Autonomy is validated through interaction, where individuals hold each other accountable to the norms of reasoning. This mutual accountability reinforces the legitimacy of the norms and ensures that reasoning remains meaningful.

Key Point 5: Autonomy and Accountability

Autonomy entails not just the ability to follow norms but also the responsibility to justify one’s actions and reasoning. Brandom ties autonomy to the practices of accountability in discourse.

Key Details:

1. Justifying Commitments:
   • Autonomous agents must be prepared to justify their commitments if challenged. This accountability ensures that norms are not followed blindly but are actively upheld through reasoning.
2. Normative Feedback:
   • Accountability involves receiving feedback from others, which helps refine one’s understanding of the norms. Autonomous reasoning is, therefore, a dynamic process where individuals continuously engage with the community’s standards.

Key Point 6: Autonomy as Dynamic

Finally, Brandom highlights that autonomy is a dynamic process, evolving as individuals and communities engage with new challenges and refine their norms.

Key Details:

1. Evolving Norms:
   • Norms change over time, and autonomous agents must adapt to these changes. This adaptability reflects the active and participatory nature of autonomy.
2. Growth Through Interaction:
   • Individuals develop their autonomy by participating in discourse, where they encounter diverse perspectives and refine their reasoning skills.

Summary:

This subsection explores autonomy as self-governance in reasoning, emphasizing its social, dynamic, and accountable nature. Brandom integrates Kant’s and Hegel’s insights to show how autonomy operates within a framework of mutual recognition and norm-governed practices.

Outline: [[#"The Received View]] [[#Brandom’s Alternative"*]] [[#"Inferential Role Semantics"]] [[#"Pragmatism"]] [[#"Normative Pragmatics"]] Summary

**"The Received View

This section discusses an influential theory of linguistic meaning and communication, which Brandom contrasts with his own theory. The Received View, also known as "agent semantics," explains linguistic meaning in terms of a speaker’s intention to influence the beliefs and actions of others. According to this view, language derives its meaning from the prior capacity of individuals to engage in practical reasoning, with meaning being dependent on the beliefs and intentions underlying speech acts.

In "The Received View" section, the book elaborates on how linguistic meaning and communication are explained through a framework of rational intentional actions. This framework, commonly referred to as "agent semantics," proposes that a speaker's utterances, such as assertions or commands, are actions carried out with the intention to influence the beliefs or actions of the listener.

For example, if a speaker says "It will rain," the intention behind that utterance is to get the listener to believe that it will indeed rain. According to this view, the meaning of the utterance is directly tied to the speaker's intentions, and successful communication occurs when the listener correctly interprets these intentions. The speaker's belief, the intention to communicate it, and the listener’s recognition of that intention all play a role in the meaning of the linguistic exchange.

Furthermore, this view suggests that rational beings, independently of language, already possess the ability to reason and form propositional mental states such as beliefs and intentions. Language is seen as secondary to this ability, merely expressing these pre-existing mental states. As a result, linguistic meaning is considered derivative of the mental content, and the concept of reasoning is seen as foundational to communication.

The section also touches on how proponents of the Received View believe that mental states are representational, meaning they are about things in the world, such as objects or states of affairs. It emphasizes the representational nature of language and thought, where meaning is tied to this ability to represent things in the world, with some proponents attempting to naturalize this representational dimension by linking it to causal or biological relations.

In summary, "The Received View" lays out a representational and intentional approach to language and meaning, focusing on how linguistic communication is grounded in the pre-existing cognitive abilities of reasoning and intention.

In this section, the book further explores how "The Received View" sees the process of linguistic communication as fundamentally representational and intentional. It outlines three key theses of this view:

1. Rational Beings and Prior Reasoning: Proponents of the Received View claim that rational beings possess the ability to engage in reasoning and hold beliefs, desires, and intentions prior to their capacity to communicate linguistically. This means that reasoning and propositional mental states are seen as independent of language, and language is viewed merely as a tool to express these pre-existing cognitive abilities.

2. Language Derives Meaning from Mental States: The view holds that linguistic meaning is derivative of discursively intentional mental states. Essentially, language represents the contents of mental states such as beliefs and intentions. For instance, when someone makes an assertion, it’s because they already hold a belief that they are expressing. The meaning of that assertion is based on the belief it expresses and the intention to communicate it.

3. Representationalism: The Received View emphasizes that mental states and language are representational in nature, meaning that they are about things in the world. For example, beliefs or sentences like “The water is warm” are representations of states of affairs in the world, such as the actual temperature of water. Representationalism is central to how the Received View explains meaning.

Additionally, the book explains that proponents of this view often attempt to naturalize these representational aspects of meaning by linking them to physical or biological processes. For example, they might argue that our concept of “dog” represents the kind "dog" because of causal interactions with dogs in our environment or because of evolutionary adaptations.

The section also briefly discusses how the Received View faces challenges, especially in explaining how individuals are able to develop determinate representational mental states without already being participants in linguistic practices. This opens the door for Brandom’s critique and alternative perspective, which moves away from representationalism as the primary way to understand linguistic meaning.

Another key discussion in this subsection of "The Received View" is the naturalization of representational content. These naturalistic explanations aim to reduce the abstract idea of representation to something more tangible, like biological or physical processes. This is an attempt to show how rational beings come to have representational mental states without necessarily relying on language, linking meaning to something concrete in the world, such as cause-and-effect relations or evolutionary functions.

This emphasis on naturalizing representationalism is a significant part of how the Received View tries to ground linguistic meaning in observable, physical processes, moving beyond purely abstract reasoning.

The challenge of explaining representational mental states prior to linguistic practices. In this subsection, the book touches on a critical issue within the Received View—how individuals can develop representational mental states (like beliefs and intentions) before they engage in linguistic communication.

The Received View assumes that reasoning and representation are independent of language, but this raises a problem: How do creatures without language come to have these complex, structured mental representations? This issue is left somewhat unresolved in the Received View, and it’s one of the weaknesses that opens the door for Brandom’s critique and his alternative approach, which rejects this idea of prior reasoning independent of language. Brandom argues instead that linguistic practices are central to forming and understanding propositional content.

So, in addition to the points we've discussed, this challenge is an important critique of the Received View that is highlighted in this section.

Here’s a summary outline of everything we covered in "The Received View" subsection:

1. Rational Beings and Prior Reasoning:
   • Argues that rational beings have the capacity to reason and form beliefs, desires, and intentions independently of language. Language is seen as secondary, merely expressing pre-existing mental states.
2. Language Derives Meaning from Mental States:
   • The meaning of linguistic utterances comes from the speaker’s underlying beliefs and intentions. Language is viewed as an expression of mental content.
3. Representationalism:
   • Mental states and language are representational, meaning they refer to or represent real-world entities, objects, or states of affairs (e.g., "The water is warm" refers to the temperature of the water).
4. Naturalization of Representational Content:
   • Attempts to explain how mental representations gain meaning through natural processes like causality or evolutionary adaptation, linking mental states to observable, physical phenomena.
5. Challenge of Explaining Representational Mental States Prior to Language:
   • A key issue within the Received View is explaining how creatures can develop complex, structured mental representations before engaging in linguistic practices. This unresolved problem is one of the view’s weaknesses.

*Brandom’s Alternative"

In this section, the book begins to present Robert Brandom’s critique of the Received View and introduces his alternative approach to understanding meaning and communication. Brandom’s alternative challenges the idea that reasoning and mental states precede language, instead proposing that linguistic practices themselves are central to the formation of meaning and reasoning.

His alternative approach flips the traditional understanding of how language and reasoning are related. Here are the key points discussed:

1. Language as Fundamental to Reasoning:
   • Brandom rejects the idea that reasoning precedes language. Instead, he argues that it is through linguistic practices—our engagement in social practices of communication—that reasoning and conceptual thought are developed. Language is not a mere expression of prior mental states, but the very medium through which we reason and form beliefs.
2. Inferential Role Semantics:
   • At the heart of Brandom’s alternative is the idea that meaning is determined by the role a sentence plays in a web of inferences. Instead of focusing on how language represents things in the world (as the Received View does), Brandom’s focus is on how linguistic expressions relate to each other within discourse. The meaning of an expression is derived from its inferential relationships with other expressions—how it can lead to or be inferred from other statements in a conversation or practice.
3. Pragmatism:
   • Brandom is influenced by a pragmatic approach to language. He believes that to understand meaning, we must first understand the practical use of language in communication. It’s in the act of engaging with others through language—making assertions, giving reasons, responding to challenges—that we establish what words mean. The focus is on use, not representation.
4. Social Practices and Normativity:
   • Brandom emphasizes the social dimension of linguistic meaning. Meaning is established through social interactions, where participants follow norms of reasoning and communication. These norms aren’t fixed rules but are established through the mutual recognition and response of the participants in a discourse. This gives Brandom’s theory a normative aspect—meaning depends on what is considered correct or incorrect in a given linguistic practice.
5. Rejecting Representationalism:
   • Brandom critiques the Received View's focus on representationalism, where meaning is tied to how language represents states of affairs in the world. For Brandom, representation is not foundational to meaning. Instead, inferential roles and the practical use of language in discourse are what constitute meaning. Representation, in his view, is something that emerges from this practice rather than something that grounds it.

In summary, Brandom’s alternative approach is a radical departure from the traditional Received View. It puts linguistic practices and the inferential relationships between sentences at the center of meaning-making, rather than focusing on mental representations or how language refers to the world. Language is not just a tool for expressing thought but the very medium through which reasoning and conceptual understanding are developed.

this subsection on "Brandom’s Alternative" also discusses the following:

1. Inferentialism as a Contrast to Representationalism:
   • Brandom emphasizes that inferentialism—his core idea that meaning is based on the inferential relationships between statements—stands in stark contrast to the representationalism of the Received View. Where representationalism focuses on how language relates to objects and states of affairs in the world, inferentialism focuses on the internal relations between linguistic expressions themselves. A sentence’s meaning is determined by how it fits within a network of inferences, such as what claims it supports and what follows from it.
2. Language as a Social and Normative Practice:
   • Brandom asserts that meaning is socially constructed through practices of communication. These practices are governed by norms that define what counts as a correct or incorrect move in a conversation. Meaning, therefore, is not inherent in isolated words or mental states but is established through how linguistic performances are treated by others within a community. This reflects his broader commitment to a normative understanding of meaning—what is considered correct or incorrect in discourse matters for how meaning is shaped.
3. Pragmatic Explanation of Meaning:
   • In contrast to theories that place semantics (the study of meaning) before pragmatics (the study of language use), Brandom argues that pragmatic social practices give rise to semantic meaning. Language only acquires meaning through its role in communication, where speakers use language to engage with others, make claims, provide reasons, and respond to challenges. Meaning comes from these interactions, not from an independent representational link between words and the world.
4. Rejecting the Independence of Mental Representation:
   • Brandom critiques the idea that mental representations exist independently of language, as assumed by the Received View. In his alternative, the capacity to reason and form mental representations arises through participating in discursive practices. He argues that our cognitive abilities are fundamentally shaped by our participation in linguistic practices, rather than existing beforehand.
5. Explaining Representation Through Inferentialism:
   • While Brandom rejects representationalism as foundational, he doesn’t deny that language can represent things in the world. Instead, he aims to explain representation in terms of inferential roles. He proposes that representation emerges from the inferential relations we draw between statements and how these statements relate to our actions and the world. Representation, in Brandom’s view, is something we “earn” through inferential engagement, not something built into language from the start.

Overall, this subsection explains Brandom’s broader philosophical shift from seeing language as primarily a representational tool to understanding it as a social, normative, and inferential practice. His alternative challenges traditional views and reframes meaning as something that arises from the way we use language in communication, rather than from pre-existing mental states or simple references to the world.

Brandom's Argumentative Strategy. This strategy is largely indirect, as Brandom does not directly argue against the Received View point by point. Instead, he develops his own pragmatist, inferentialist approach in contrast to the Received View and places his alternative alongside it. He aims to let readers compare both frameworks—his inferentialist, pragmatist view and the traditional representationalist view—and judge which one is more appealing both overall and in its specific details.

Brandom believes that the inferentialist alternative he offers provides a more satisfying account of every philosophically significant aspect of language, reasoning, and logic. While acknowledging the technical sophistication of the Received View, Brandom’s ambition is to demonstrate that his approach can deal with linguistic meaning, reasoning, and logic with equal rigor but in a way that bypasses the weaknesses of the Received View.

This indirect strategy is not merely descriptive; it is meant to be explanatory. Brandom doesn't just describe language as embedded in social practices—he also aims to provide a refined explanation of linguistic communication and meaning through inferential roles and social pragmatics.

Here’s an outline of everything we’ve covered so far from the "Brandom’s Alternative" subsection:

1. Language as Fundamental to Reasoning:
   • Brandom challenges the idea that reasoning exists before language. Instead, reasoning and conceptual thought are developed through participation in linguistic practices.
2. Inferential Role Semantics:
   • Meaning is not based on representation but on the inferential relationships between statements. Language gains its meaning through its place in a web of inferences—how statements support or follow from one another in discourse.
3. Pragmatism and Language Use:
   • Brandom follows a pragmatic approach, arguing that understanding meaning requires understanding how language is used in communication. It is through social interactions, making claims, and exchanging reasons that meaning is constructed.
4. Social Practices and Normativity:
   • Meaning is shaped by social practices and governed by norms that determine what counts as correct or incorrect usage in communication. Meaning emerges from social interactions where participants follow norms.
5. Rejection of Representationalism:
   • Brandom critiques the Received View’s focus on representation as the foundation of meaning. He argues that meaning is not based on the representation of external objects but on inferential roles within linguistic practice. Representation is a byproduct, not the basis of meaning.
6. Explaining Representation through Inferentialism:
   • While Brandom rejects foundational representationalism, he does acknowledge that language can represent things in the world. However, he explains representation through inferential roles, suggesting that it emerges from how statements relate to one another within discourse.
7. Explanatory Inversion:
   • Brandom inverts the traditional order of explanation. Instead of explaining language and reasoning through pre-existing mental representations, he explains them through social practices and inferential roles. He argues that linguistic practices come first, and representation arises from those practices.
8. Brandom’s Argumentative Strategy:
   • Brandom doesn’t directly argue against the Received View but offers his alternative alongside it. His strategy is to provide a refined and rigorous inferentialist account of meaning and reasoning and allow readers to compare it to the representationalist approach. He believes his approach can deal with all the same philosophical issues but in a more satisfying way.

This covers all the significant points discussed in this subsection. Let me know if you'd like further elaboration on any of these items!

"Inferential Role Semantics"

This section goes into detail about how Brandom’s theory focuses on the inferential relationships between statements as the key to understanding meaning, rather than relying on representational connections to the external world. It develops his idea that meaning is tied to how linguistic expressions function within the context of reasoning and how they relate to other statements in discourse.

Brandom elaborates on his core idea that meaning is determined by the inferential relationships between statements, rather than through their representational link to the world. Here are the key points discussed:

1. Meaning as Inference:
   • Brandom argues that the meaning of a sentence is defined by its inferential role—that is, how it connects with other sentences in reasoning. A sentence has meaning because of the inferences it supports (what conclusions can be drawn from it) and the inferences that support it (what other statements justify it). For example, the sentence "It is raining" implies that "The ground will get wet" and can be inferred from the observation of dark clouds in the sky. The meaning of the sentence lies in these inferential connections.
2. Inferential Roles vs. Representation:
   • While the Received View focuses on how sentences represent objects or states of affairs in the world, Brandom shifts the focus to the internal structure of reasoning. He contends that sentences acquire their meaning not through representing the world directly, but through their role in the web of inferences that speakers engage in. This inferential role determines the semantic content of a sentence.
3. Linguistic Understanding as Inferential Mastery:
   • According to Brandom, understanding a sentence means being able to navigate its inferential relationships with other sentences. To grasp the meaning of a statement like "The water is boiling," one must understand the inferences it supports (e.g., "It’s too hot to touch") and the inferences that support it (e.g., "The water has been on the stove for a while"). Competence in reasoning, therefore, is central to linguistic understanding.
4. The Web of Inferential Relations:
   • Inferential role semantics relies on the idea that sentences are part of a broader network of inferential relationships. This web includes not just direct inferences but also implications, compatibilities, and incompatibilities with other statements. For instance, "The ground is wet" may imply that it rained recently, but it is incompatible with the statement "It hasn’t rained for weeks." Meaning emerges from how sentences fit into this larger inferential web.
5. Strong Inferentialism:
   • Brandom’s approach is called strong inferentialism because he claims that inferential roles are not just a part of meaning—they are sufficient to constitute meaning. This contrasts with weaker forms of inferentialism, which might allow representation to play a role alongside inference. For Brandom, the inferential role alone fully determines meaning, without needing to appeal to representation as a separate component.
6. Contextual and Dynamic Nature of Inference:
   • Another important aspect of Brandom’s inferentialism is that the meaning of a sentence is not static but depends on the context of discourse. A statement’s inferential role can shift depending on the circumstances in which it is used, which allows meaning to be dynamic and adaptable to different conversational contexts.

In this subsection, Brandom is laying out a detailed explanation of how meaning arises from inferential relations rather than from the representational connections that the Received View focuses on. He sees meaning as embedded in the practices of reasoning and in how sentences support or conflict with other sentences in a broader web of discourse.

here are additional points that are discussed:

7. Inferential Roles in Logical Vocabulary:
   • Brandom also discusses how logical vocabulary (such as "and," "or," "if...then," and "not") plays a crucial role in structuring inferential relations. Logical operators are important because they connect sentences in a way that governs how inferences can be made. For example, the meaning of "and" in a sentence like "It is raining and it is cold" is tied to the fact that the sentence implies both "It is raining" and "It is cold." Logical vocabulary helps define the inferential structure between different statements.
8. Understanding through Inference, Not Representation:
   • Brandom continues to emphasize that understanding a sentence means grasping its inferential role—how it functions within reasoning. He argues that understanding does not come from a representational relationship (e.g., associating a sentence with a fact about the world), but rather from knowing how that sentence fits into the larger web of discourse. A competent speaker understands which inferences can be drawn from the sentence and which other statements might support it or challenge it.
9. Holism of Inferential Roles:
   • Another key feature of Brandom’s inferentialism is that meaning is holistic. A sentence’s meaning is determined not in isolation but in relation to the entire network of inferences in which it is embedded. This means that changing any part of the web can alter the meaning of individual sentences. For instance, learning new facts or revising one’s beliefs can change the inferences a speaker draws from a particular sentence, thus altering its meaning. This holistic nature contrasts with more atomistic views, where individual words or sentences are thought to have fixed meanings.
10. Inferential Roles as Socially Constructed:

• Brandom also argues that inferential roles are not fixed by any objective fact about the world but are socially constructed through the practices of linguistic communities. Meaning depends on the norms of inference that are established within a community—how people agree to treat certain statements as supporting or challenging others. This view underscores the importance of social practices in Brandom’s theory of meaning, aligning with his broader pragmatist approach.

11. Inferentialism and Commitment:

• Brandom introduces the idea that when we make an assertion, we are not just conveying information; we are also undertaking a commitment. This is central to inferential role semantics because an assertion commits the speaker to the inferences that can be drawn from it. For instance, if I say, "The water is boiling," I am committing myself to the truth of the statement and to the consequences that follow from it (e.g., the water is too hot to touch). This commitment is part of how meaning functions in discourse.

12. Challenges to Inferentialism:

• The subsection also touches on potential challenges to inferential role semantics. Critics might argue that it is difficult to explain how meaning arises without reference to representation. They might ask how we can understand communication if there’s no direct link between sentences and the world. Brandom responds by emphasizing that inferentialism can explain representation as something that emerges from inferential roles rather than being fundamental to meaning.

13. Inferentialism and Norms of Reasoning:

• Brandom’s theory is also tied to the norms of reasoning within a community. Meaning, in his view, is bound up with the norms that dictate which inferences are correct or incorrect. These norms are not static but evolve as part of the ongoing social practices of discourse. Inferentialism, therefore, is closely connected to how reasoning and meaning are regulated by social norms and practices.

In this subsection, Brandom is building a comprehensive case for why inferential roles, rather than representation, should be seen as the foundation of linguistic meaning. He connects this idea to the holistic nature of language, the role of logical vocabulary, and the social and normative dimensions of discourse. Meaning is not something that exists independently in sentences; it is shaped by the inferential commitments that speakers make in communication and how these commitments are understood within a linguistic community.

Here’s an additional point:

Rejection of Hybrid Views and Commitment to Strong Inferentialism:

• Brandom specifically rejects the hybrid views where meaning is explained as a combination of inferential roles and representational content (as proposed by some proponents of the Received View). Hybrid views suggest that both representational and inferential components are necessary to explain meaning, with neither reducible to the other. Brandom, however, defends strong inferentialism, claiming that inferential roles alone are sufficient to constitute the meaning of a sentence. In his view, the meaning of any sentence is fully determined by its inferential role, without needing to appeal to its representational dimension.

• Brandom also rejects the idea that reasoning or meaning could exist independently of language, emphasizing that our capacity to reason arises entirely from participation in social, discursive practices. There is no independent, pre-linguistic reasoning ability that later gets expressed in language. Instead, reasoning itself is shaped by and originates from these linguistic practices

​ Here’s a final summary:

1. Meaning as Inference: Meaning is based on the inferential relationships between statements, not on representational links to the world.

2. Inferential Roles vs. Representation: Brandom shifts the focus from how sentences represent the world to how they relate inferentially to one another.

3. Linguistic Understanding as Inferential Mastery: Understanding a sentence means grasping its inferential connections.

4. Holism of Inferential Roles: Meaning is holistic and depends on the broader web of inferences a sentence is part of.

5. Inferential Roles as Socially Constructed: Meaning is established through social practices and depends on norms of inference within a community.

6. Inferentialism and Commitment: Assertions carry commitments to the inferences they support, making meaning a matter of taking on inferential commitments.

7. Logical Vocabulary's Role: Logical operators help structure inferential relationships between statements.

8. Rejection of Hybrid Views: Brandom rejects hybrid views that combine representational and inferential components, sticking to strong inferentialism.

9. Normativity and Social Practices: Meaning is embedded in the normative structure of social linguistic practices, governed by rules of reasoning.

This outline captures the entirety of the section's discussion on Inferential Role Semantics in this part.

the whole outline so far in this subsection is the following: Here’s an outline of all the topics we covered in the "Inferential Role Semantics" subsection:

1. Meaning as Inference:
   • Brandom argues that meaning is based on the inferential roles of sentences, or how they relate to other statements in reasoning, rather than on their representational connection to the world.
2. Inferential Roles vs. Representation:
   • He shifts the focus from the traditional representationalism of meaning to how sentences function in discourse through inferential relationships.
3. Linguistic Understanding as Inferential Mastery:
   • Understanding a sentence means being able to navigate its inferential connections to other sentences, knowing what inferences it supports and what supports it.
4. Holism of Inferential Roles:
   • Meaning is holistic, meaning a sentence’s inferential role depends on its place in the broader web of inferences, and changes to this web can alter the meaning of individual sentences.
5. Inferential Roles as Socially Constructed:
   • Meaning is not fixed by the world but is constructed through social interactions and governed by the norms of inference in a linguistic community.
6. Inferentialism and Commitment:
   • Making an assertion involves committing to the inferences that follow from it, which is central to how meaning works in discourse.
7. Logical Vocabulary’s Role:
   • Logical terms (such as "and," "or," "if") are key to structuring inferential relationships and help determine the meaning of complex sentences.
8. Rejection of Hybrid Views:
   • Brandom rejects views that combine representation and inference to explain meaning, advocating for strong inferentialism, where inferential roles alone are sufficient to constitute meaning.
9. Normativity and Social Practices:
   • Meaning is embedded in the normative structure of social practices, with rules and standards that govern correct and incorrect reasoning.

This outline provides a concise summary of the topics covered in the "Inferential Role Semantics" subsection

"Pragmatism"

This section focuses on Brandom's commitment to pragmatism, where he emphasizes the priority of practical language use in explaining meaning. Rather than treating meaning as something static or intrinsic to sentences, Brandom insists that it arises from how language is used in practice, particularly in communication.

In the "Pragmatism" subsection, Brandom focuses on his commitment to a pragmatic approach to meaning. Here's how it begins and the key points introduced:

1. Explanatory Priority of Pragmatics Over Semantics:
   • Brandom argues that the meaning of language (semantics) must be explained through its use in practical, social interactions (pragmatics). This idea follows from the broader philosophical tradition of pragmatism, which holds that the use of concepts and language in practice is primary to understanding their meaning. For Brandom, understanding how language works involves looking at how people use language in communication, engage in reasoning, and interact socially.
2. Semantics Answers to Pragmatics:
   • Brandom emphasizes that semantics must "answer to" pragmatics, meaning that any theory of meaning must be grounded in the practical use of language. In contrast to views that treat meaning as something static or independent of context, Brandom argues that meaning is dynamic and emerges from the social practices in which language is embedded.
3. Use in Communication as the Basis of Meaning:
   • Central to Brandom’s pragmatism is the idea that language gains its meaning from how it is used in communication. When we engage in discourse—asserting, questioning, providing reasons, or making claims—we are participating in social practices that give rise to meaning. The words and sentences we use don’t have intrinsic meaning outside of these interactions. Instead, they acquire meaning based on how they are employed in different communicative contexts.
4. Wittgenstein’s Influence:
   • Brandom’s pragmatist approach is influenced by Wittgenstein’s famous dictum, “the meaning of a word is its use in the language.” Brandom takes this further by exploring how different uses of language correspond to different inferential roles. Rather than focusing on how words represent objects or states of affairs, Brandom is interested in how language functions within specific practices and contexts to create meaning.
5. Layered Complexity of Pragmatic and Semantic Structures:
   • Brandom introduces a "layer cake" model to describe how different levels of linguistic practices correspond to different degrees of semantic complexity. At the most basic level, people engage in simple discursive practices that require minimal linguistic competence, but more complex discourse requires more sophisticated reasoning and understanding of language. As participants move through these layers of complexity, the meaning of their expressions becomes more intricate, shaped by both the semantic and pragmatic demands of the discourse.

In summary, Brandom's Pragmatism subsection establishes that meaning is not a fixed or isolated property of language but something that is deeply tied to how language is used in practice. Pragmatics—how we communicate and reason with one another—holds explanatory priority over traditional semantic theories that treat meaning as static and detached from social interaction.

1. Explanatory Priority of Pragmatics Over Semantics: In the first point of this subsection, "Explanatory Priority of Pragmatics Over Semantics," Brandom argues that understanding meaning should start with pragmatics—how language is used in practice—rather than with semantics, which traditionally focuses on static meanings of words or sentences in isolation. He claims that the meaning of linguistic expressions is not inherent or intrinsic but is shaped by the ways in which those expressions are used within specific social practices of communication and reasoning.

Here are the key ideas discussed under this point:

1. Language Use Defines Meaning:
   • Brandom contends that meaning emerges from how language is deployed in practice. The way we use words in social interaction—through giving reasons, making claims, asking questions, and responding to others—determines their meaning. For instance, the act of making a claim in a conversation involves committing to certain inferences and engaging with the responses of others, which in turn shapes the meaning of the claim.
2. Pragmatics Governs Semantic Content:
   • Instead of thinking about meaning as something pre-determined by a static set of rules (as in many semantic theories), Brandom argues that meaning is fluid and dynamic, dependent on the ongoing processes of discourse. Pragmatics, the study of these processes, takes precedence over traditional semantics because the latter cannot fully explain meaning without accounting for the actual use of language in communication. Meaning is constantly shaped and reshaped by how we use language in practice.
3. Inferential Relations in Social Practices:
   • In line with his inferentialism, Brandom emphasizes that inferential relations—how statements imply or support other statements—are a crucial part of pragmatics. These inferential roles are not isolated cognitive functions but are embedded in social practices where speakers engage in reasoning and dialogue. The norms of inference that govern how statements relate to each other are established through these discursive practices.
4. Rejecting Representationalist Semantics:
   • Brandom challenges the traditional semantic focus on representation—the idea that words have meaning by standing for or pointing to things in the world. Instead, he insists that we should look at the social practices through which speakers use words in meaningful ways. Pragmatics, not semantics, is what governs how language functions to create meaning, especially through inferential roles and reasoning within discourse.

In summary, this part of the "Pragmatism" subsection emphasizes that the use of language in practice is the primary way to understand meaning. Brandom's argument is that pragmatics, or how we actually engage with language in reasoning and social interaction, takes precedence over static or isolated theories of meaning in traditional semantics. He urges that meaning is something created through language use, rather than something that exists independently of it.

"Semantics Answers to Pragmatics." In this part of the "Pragmatism" subsection, Brandom argues that semantics—the study of meaning—depends on pragmatics, which focuses on the use of language in social practices. Here are the key ideas discussed under this point:

1. Semantics Derives from Language Use:
   • Brandom asserts that any theory of meaning (semantics) must be grounded in the practical, real-world use of language (pragmatics). The meanings of words and sentences do not exist independently of how people actually use them in communication. Instead, meaning is determined by how speakers use language to make claims, give reasons, respond to objections, and engage in dialogue with others.
2. Dynamic and Contextual Meaning:
   • Because meaning is tied to use, it is also dynamic and context-dependent. A word or sentence can have different meanings in different contexts, depending on how it is used in conversation or reasoning. Brandom emphasizes that the meaning of linguistic expressions changes and adapts based on the particular social context in which they are used, which is why semantics must “answer to” pragmatics.
3. Pragmatics as the Foundation for Understanding Meaning:
   • Brandom positions pragmatics as the foundation for understanding meaning. Traditional semantic theories, which treat meaning as a fixed property of words or sentences, overlook the importance of how meaning is shaped by its use in practice. For Brandom, pragmatics is not just an additional layer but the essential groundwork for any theory of meaning. The meaning of any expression is ultimately determined by how it functions within the social practices of reasoning and discourse.
4. Language as a Tool for Social Practices:
   • Language is viewed as a tool for engaging in social practices, such as asserting claims, making promises, offering explanations, and engaging in debates. Brandom suggests that to understand the meaning of any expression, we must look at how it is used to fulfill these roles in communication. It is through these actions—within social interactions—that the semantics of language is shaped.

In this part of the subsection, Brandom reinforces his claim that traditional approaches to semantics are incomplete without considering how language is used in practice. He stresses that meaning arises from social interactions, and thus pragmatics must be the foundation of any meaningful semantic theory. The meaning of an expression is not static; it is molded by its role in reasoning and communication.

The third point in the outline is "Use in Communication as the Basis of Meaning." In this part of the "Pragmatism" subsection, Brandom focuses on the idea that the meaning of linguistic expressions is grounded in how they are used in communication. Here are the key aspects discussed:

1. Meaning Arises from Practical Use:
   • Brandom emphasizes that meaning is not something intrinsic to words or sentences but arises from how language is used in practice. In communication, speakers perform various acts such as asserting, questioning, commanding, and reasoning. These acts are embedded in social interactions, and it is from these interactions that meaning emerges.
2. Speech Acts and Social Practices:
   • Brandom draws on the idea of speech acts—the different things we do when we use language (e.g., making claims, giving reasons, asking questions). He argues that these acts are part of broader social practices, which give meaning to the language being used. For example, when a speaker asserts a fact, they are not just reporting a state of affairs but are also committing themselves to certain inferences and engaging with others who might accept or challenge the assertion. These social dynamics contribute to the meaning of what is said.
3. Inferentialism and Communication:
   • In line with his broader theory of inferentialism, Brandom argues that the meaning of a sentence is determined by its inferential role in communication—how it relates to other sentences in a network of reasoning. When speakers use language in discourse, they are engaged in a process of reasoning, drawing inferences, making claims, and responding to others’ assertions. This inferential structure within communication shapes the meaning of the expressions being used.
4. Contextual Nature of Meaning:
   • Meaning is context-dependent and varies according to the communicative situation. The same word or sentence can have different meanings depending on how it is used in different conversations or settings. For example, a word like "cold" may mean something different when talking about the weather than when talking about a person’s behavior. Brandom underscores that meaning is shaped by the context in which communication takes place, and it is through practical use in these contexts that language gains its meaning.

In this section, Brandom’s central claim is that language derives its meaning from its use in social interaction, particularly within the practices of communication. The acts performed by speakers and their participation in reasoning, debate, and discourse are what give words and sentences their meaning.

The fourth point in the outline is "Wittgenstein’s Influence." In this part of the "Pragmatism" subsection, Brandom discusses how his approach to language and meaning is influenced by Ludwig Wittgenstein’s later philosophy, particularly Wittgenstein’s idea that the meaning of a word is determined by its use in language.

Here are the key aspects discussed:

1. Wittgenstein’s Central Idea: Meaning as Use:
   • Brandom draws on Wittgenstein’s famous principle from his later work, “the meaning of a word is its use in the language.” This idea suggests that words do not have fixed, intrinsic meanings. Instead, their meaning comes from how they are used in various forms of life, or language games, within a community. Brandom sees this concept as aligning with his own emphasis on the practical use of language as the basis of meaning.
2. Pragmatism and Language Games:
   • Wittgenstein introduced the concept of language games to show that the meaning of expressions is shaped by the particular social and practical contexts in which they are used. In different language games (for example, scientific discourse, everyday conversation, or legal proceedings), the same word or phrase can have different meanings. Brandom adopts this idea, emphasizing that meaning is shaped by the social practices and norms governing how language is used in specific contexts.
3. Inferentialism and Wittgenstein:
   • Brandom’s inferentialism also draws inspiration from Wittgenstein’s later work. Wittgenstein highlighted the importance of looking at how sentences function in reasoning and how speakers draw connections between different statements. Brandom builds on this, arguing that the inferential role of a sentence—how it relates to other sentences in a network of reasoning—is key to understanding its meaning. He sees Wittgenstein’s insights as an early form of the pragmatist and inferentialist approach that Brandom later develops more systematically.
4. Social Practices and Normativity:
   • Wittgenstein also emphasized that language is a social practice, where meaning is determined by shared norms of use. Brandom expands on this idea by linking it to his normative pragmatics: meaning is established by the social norms that govern what counts as a correct or incorrect use of language. Speakers follow these norms when engaging in reasoning and discourse, and these norms help shape the inferential roles that determine meaning.
5. Rejection of Private Language:
   • Another aspect of Wittgenstein’s influence on Brandom is the rejection of the private language argument. Wittgenstein argued that language must be public and shared because meaning depends on following shared rules and norms within a community. Brandom agrees that meaning is not something that can be determined privately or individually; instead, it is a social phenomenon that arises from communal linguistic practices.

In this part of the subsection, Brandom acknowledges Wittgenstein’s significant influence on his thinking, particularly the idea that meaning is a product of use in social practices, not of representation. He takes Wittgenstein’s insights about language games and public meaning and incorporates them into his own inferentialist and pragmatist framework.

Now, let’s move to the final point in the outline: "Layered Complexity of Pragmatic and Semantic Structures."

In this part of the "Pragmatism" subsection, Brandom introduces a model that reflects how different types of language use require different levels of linguistic competence and reasoning. Here are the key points:

1. Layered Model of Language Use:
   • Brandom describes a "layer cake" model to illustrate the increasing complexity of linguistic practices. At the basic level, individuals engage in simple discursive practices, which require minimal linguistic competence. As the complexity of communication increases, so does the complexity of the inferential roles and meanings involved. This layered structure shows that meaning becomes richer as the practices become more sophisticated.
2. Basic and Complex Practices:
   • The most basic level of language use involves simple assertions and responses, where speakers make claims and provide reasons. At more advanced levels, speakers engage in more complex reasoning, involving conditional statements, modal expressions, and logical vocabulary. As speakers navigate through these higher levels of discourse, their language use becomes more intricate, and the inferential roles of their statements become more nuanced.
3. Increasing Inferential Complexity:
   • As participants in a conversation engage in more sophisticated discursive practices, the inferential relations between sentences become more complex. Brandom suggests that more advanced reasoning introduces layers of meaning that depend on a deeper understanding of the inferential roles of various statements. For example, introducing conditionals ("If... then...") or modal statements ("It is possible that...") requires a higher level of inferential competence, as these expressions involve more complex relationships between claims.
4. Dynamic Nature of Meaning:
   • Meaning is not static but develops as speakers move through different levels of linguistic practices. At each level, meaning becomes more intricate, shaped by the inferential roles of the statements used and the norms that govern those roles. This dynamic view of meaning aligns with Brandom’s broader pragmatist perspective, where language use in practice constantly evolves.
5. Social and Normative Layers:
   • The complexity of language use also reflects the social and normative layers of discourse. At each level, speakers must follow the norms of reasoning and communication that are accepted within their linguistic community. These norms guide the inferential relationships between sentences and determine what counts as a correct or appropriate move in a conversation. As speakers engage in more complex discourse, they must navigate more sophisticated social and normative rules.

This section of the "Pragmatism" subsection illustrates how meaning becomes more complex as language use becomes more advanced. Brandom’s layered model shows that linguistic competence and reasoning evolve as participants engage in higher levels of discourse, with meaning shaped by the increasing complexity of inferential roles and social norms.

"Normative Pragmatics"

In the "Normative Pragmatics" subsection, Brandom explores the connection between inferentialism and the social norms that govern communication. He emphasizes that meaning is not just a matter of how sentences relate inferentially to one another but also how they function within a framework of social rules. These rules dictate what counts as appropriate or inappropriate in reasoning and discourse.

Here are the key points discussed at the beginning of this subsection:

1. Norms of Communication:
   • Brandom argues that communication is inherently a normative practice. When people use language, they are not just exchanging information—they are also engaging in social practices where certain norms determine what counts as a correct or valid use of language. For instance, making a valid assertion in a conversation involves following the rules of inference, meaning that the assertion must be supported by appropriate reasons.
2. Commitments and Entitlements:
   • A key concept in Brandom’s normative pragmatics is the idea of commitments and entitlements. When someone makes an assertion, they are taking on a commitment to defend that assertion with reasons if challenged. At the same time, the speaker must be entitled to make that assertion, which means they have valid reasons for claiming that the assertion is true. These commitments and entitlements are governed by social norms, which define when a speaker is justified in making certain claims and how they should respond to challenges.
3. Social Practices of Reasoning:
   • Brandom highlights that reasoning itself is a social practice that is shaped by norms. In discourse, individuals do not reason in isolation; they reason within a community where certain rules govern what counts as good reasoning. These rules determine how inferences should be drawn and how participants in a conversation should respond to one another’s claims. For example, if a speaker makes an inference from one statement to another, the community’s norms dictate whether that inference is valid.
4. Inferential Role and Normativity:
   • Brandom’s inferentialism is deeply connected to normativity. He argues that the inferential role of a sentence—how it relates to other sentences in reasoning—is governed by social norms. These norms define what counts as a valid inference and how different statements should support or challenge one another. Meaning, therefore, is not just a matter of logical relationships between sentences but is also shaped by the social rules that regulate reasoning.
5. Language as a Rule-Governed Practice:
   • Brandom emphasizes that language use is a rule-governed practice. When speakers engage in conversation, they are following rules that determine what they are allowed to say and how they should respond to others. These rules are not static or universal; they evolve as part of the social practices of a community. The meaning of a sentence, then, is partly determined by how it fits within these rule-governed practices.

In summary, Brandom’s Normative Pragmatics subsection begins by establishing that communication and reasoning are normative practices, where social rules and norms shape the meaning of language. He introduces the concepts of commitments and entitlements, emphasizing that meaning is not just about making statements but about following the norms that govern valid reasoning and appropriate communication.

Continuing with the "Normative Pragmatics" subsection, here’s a deeper exploration of the ideas already introduced:

1. The Role of Norms in Discourse:
   • Brandom further elaborates on how norms govern discourse. He explains that when people engage in conversation, they are subject to various norms that guide the appropriateness of their actions. For example, if someone makes an assertion, the norms of discourse demand that the speaker must be able to justify that assertion if questioned. This norm shapes not only how people communicate but also what is expected in terms of reasoning and providing evidence.
2. Commitments and Entitlements in Greater Detail:
   • The concepts of commitments and entitlements are central to Brandom’s idea of normative pragmatics. He explains that whenever a speaker makes a statement, they commit to its truth and to providing reasons if asked. This is not just a cognitive or individual action but a social one—it’s about adhering to the community’s expectations of responsible communication.
   • Entitlement, on the other hand, refers to whether the speaker has the right or justification to make a particular assertion. For example, a person might be entitled to claim, "It will rain tomorrow," if they have checked the weather forecast. Without this entitlement, the speaker would be making an unjustified assertion. These norms of commitment and entitlement structure much of what we do in discourse, determining when speakers are in good standing with the norms of communication.
3. Reasoning as a Socially-Regulated Practice:
   • Brandom stresses that reasoning is not a purely intellectual exercise—it is socially regulated. Within a discourse, participants are bound by social norms that regulate how they should reason and interact with one another. For example, when a speaker presents an argument, they are expected to follow certain rules about what counts as a valid inference and how one claim should support another. If these norms are violated (e.g., if a speaker offers a weak or irrelevant reason for their assertion), their reasoning is considered defective or invalid by the community’s standards.
4. Inferential Role and the Importance of Normative Structures:
   • The meaning of a sentence is shaped not only by its inferential role but also by the normative structures in place. For Brandom, inferentialism cannot be separated from the norms that govern reasoning and communication. The meaning of any given sentence is determined by the inferences it supports or undermines within the discourse, but these inferences are valid only within the framework of the community’s norms. In other words, inferential relations are not just logical—they are normative, meaning they are subject to the rules of good reasoning as defined by social practices.
5. Dynamic Nature of Norms:
   • Brandom also touches on the dynamic nature of norms. He explains that the norms governing communication and reasoning are not fixed or eternal. They evolve as part of the social practices of a community. As communities change, so do the norms that define what counts as good communication and valid reasoning. This dynamic view of norms aligns with Brandom’s overall pragmatist approach, which emphasizes that meaning and reasoning are not static but are shaped by ongoing social interaction.
6. Language as a Tool for Social Coordination:
   • A key theme in this subsection is the idea that language is a tool for coordinating social activity. Brandom suggests that language use is not just about exchanging information but also about regulating social interactions. When people speak, they are not only making claims—they are coordinating their actions with others, negotiating roles, and aligning their perspectives. Language allows for this coordination by providing a set of shared norms that guide how individuals should act in relation to one another.

In this part of the subsection, Brandom deepens his exploration of how norms shape meaning, focusing on the way commitments, entitlements, and social rules govern discourse. He connects these norms to inferentialism, showing that the meaning of a sentence is not just about its logical connections but also about whether it meets the normative standards of the community

starting with Brandom’s thoughts on

pragmatic theory describing discourse and speakers' pragmatic know-how.

Brandom argues that a pragmatic theory must explain the know-how that speakers bring to discourse. This involves understanding the norms and expectations that govern how language is used in communication. Here are the points we haven’t yet covered in this part of the subsection:

1. Pragmatic Theory and Know-How:
   • Brandom emphasizes that speakers must possess a kind of pragmatic know-how to navigate discourse effectively. This know-how involves understanding the rules of communication, such as knowing when to make an assertion, when to challenge someone’s claim, and when to provide reasons. Speakers are constantly engaged in these activities, and a pragmatic theory must account for how they acquire and apply this practical knowledge.
2. The Role of Implicit Knowledge:
   • Much of this know-how is implicit. Speakers don’t consciously follow explicit rules but instead have an intuitive sense of what counts as appropriate communication in different contexts. This is similar to Wittgenstein’s idea of following rules in a practice without needing to be consciously aware of them. Brandom suggests that speakers' ability to follow these implicit norms is crucial to understanding how meaning works in practice.
3. Explaining Normative Practices:
   • A comprehensive pragmatic theory must also explain how speakers participate in normative practices—how they assess and respond to claims based on the social rules governing reasoning. These practices are not static but evolve with the community’s changing standards. Brandom emphasizes that this pragmatic know-how is learned through participation in discourse, not from formal instruction.
4. Pragmatic and Inferential Competence:
   • Brandom highlights that pragmatic competence—the ability to use language according to social norms—goes hand in hand with inferential competence—the ability to draw valid inferences. A speaker’s ability to make appropriate inferences depends on their understanding of the norms that govern reasoning in a particular discourse. Without this dual competence, effective communication would break down.
5. The Importance of Responsiveness:
   • Another key point is the idea of responsiveness in discourse. For Brandom, a speaker’s competence is not just about making valid assertions but also about how they respond to the claims of others. This involves engaging in the give-and-take of reasons, where speakers must justify their assertions or revise them when faced with counterarguments. This responsive ability is central to participating in the normative practices of communication.
6. Dynamic Nature of Norms and Practices:
   • Finally, Brandom reiterates that these normative practices are dynamic. The rules that govern discourse are not fixed but change over time as part of the evolving practices of a community. This dynamic nature of norms reflects Brandom’s broader pragmatist commitment to viewing language and meaning as products of ongoing social interaction.

These points focus on Brandom’s argument that a pragmatic theory of discourse must account for the implicit and evolving nature of the norms that guide communication, as well as the practical know-how that speakers develop to engage in discourse.

In the first point, Pragmatic Theory and Know-How, Brandom emphasizes that a key component of a pragmatic theory is explaining the practical knowledge, or pragmatic know-how, that speakers possess when engaging in discourse. This know-how refers to the intuitive understanding that speakers have of how to use language appropriately within social contexts. It’s not just about knowing the meanings of words in isolation, but about knowing how to perform various linguistic acts (e.g., making assertions, asking questions, offering reasons) in ways that align with the norms of communication.

Brandom argues that speakers must possess an awareness of the social norms that govern discourse, even if this awareness is largely implicit. This includes knowing when it is appropriate to make an assertion, how to challenge someone’s claim, or when it’s necessary to provide supporting reasons for a statement. This know-how is critical for navigating discourse effectively, and a successful pragmatic theory must account for how speakers acquire and apply this knowledge in practice.

The know-how involved in communication isn’t formal or rule-based in the strict sense. Speakers typically don’t consciously think about the rules they’re following in a conversation. Instead, they have an intuitive sense of what is appropriate based on their participation in social practices. Brandom likens this to Wittgenstein’s idea of rule-following, where participants in a practice follow norms without needing to explicitly reflect on those norms.

This point in the subsection underscores the practical nature of meaning: understanding how to use language effectively in communication requires more than just knowing word definitions—it requires a sophisticated, intuitive grasp of the norms and expectations that shape discourse.

The discussion of regularism and the potential problem of an infinite regress in rule-following typically falls under Brandom’s exploration of implicit knowledge and rule-following, which is more likely touched upon in the second point: The Role of Implicit Knowledge.

In this part, Brandom addresses the problem of regularism—the idea that following rules requires explicitly knowing and applying rules for every aspect of communication. This creates the issue of infinite regress: if every action requires following a rule, and each rule requires another rule to explain how it’s followed, the process could theoretically go on indefinitely. This leads to an absurd conclusion that following rules could require an infinite set of instructions, which is not how human communication actually works.

To overcome this problem, Brandom suggests that much of our ability to follow rules is implicit and practical rather than fully explicit. Speakers don’t need to consciously reflect on or articulate the rules they follow in discourse. Instead, they develop a kind of practical mastery over social norms through participation in communicative practices. This is akin to Wittgenstein’s idea that rule-following in language games doesn’t require explicit reflection on the rules but rather manifests as a form of know-how that is learned and refined through interaction within a community.

In this way, Brandom argues that communication is governed by norms without the need for an infinite regress of explicit rules. Instead, speakers internalize these norms and apply them intuitively in discourse, overcoming the problem of having to consciously follow an endless series of rules.

In the second point, The Role of Implicit Knowledge, Brandom delves deeper into how speakers engage with language through an intuitive, often unconscious, grasp of the norms governing discourse. Here are the key details:

1. Implicit vs. Explicit Knowledge:
   • Brandom contrasts implicit knowledge with explicit knowledge of rules and norms. Explicit knowledge refers to the conscious, reflective understanding of rules, where a speaker can articulate why they are following a certain norm in discourse. However, most of the time, speakers don’t operate at this level of explicit understanding. Instead, their ability to navigate language use is grounded in implicit knowledge—a kind of practical mastery that comes from participating in social and linguistic practices over time.
2. Avoiding the Infinite Regress Problem:
   • This reliance on implicit knowledge helps solve the problem of infinite regress in rule-following. The issue arises if we think that every action or linguistic move requires an explicit rule, and following each rule would, in turn, require another rule to justify it. If this were true, communication would be impossible, as speakers would need to consciously reflect on an infinite chain of rules.
   • Brandom argues that speakers avoid this problem because much of their rule-following is implicit—they don’t consciously think about the rules guiding their discourse. Instead, they develop a kind of intuitive or practical understanding of how to use language appropriately within their community. This know-how is grounded in the speaker’s social participation, where they learn the norms through practice, not through an explicit set of instructions.
3. Wittgenstein’s Influence on Rule-Following:
   • Brandom’s view here is heavily influenced by Wittgenstein’s idea of rule-following from his later philosophy. Wittgenstein argued that understanding language and following rules does not require an explicit awareness of the rules. Instead, it is a practical engagement with the norms of the community. People follow the rules of language without needing to constantly reflect on them, because their participation in social practices has given them an ingrained sense of how to behave correctly in discourse.
4. Mastery of Norms Through Practice:
   • For Brandom, the key to this implicit rule-following is mastery through practice. Speakers learn the norms of communication by engaging with others in discourse. Through experience, they develop a practical understanding of when it is appropriate to assert something, when a reason needs to be provided, or when a claim can be challenged. This practical mastery allows speakers to follow rules and norms without requiring an explicit awareness of those rules.
5. Regularism and Normative Guidance:
   • Brandom also addresses regularism, the idea that rules are followed because of consistent patterns of behavior. He argues that mere regularity isn’t enough to explain normative practices. It’s not just that speakers follow certain behaviors because they’ve seen them repeated—there’s a deeper normative dimension where speakers recognize what counts as correct or incorrect based on shared social norms. Regularity of behavior provides a basis, but it’s the normative framework that gives these behaviors meaning within discourse.
6. Normativity of Implicit Knowledge:
   • Even though much of this knowledge is implicit, it remains normative. That is, speakers are still bound by the norms of their community, and their implicit knowledge helps them navigate these norms. If they violate these norms (for example, by making an unjustified assertion or drawing an invalid inference), other participants in the conversation can challenge them. This social regulation of norms reinforces the importance of implicit knowledge, as it shows that even though speakers don’t consciously reflect on the rules, they are held accountable to the shared norms of the community.

In this point, Brandom is emphasizing that most of the knowledge speakers use to engage in discourse is practical and implicit, avoiding the infinite regress problem. Speakers develop their pragmatic know-how through participation in social practices, allowing them to follow norms without needing to explicitly articulate them.

The third point, Explaining Normative Practices, focuses on how Brandom’s pragmatic theory must account for the way speakers participate in normative practices—the rules and expectations that shape communication and reasoning within a community. Here are the key details covered in this point:

1. Normative Framework in Communication:
   • Brandom emphasizes that discourse is embedded within a normative framework. When individuals participate in communication, they are not just exchanging information—they are also engaging with the rules that determine what counts as a correct or incorrect move in the conversation. For example, when a speaker makes a claim, they are implicitly committing to being able to justify that claim with reasons if challenged by others. These norms shape the structure and flow of discourse, governing how individuals reason and respond to one another.
2. Normative Guidance for Reasoning:
   • Reasoning is not an isolated cognitive process but a socially guided practice. The norms of a community guide how inferences should be drawn, what kinds of reasons are acceptable, and when a claim is adequately supported. Brandom argues that a pragmatic theory must explain how speakers learn and apply these norms in their reasoning practices. Normative guidance ensures that reasoning follows accepted standards of validity, and it regulates how speakers engage in the give-and-take of reasons in discourse.
3. Normative Evaluation of Speech Acts:
   • Brandom also highlights that speakers’ actions in discourse—such as making assertions, asking questions, or drawing inferences—are subject to normative evaluation. This means that others in the conversation can evaluate whether these actions are appropriate according to the community’s norms. For instance, if a speaker asserts a fact, others may evaluate whether the assertion is properly justified or if it needs further support. These evaluations are an essential part of how discourse functions, as they hold participants accountable to the shared norms.
4. Learning Norms Through Participation:
   • A key part of Brandom’s theory is that speakers learn the norms of communication through active participation in discourse. This participation provides them with the practical knowledge of what counts as an appropriate claim, what kinds of reasons are acceptable, and how to challenge or defend assertions. Speakers do not need formal instruction to learn these norms; instead, they develop an intuitive sense of them by engaging in social practices where norms are constantly reinforced by feedback from others.
5. The Role of Challenges and Justifications:
   • An essential aspect of these normative practices is the ability of speakers to challenge one another’s claims and demand justifications. When a speaker makes an assertion, they must be prepared to defend it with reasons if challenged. The community’s norms determine what counts as a valid justification, and speakers are expected to provide reasons that align with these norms. This process of challenge and justification ensures that discourse remains normatively structured, where claims are not simply taken at face value but must meet certain standards of reasoning.
6. Norms as Evolving Practices:
   • Brandom emphasizes that these normative practices are not static. They evolve over time as part of the ongoing social practices of the community. As speakers engage in discourse, they may refine or change the norms that govern what counts as valid reasoning or appropriate communication. This dynamic nature of norms reflects the evolving nature of social practices, where the standards for communication and reasoning adapt to new contexts and challenges.

In this point, Brandom explains that a pragmatic theory must account for how speakers learn, follow, and participate in normative practices within discourse. Norms guide reasoning, regulate the evaluation of speech acts, and shape the give-and-take of reasons in communication. These norms are not fixed but are constantly evolving as part of the community’s social interactions.

The fourth point, Pragmatic and Inferential Competence, focuses on how pragmatic competence (the ability to use language according to social norms) is tied to inferential competence (the ability to draw valid inferences). Brandom emphasizes that these two forms of competence are intertwined, and effective communication relies on mastering both.

Here are the key details:

1. Interconnectedness of Pragmatic and Inferential Competence:
   • Brandom argues that to engage successfully in discourse, a speaker must have both pragmatic competence (knowing how to act within the norms of communication) and inferential competence (knowing how to reason and draw valid inferences). It’s not enough for a speaker to simply know the rules of conversation—they also need to understand how their statements relate to others inferentially, meaning how one claim supports or follows from another.
2. Inferential Roles in Reasoning:
   • When speakers participate in discourse, they are constantly making inferences, either by drawing conclusions from other statements or by defending their claims through reasoning. Brandom’s inferentialism holds that meaning is determined by these inferential relationships, and speakers need to be able to navigate these relationships to communicate effectively. Inferential competence is about understanding how sentences relate to one another logically and being able to use that understanding in conversation.
3. Pragmatic Know-How Governs Inferential Moves:
   • The speaker’s pragmatic know-how also governs their inferential moves. For instance, a speaker needs to know when it’s appropriate to make certain kinds of inferences in a conversation, such as when to make a claim, when to challenge someone else’s claim, or when to provide additional reasons. This practical knowledge allows speakers to use language appropriately within the norms of discourse while also engaging in valid reasoning.
4. Failure of Communication Without Both Competences:
   • Brandom notes that if a speaker lacks either pragmatic or inferential competence, communication will likely break down. If a speaker can reason well but doesn’t follow the norms of communication (i.e., pragmatic competence), their contributions may be dismissed as inappropriate. Conversely, if they follow norms but make invalid inferences, their reasoning will be flawed, and their claims may not be taken seriously.
5. Learning Competence Through Social Practices:
   • Both pragmatic and inferential competence are learned through participation in social practices. Speakers acquire these competencies by engaging in discourse with others and receiving feedback on their performance. Through experience, they develop the practical knowledge and reasoning skills necessary to navigate complex conversations effectively.

In this point, Brandom ties together the importance of both pragmatic and inferential competence in effective communication. Speakers must master both the social norms that govern discourse and the inferential roles that determine valid reasoning.

The final point, The Importance of Responsiveness, focuses on how effective communication involves not just making valid assertions but also being responsive to others’ claims and challenges in discourse. Here’s what Brandom highlights in this point:

1. Active Engagement in Discourse:
   • Brandom emphasizes that communication is not a one-way activity. Speakers must be actively engaged in discourse, meaning they need to be prepared to respond to the claims, questions, or challenges posed by others. This responsiveness is a key part of how participants maintain the flow of reasoning in conversation and adhere to the norms of discourse.
2. Responding to Challenges and Counterarguments:
   • A significant aspect of this responsiveness is the ability to respond to challenges or counterarguments. When a speaker makes an assertion, others in the conversation may challenge that claim by requesting reasons, pointing out inconsistencies, or offering counterarguments. The speaker must then respond appropriately, either by defending their assertion with reasons or by revising their claim if necessary. This give-and-take of reasons is fundamental to maintaining the normative structure of discourse.
3. Accountability in Reasoning:
   • Brandom stresses that speakers are accountable to the norms of reasoning and communication. When they make a claim, they must be able to back it up with reasons if challenged. This accountability ensures that discourse remains normatively guided and that claims aren’t just made arbitrarily but are supported within the framework of valid reasoning.
4. Responsiveness as a Measure of Competence:
   • A speaker’s responsiveness is also a measure of their competence in discourse. Being responsive means knowing when and how to engage with others' contributions to the conversation, whether by challenging a claim, providing reasons in defense of one's own claim, or offering counterarguments. Failure to respond appropriately can indicate a lack of pragmatic or inferential competence, leading to a breakdown in communication.
5. Dynamic Interaction of Claims and Responses:
   • Brandom notes that the interaction between claims and responses is a dynamic process. Discourse evolves as speakers challenge one another, defend their assertions, or revise their positions. This dynamic nature is what keeps reasoning and communication alive, constantly adapting to new inputs and challenges. It also reflects the evolving nature of the norms that guide discourse.

In this final point, Brandom underscores that responsiveness is crucial to effective participation in discourse. It’s not enough to make claims—speakers must also be prepared to engage with others, defend their assertions, and respond to challenges, ensuring that communication remains normatively structured.

"Why Normative Pragmatics?"

In this part, Brandom addresses why normative pragmatics is essential for his theory of meaning and reasoning. He argues that a purely inferential or representational account of meaning is insufficient without understanding the norms that govern how speakers use language in practice. Here are the key points discussed:

1. Why Normativity is Crucial:
   • Brandom argues that normativity—the rules and standards that govern correct reasoning and communication—is crucial for explaining how meaning functions in discourse. Without a normative framework, it would be impossible to explain why some statements are valid, some are invalid, and why certain inferences are considered correct or incorrect within a community. Normative pragmatics provides this essential framework by linking meaning to the social rules and expectations that guide communication.
2. Beyond Representation and Inference:
   • Brandom suggests that simply focusing on representation (how language refers to things in the world) or inference (how statements relate to one another) leaves out an important dimension of meaning: the normative standards that regulate how these representations and inferences should be used. He asserts that a complete theory of meaning must incorporate these normative standards, as they are the foundation for understanding how language functions in practical discourse.
3. Rules for Reasoning and Communication:
   • Normative pragmatics explains the rules for reasoning and communication that guide speakers in discourse. These rules are not arbitrary but are grounded in the social practices of the community. They define what counts as a valid assertion, what justifies a claim, and how speakers should respond to challenges. Brandom argues that these rules are essential for maintaining the structure of communication, ensuring that participants engage in reasoned, meaningful exchanges.
4. Normativity and Inferential Roles:
   • Normative pragmatics is also tied to Brandom’s idea of inferential roles. For a sentence to have meaning, it must not only fit into a network of inferences but also follow the norms that define what counts as a valid inference. These norms determine how statements support or challenge one another and how reasoning is evaluated within the discourse. Brandom emphasizes that the inferential relationships between statements are governed by these social norms, which regulate how language is used in practice.
5. Social Practices Shape Norms:
   • Brandom stresses that the norms governing discourse are shaped by social practices. They are not fixed or universal but evolve over time as part of the community’s ongoing interactions. Speakers learn these norms through participation in discourse, where their actions are evaluated by others, and they adjust their behavior based on feedback. This dynamic view of normativity aligns with Brandom’s broader pragmatist approach, where meaning and reasoning are constantly shaped by social interaction.

In this subsection, Brandom is making the case for why normative pragmatics is essential to understanding meaning. He argues that meaning cannot be fully explained through representation or inference alone—there must be a normative framework that governs how language is used in practice. This framework is what makes reasoning and communication possible, ensuring that discourse follows valid and meaningful standards.

Summary of Chapter 1

Here’s a comprehensive outline of everything covered in Chapter 1 of the book:

1. The Received View

• Meaning and Representation:
  • Language expresses pre-existing mental states (beliefs, desires, intentions).
  • Focuses on how language represents objects or states of affairs in the world.
• Agent Semantics:
  • Communication as an intentional act to influence others’ beliefs or actions.
• Challenges of Representationalism:
  • Struggles to explain how mental states acquire determinate meaning before linguistic practices.

2. Brandom’s Alternative

• Language as Fundamental to Reasoning:
  • Language shapes reasoning, not the other way around.
• Inferential Role Semantics:
  • Meaning is determined by a statement’s inferential roles in reasoning.
• Pragmatism:
  • Practical language use (pragmatics) explains meaning better than static semantics.
• Social Practices and Normativity:
  • Meaning is shaped by norms governing reasoning and communication.
• Explanatory Inversion:
  • Representation is a byproduct of inferential roles, not the foundation of meaning.

3. Inferential Role Semantics

• Meaning as Inference:
  • Meaning arises from how statements relate inferentially to one another.
• Inferential Roles vs. Representation:
  • Focuses on internal reasoning connections rather than representational links.
• Holistic Nature of Meaning:
  • Meaning is dynamic and depends on the broader web of inferential relationships.
• Logical Vocabulary’s Role:
  • Logical terms structure inferential relationships, adding complexity to meaning.

4. Pragmatism

• Explanatory Priority of Pragmatics Over Semantics:
  • Meaning arises from practical use in social contexts, not isolated semantics.
• Semantics Answers to Pragmatics:
  • Semantics depends on language use in communication for its foundation.
• Use in Communication as the Basis of Meaning:
  • Speech acts and social interaction shape the meaning of expressions.
• Wittgenstein’s Influence:
  • Meaning is tied to language use, inspired by Wittgenstein’s language games.
• Layered Complexity of Pragmatic and Semantic Structures:
  • Language use grows in complexity as speakers engage in more advanced practices.

5. Normative Pragmatics

• Norms of Communication:
  • Discourse is regulated by norms defining valid reasoning and communication.
• Commitments and Entitlements:
  • Assertions involve commitments to defend claims and entitlements to make them.
• Reasoning as a Social Practice:
  • Inferences and reasoning are guided by socially accepted norms.
• Implicit Knowledge and Rule-Following:
  • Norms are followed intuitively without explicit awareness, avoiding infinite regress.
• Dynamic Nature of Norms:
  • Norms evolve as part of ongoing social interaction.

6. Why Normative Pragmatics?

• The Necessity of Normativity:
  • Meaning requires a normative framework to explain valid reasoning and communication.
• Integration with Inferential Roles:
  • Inferential relationships are shaped by normative standards.
• Social Practices Shape Norms:
  • Norms are learned through participation and evolve over time.

When mentioned on its own, sleep is often portrayed as the opposite of waking and of consciousness (Searle, 2000; Tononi, 2008). This would seem to imply that dreamless sleep hovers on the borders of consciousness science and philosophy of mind but falls outside of their purview.

This situation is symptomatic of the often implicit idea that sleep is both all-too familiar and interesting mostly for what it lacks.The obvious candidates for such a negative characterization include conscious experience, overt behavior, and ability to react to external stimuli. But new findings and theoretical developments suggest that this traditional view is misleading: we think we know what sleep is, but in a number of important ways, we are only just beginning to find out. Consciousness science is increasingly engaging with these findings, but philosophy has been slow to follow suit.

[in studying sleep] we will gain important insights on the variability, richness, and subtleties of sleep-related experience; we will likely also have to revise our taxonomy of mental states, including our understanding of sleep and wakefulness themselves.

I begin by reconstructing the traditional view of sleep and how it has already changed in response to scientific findings. I propose that so-called #simulation_views of #dreaming can help the field move forward. They promise a phenomenological framework in which dreaming is defined independently of #sleep stages while also forming a point of departure for identifying kinds of sleep experience that can be described as #dreamless.

Together with advances in the #neuroscience_of_sleep, including #sleep_staging and #sleep_disorders, this framework can guide a novel conception of sleep and sleep staging and lead us toward a theory that unites the subjective and objective sides of sleep. To show how, I consider empirical evidence on #sleep_onset, #state_dissociations, and #local_sleep. I suggest radical revisions to the traditional concept of sleep, wakefulness, and conventional sleep staging are needed and identify questions for future research.

2 | THE TRADITIONAL VIEW OF SLEEP

Sleep has traditionally been thought of as a naturally and regularly occurring period of passivity and rest that affects the entire organism, including behavior and responsiveness to external stimuli as well as the occurrence and contents of subjective experience.

Defined by the:

• absence of behavior,
• absence of perception,
• absence of (with the exception of dreams) consciousness,
• Also sleep is also commonly regarded as a uniform state and the opposite of wakefulness.

A bird's eye view on the history of sleep and dream research to new findings

Despite [recent] refinements, the basic ingredients of the traditional view have largely remained intact. Moreover, while sleep and dream research are often considered as separate fields (Kroker, 2007), this division is artificial, and how sleep relates to consciousness (including dreams) is and always has been a central question for the definition and scientific study of sleep.

Aristotle (1990) characterized sleep through a global loss of perception and promoted a dichotomy between sleep and wakefulness in which sleep is quite simply the absence of wakefulness. *Later this dichotomy was extended to cover the contrast between sleep and consciousness, which in line with behaviorism was equated with wakefulness (Malcolm, 1959).

this negative view of sleep discouraged systematic research, conveying the impression that in sleep, there was nothing interesting to observe (Kroker, 2007). It finds its starkest expression in the description, again of ancient origin, of sleep as the little brother of death.

Sleep science has added complexity to the definition of sleep but largely preserved the main ingredients of the traditional view. Behaviorally, sleep is characterized by:

• immobility,
• relaxed posture,
• and reduced responsiveness (Peigneux et al., 2001; Siegel, 2009).
• easily reversible
• and homeostatically regulated ***meaning that sleep loss results in increased duration, depth, or consolidation of sleep (Cirelli & Tononi, 2008).

#animal_Sleep -> the functions of sleep and its ubiquity in all animals remain controversial (Cirelli & Tononi, 2008; Siegel, 2008)

Some changes

The behavioral criterion of unresponsiveness [along with] brain-based criteria [helped] identifying different sleep stages. [Also], with the discovery of rapid eye movement ( #REM_sleep ) (Dement & Kleitman, 1957), sleep was seen to have a complex architecture in which the stages of #non-REM ( #NREM ) Stages of #non-REM stretch from sleep onset to deep sleep, are followed by REM sleep (Pace-Schott, 2009).

#NREM sleep is marked by synchronized slow-wave activity, whereas #REM sleep is marked by desynchronized fast activity that is nearly indistinguishable from waking - this is knowin by #EEG.

Muscle tone decreases in #NREM sleep as compared to wakefulness and reaches its low-point in #REM sleep

This state of near-paralysis #NRM contrasts with rapid eye movement activity. It also contrasts with reports of rich subjective experiences, which are much more likely to follow awakenings from REM than from NREM sleep.

Throughout the night, we follow a standard trajectory through the stages of NREM sleep, followed by REM sleep, a return to NREM sleep, and so on; sleep is also interspersed with numerous awakenings, often too short to be recalled.

Changes in sleep are regulated by the ascending reticular activating system.

The reticular activating system's fundamental role is regulating arousal and sleep−wake transitions. The ascending reticular activating system projects to the intralaminar nuclei of the thalami, which projects diffusely to the cerebral cortex.

Each sleep cycle takes about 90 min, but with increasing sleep duration, the deeper stages of NREM sleep disappear and give way to longer REM periods. The longest and most complex dreams occur in the morning, close to awakening.

The discovery of REM sleep in the 1950s marked the beginning of both sleep and dream science [and optimistycally], [this moved] early dream researchers to regard the physiological characteristics of REM sleep as objective markers of the occurrence and duration of dreaming (Dement & Kleitman, 1957). [which in turn, led to] to the view of NREM sleep as unconscious, dreamless sleep.

These findings initiated a profound shift in the concept of sleep: NREM sleep inherited the negative definition that had previously been applied to sleep in general. By contrast, to make sense of the occurrence of conscious experience in sleep, dreaming was confined to REM sleep and assigned a category of its own.

REM sleep was “neither sleeping nor waking. It was obviously a third state of the brain, as different from sleep as sleep is from wakefulness” (Jouvet 2000, p. 5). This notion of waking, REM, and NREM sleep as the three cardinal states of the brain and mind continues to be widespread.

[this is] for example, central to the influential #AIM_model (Hobson, Pace-Schott, & Stickgold, 2000) [which] attributes transitions from waking via NREM to REM sleep, [and] changes in conscious experience, to concerted changes in the overall level of brain activation (A), information processing/input source (I), and neuromodulation (M) . The AIM model preserves the original idea of waking, REM and NREM sleep as global states, assuming isomorphism on the phenomenological, behavioral, and neuronal levels.

The idea that sleep, wakefulness, and sleep-stages are multilevel, whole-brain phenomena that can be unambiguously categorized and are mutually exclusive is popular to this day (Siclari & Tononi, 2017). The picture has become more fine-grained, differentiating three states where previously there were thought to be just two, while preserving the main assumptions of the traditional view of sleep.

The traditional sleep–wake dichotomy also resurfaced in consciousness science in the form of a dichotomy between consciousness, associated with both waking and dreamful sleep, and unconscious, dreamless sleep. In this context, consciousness refers to the global phenomenon of being conscious at all, not to particular contents of consciousness (such as tasting pistachio ice cream or seeing a toddler smile). Used in the former sense, consciousness is often operationally defined as that which disappears in deep, dreamless sleep and reappears in waking and dreaming (Searle, 2000; Tononi, 2008). A similar idea is found in work on #global_states, #background_states, or #modes_of_consciousness, where REM sleep/dreaming is contrasted with presumably unconscious NREM sleep (for details and critical discussion, see Bayne, Hohwy, & Owen, 2016).

the contrast between dreamful and dreamless (presumably unconscious) sleep has also been proposed as a research model of consciousness (Churchland, 1988; Revonsuo, 2006) and led to specific experiments probing the neural correlates of consciousness (Siclari et al., 2017; Tononi & Massimini, 2008).

The aspect of the traditional view that has undergone the most radical transformation is the characterization of sleep as passive and inactive . On the whole, findings on sleep architecture and sleep homeostasis (Cirelli & Tononi, 2008) have shown the progression of sleep stages to be actively orchestrated. Yet the view of sleep as passive rest was partially redeemed through the distinction between REM sleep/dreaming on one hand and unconscious NREM sleep on the other hand, alongside the view that sleep proper is confined to NREM sleep (Jouvet, 2000).

Passivity, in relation to NREM sleep, refers to the presumed absence of mental activity and conscious experience. By contrast, REM sleep is highly active on measures of brain activity and subjective experience. Areas associated with visual and motor experience and emotions are even more active in REM sleep than in waking, which in turn fits in well with the visual, action-packed, dynamic, and emotional character of many dreams (Desseilles et al., 2011). ***This stands in stark contrast to the fact that external stimulus processing and muscle tone reach their low point in REM sleep (this is also often called the sensory input and motor output blockade; Hobson et al. 2000);

in this sense, REM sleep is deeper and more behaviorally passive than NREM sleep. This contrast between outward passivity and rich subjective experience is reflected in the occasional designation of REM sleep as #paradoxical_sleep (Jouvet, 2000)

In sum, while the traditional view of sleep has been updated in response to scientific discoveries, many of its key assumptions have been preserved. Recurring themes include the tendency toward drawing sharp, mutually exclusive distinctions between sleep and wakefulness as well as between sleep stages; the tendency to regard them as whole-brain phenomena and global states in which changes in behavior and neural processing are aligned with changes in experience; and the idea that sleep, with the exception of dreaming, is uniformly unconscious. developments in the fields of sleep and dreaming cast doubt on these assumptions, making even the updated view of sleep and sleep staging seem insufficient.

Roughly, Divine Command Theory is the view that morality is somehow dependent upon God, and that moral obligation consists in obedience to God’s commands. Divine Command Theory includes the claim that morality is ultimately based on the commands or character of God, and that the morally right action is the one that God commands or requires. The specific content of these divine commands varies according to the particular religion and the particular views of the individual divine command theorist, but all versions of the theory hold in common the claim that morality and moral obligations ultimately depend on God.

[Baggett Good God]

A big contributor to the resurgence of divine command theory in the last few decades   is Robert Adams, whose 1973 groundbreaking article “A Modified Divine Command   Theory of Ethical Wrongness” drew great attention. (p. 112 ) Subsequent work by such   philosophers as Quinn, Idziak, Wierenga

was Adams, though, who got the ball rolling, and   his is an important example of both the importance of the role of semantics as well as   its limitations that we mentioned earlier. The evolution of his own thought after writing   that first essay, later penning its sequel “Divine Command Metaethics Modified Again,”  and a whole book on theistic ethics

[Ethics: Atheism companian to atheism and philosphy]

مثال زلزله بم در بخش پایین وارد شود

A young child is suffering from malnutrition caused by a severe famine, itself caused by political conflict in her home country. Her suffering is extremely severe, as is that of her parents, who, in 

addition to their own physical suffering, are also suffering emotionally because of their reasonable   fears that their daughter will die. A group of kind people who work for a humanitarian organization   locate the family and bring them the water, food, and medical supplies needed to nurse them back  to health. The group also provides them with transportation to a refugee camp in a neighboring   country and help the family emigrate out of the conflict zone.

We can make the following moral claims about this sce- nario: The child’s suffering and that of her parents is bad. It is good that the child’s suffering has been relieved. It is good that her parents’ anguish has been relieved. The aid workers who helped the family acted with virtue. They had strong rea- sons to provide such assistance. Those responsible for the conflict ought to do everything they can to end the conflict. People who are in a position to help ought to provide other famine victims with lifesaving assistance.The first paragraph of this section lists only natural facts 

about the child, her family, and their predicament. The second paragraph lists moral facts about them.

It is possible  that God does not exist but that all the natural facts in the  first paragraph are true. If moral facts depend on the exis- 

tence of God, then, if God does not exist, the natural  facts listed in the first paragraph are true but the moral facts  in the second paragraph are false. An atheist moral realist  will find this claim to be implausible. For such an atheist,  the natural facts in the first paragraph are sufficient to make the moral facts in the second para- 

graph true.

All moral realists agree that the moral facts are dependent on the natural facts in the following sense: if there are changes in the moral facts, there must be corresponding changes in  the natural facts. If the child’s situation is morally better, then her suffering must have 

been relieved. If there is no longer an obligation to render aid, then the natural facts must have changed—for example, the family is no longer suffering from malnutrition. Furthermore, the  right kind of changes in the natural facts will result in changes to the moral facts. If the  child is not suffering from malnutrition, then her situation is better. Philosophers call this  kind of dependence relation supervenience. An atheist moral realist will say that this superveni- 

ence can be explained on the premise that the natural facts are sufficient to make the moral  facts true.

برای خداباوری این فرارویدادگی برای اینکه خوبی ها چرا خوب هستند و بدی ها چرا بد- توسط خدا انجام میشه

برای مثال - کریگ اینطور مینویسه که:ب

“The claim that moral values and duties are rooted in God is a metaethical claimabout moral ontology. It is not fundamentally a claim about moral linguistics or aboutmoral epistemology. It is fundamentally a claim about the metaphysical status ofmoral properties, not a claim about the meaning of moral sentences or about the justification or knowledge of moral principles... the theist will agree quite readily...that we do not need to know or even believe that God exists in order to discern objective moral values or to recognize our moral duties.” [reference]

دوراهی اوتیفرون

به طور خلاصه از لحاظ احلاقی مستلزم به انجام برخی کارها هستی- احکام اخلاقی هست که باید انجام بدی و دستورات خداست که بیان میکنه باید چه کاری رو انجام بدی...ت

یکی از مهمترین اعتراض ها به نظریه فرمان الهی- دوراهی اوتیفرون هست

the course of their conversation, Socrates is surprised to discover that Euthyphro is prosecuting his own father for the murder of a servant. Euthyphro’s family is upset with him because of this, and they believe that what he is doing—prosecuting his own father—is impious. Euthyphro maintains that his family fails to understand the divine attitude to his action. This then sets the stage for a discussion of the nature of piety between Socrates and Euthyphro. In this discussion, Socrates asks Euthyphro the now philosophically famous question that he and any divine command theorist must consider: “Is the pious loved by the gods because it is pious, or is it pious because it is loved by the gods?” (p. 14).

Does God command this particular action because it is morally right, or is it morally right because God commands it?” It is in answering this question that the divine command theorist encounters a difficulty. درواقع دو راهی اینجا وارد میشود

A defender of Divine Command Theory might respond that an action is morally right because God commands it. However, the implication of this response is that if God commanded that we inflict suffering on others for fun, then doing so would be morally right. We would be obligated to do so, because God commanded it. This is because, on Divine Command Theory, the reason that inflicting such suffering is wrong is that God commands us not to do it. However, if God commanded us to inflict such suffering, doing so would become the morally right thing to do. The problem for this response to Socrates’ question, then, is that God’s commands and therefore the foundations of morality become arbitrary,

most advocates of Divine Command Theory do not want to be stuck with the implication that cruelty could possibly be morally right, nor do they want to accept the implication that the foundations of morality are arbitrary. So, a divine command theorist might avoid this problem of arbitrariness by opting for a different answer to Socrates’ question, and say that for any particular action that God commands, He commands it because it is morally right.

By taking this route, the divine command theorist avoids having to accept that inflicting suffering on others for fun could be a morally right action. More generally, she avoids the arbitrariness that plagues any Divine Command Theory which includes the claim that an action is right solely because God commands it. However, two new problems now arise. If God commands a particular action because it is morally right, then ethics no longer depends on God in the way that Divine Command Theorists maintain. God is no longer the author of ethics, but rather a mere recognizer of right and wrong. As such, God no longer serves as the foundation of ethics. Moreover, it now seems that God has become subject to an external moral law, and is no longer sovereign.

Attempt to present another option for answering the dillemma

modified command theory

Robert Adams (1987) has offered a modified version of the Divine Command Theory, which a defender of the theory can appropriate in response to the Euthyphro Dilemma. Adams argues that a modified divine command theorist “wants to say…that an act is wrong if and only if it is contrary to God’s will or commands (assuming God loves us)” (121). Moreover, Adams claims that the following is a necessary truth: “Any action is ethically wrong if and only if it is contrary to the commands of a loving God” (132). On this modification of Divine Command Theory, actions, and perhaps intentions and individuals, possess the property of ethical wrongness, and this property is an objective property. That is, an action such as torturing someone for fun is ethically wrong, irrespective of whether anyone actually believes that it is wrong, and it is wrong because it is contrary to the commands of a loving God.

At any rate, whichever option a modified divine command theorist chooses, the modification at issue is aimed at avoiding both horns of the Euthyphro Dilemma. The first horn of the dilemma posed by Socrates to Euthyphro is that if an act is morally right because God commands it, then morality becomes arbitrary. Given this, we could be morally obligated to inflict cruelty upon others. The Modified Divine Command Theory avoids this problem, because morality is not based on the mere commands of God, but is rooted in the unchanging omnibenevolent nature of God. Hence, morality is not arbitrary nor would God command cruelty for its own sake.

The Modified Divine Command Theory is also thought to avoid the second horn of the Euthyphro Dilemma. God is the source of morality, because morality is grounded in the character of God. Moreover, God is not subject to a moral law that exists external to him. On the Modified Divine Command Theory, the moral law is a feature of God’s nature. Given that the moral law exists internal to God, in this sense, God is not subject to an external moral law, but rather is that moral law. God therefore retains his supreme moral and metaphysical status. Morality, for the modified divine command theorist, is ultimately grounded in the perfect nature of God.

 بنابراین -  به طور خلاصه

Since the first horn of the dilemma represents moral obligations as 

being independent of God’s commands, a divine command theorist 

must somehow tackle the second horn of the dilemma and find a way that morality is not arbitrary under god.

برای اینکه نشاند دهد دستورات خدا دلبخواهی نیست میتواند چنان که گفته شد بیان کند که

 while torturing an innocent child to death would be obligatory if God commanded this, God would never command such  a thing because such a command would be contrary to His good and  loving nature. However, such a move seems incompatible with divine  command theory: it suggests that God is bound by moral requirements  (He cannot command torturing an innocent child to death because such  a command would beimmoral), whereas divine command theory claims that God is the source of all moral requirements.1 و این مارو صرفا مجبور به برگشت به بخش اول دوراهی میکنه

 انگار که چیزی مستقل از خدا وجود داره که خدا هم باید اون رو در نظر بگیره و دیگر منبع اخلاق نیست

حل مشکل بار دیگر

خداباور بار دیگه اصلاح میکنه

مشکل دیدگاه قبلی اینه که خوبی اون چیزی چیزیست که خدا باید انجام بده- یعنی ما میخوایم بگیم که باید ها از خدا بر آمده است نه اینکه برآمده از خوبی هاست

مشکل رو میشه به این شکل حل کرد که بگیم

These theorists argue that divine  command theory is not a theory of all moral values; it is merely a theory  of moral obligation.2 We can still say that God is good, as long as we do  not construe this goodness in terms of God doing what He ought to do [koons]

باید ها را باید اینطور دید که این باید ها

( apply to finite beings such as us humans) are in turn 

constituted by the commands of God. And since He is good, He would  never command torturing an innocent child to death, and so the second  horn of our euthyphro dilemma is defused.

دیگه باید ها جهتش از سمت خدا به انسان های محدود هست و به واسطه ماهیت خوب خدا هم دیگر مشکل بخش دوم دوراهی اوتیفرون هم حل شد رفت

hese are essential features of God’s  character, they preclude his commanding that someone bring about  S in any possible world.”3 Further, God’s nature provides God with  adequate reason to issue the particular commands He does, alleviating  the arbitrariness worry about divine command theory:

ظهور دوباره اوتیفرون

راه حل مطرح شده اما کاری نیست چرا که بار دیگر دوراهی اوتیفرون در سطح دیگری ظاهر میشود

and claims this  move allows DCT to evade the traditional Euthyphro objections: “So far from  being arbitrary, God’s commands to us are an expression of his perfect good- ness. Since he is perfectly good by nature, it is impossible that God should  command us to act in ways that are not for the best” (Alston 2002, p. 290). 

The critic of DCT will not be impressed and will argue that modified 

DCT merely recreates the Euthyphro dilemma at a new level. Thus, the critic  asks, are various traits (kindness, justice, mercy, etc.) good because they are  traits of God, or is God good because he possesses these traits? I will call this the God’s Nature Euthyphro Dilemma (GNED).

This is not simply another iteration because the horns of this  dilemma have somewhat different outcomes. In the original euthyphro  dilemma, the worry about the second horn of the dilemma was that if  right acts were right because God commanded them, then that made  morality arbitrary – torture for fun is immoral, but God did not have  a good (i.e., moral) reason for forbidding such torture, and there would  have been nothing immoral about his commanding torture for fun. but  the divine command theorist is not saying that the relation between the  goodness of being loving and the fact of God’s lovingness is so arbitrary  as that: it is not the mere fact of God’s being loving that makes it good to  be loving. rather, it is the fact that God is loving, combined with the fact  that God is supremely good that makes being loving good. As Alston  puts the point,

We can think of God himself, the individual being, as the supreme 

standard of goodness...lovingness is good (a good-making feature, that  on which goodness is supervenient) not because of the Platonic existence  of a general principle or fact to the effect that lovingness is good, but  because God, the supreme standard of goodness, is loving. Goodness  supervenes on every feature of God, not because some general principles  are true but just because they are features of God.5

So God is good (indeed, He is the supreme standard of goodness),  and that is why His being loving makes being loving good. So it seems  initially that the second option involves no arbitrariness: being loving is  good because it is a trait of God, who is supremely good. (We will revisit  this initial conclusion later, though.)

داریم میگیم که مشکل دلبخواهی بودن رو حل کردیم با ماهیت خدا و از اون گذشتیم و از دو ارهی اوتیفرون هم گذشتیم.

Notice, however, the order of explanation here. God is not good 

because He is loving. That would imply a standard of goodness 

independent of God, which divine command theorists like Alston and  Adams must deny. They claim that God is the standard of goodness, that whatever properties (such as being loving) God has are good in virtue of  God’s essential goodness. Thus, God’s goodness must be logically prior  to the goodness of God’s mercy, justice, lovingness, and so on. Indeed,  Adams speculates that in a possible world with no God, nothing would  be excellent or good, not even character traits we normally consider  good (like being loving). Adams writes,

If there is a God that satisfies [the] conditions imposed by our concepts  [of the Good], we might say, then excellence is the property of faithfully  imaging such a God...In worlds where no such God exists, nothing would  have that property, and therefore nothing would be excellent. but beings  like us in such a world might have a concept subjectively indistinguishable  from our concept of excellence, and there might be an objective property  that corresponded to it well enough, and in a sufficiently salient way, to 

be the property signified by it, though it would not be the property that  we in fact signify by ‘excellent’.6

Wainwright notes that an apparent consequence of Adams’s theory is  that if there is a possible world where there is no God, and no plausible  alternative candidate for the role of the Supreme Good, then assuming  that “Adams’s account of the semantics of ‘good’ is more or less correct,  then the term ‘good’ doesn’t pick out a real property in those worlds;  the concept of good will be as empty in those worlds as the concept of  phlogiston is in ours”.7 In those worlds, being (e.g.) loving is not good.  God’s goodness is logically prior to the goodness of such traits, and their  goodness depends on and is parasitic on the prior goodness of God.8

Adams writes, If there is a God that satisfies [the] conditions imposed by our concepts [of the Good], we might say, then excellence is the property of faithfully imaging such a God…In worlds where no such God exists, nothing would have that property, and therefore nothing would be excellent. But beings like us in such a world might have a concept subjectively indistinguishable from our concept of excellence, and there might be an objective property that corresponded to it well enough, and in a sufficiently salient way, to be the property signified by it, though it would not be the property that we in fact signify by ‘excellent’.6

دقیقا همون منطق ان دو پاراگرافی که داشتیم رو درواع بیان میکنه

بنابراین چطوری خدا در رابطه با خوبی قرار میگیره و مشکل رو حل میکنه با ماهیت خودش اونچه باید بهش توجه کنیم اینه که Notice, however, the order of explanation here. God is not good because He is loving. That would imply a standard of goodness independent of God, which divine command theorists like Alston and Adams must deny. They claim that God is the standard of goodness, that whatever properties (such as being loving) God has are good in virtue of God’s essential goodness. Thus, God’s goodness must be logically prior to the goodness of God’s mercy, justice, lovingness, and so on. Indeed, Adams speculates that in a possible world with no God, nothing would be excellent or good, not even character traits we normally consider good (like being loving).

if there is a possible world where there is no God, and no plausible alternative candidate for the role of the Supreme Good, then assuming that “Adams’s account of the semantics of ‘good’ is more or less correct, then the term ‘good’ doesn’t pick out a real property in those worlds; the concept of good will be as empty in those worlds as the concept of phlogiston is in ours”.7 In those worlds, being (e.g.) loving is not good. God’s goodness is logically prior to the goodness of such traits, and their goodness depends on and is parasitic on the prior goodness of God

گفتیم که the order of explanation here. God is not good because He is loving

Alston’s particularism requires that God’s goodness be logically prior to the goodness of the moral virtues.

این عدم تقارن در پایه به این معناست که In order to avoid grounding God’s goodness, as the Platonist would, in  truths that do not depend on God, it seems that God must somehow serve as the supreme standard of goodness apart from the properties He in fact possesses. It thus seems that God, qua bare particular, serves as the ultimate standard for moral goodness

. خب به جهت استدلال فکر کنید که گفتیم جهتش از سمت خدا به ویژگی های خوب و بد هست. با این اوضاع How should we understand God, a particular concrete being, serving as the standard of goodness? In virtue of what does God so serve?

in the above order of explanation, they are debarred from pointing to any feature in virtue of which God is good. (Alston denies this, but I will argue that he cannot do so coherently; we will return to this point later.) Rather, those features themselves are good in virtue of belonging to God (who is good). Then what does it mean to say that God is good? It doesn’t mean that He is just, or loving – His goodness is prior to the goodness of these features. Alston and Adams must say this, else admit that there is a  standard of goodness independent of God.

اولین مشکل جهت استدلال برای ویژگی های اخلاقی و ما به این برمیگردم The problem is this: actions and agents instantiate morally thin properties (rightness, goodness, etc.) in virtue of the morally thick properties these actions and agents instantiate. An action is not good simpliciter; it is good because it represents an act of charity, or a repaying of a debt, or something else. It is good in virtue of something else. Similar comments apply to the goodness of agents.

[Modified DCT upends this relation, in that it denies that God is good because of His instantiation of any morally thick properties. Rather, these thick properties have the valence they do because they are instantiated by a being who is good—reversing the standard order of explanation. This, in itself, is a puzzle. But it is a puzzle that signals a deeper incoherence—for it bars us from saying anything about what God’s goodness consists in.]

خب با توجه به این عدم تقارن در چهارچوب بالا- دیگه اصلا خوبی خدا قابل فهم نیست -دیدگاه ما دیگه منطقی نمیتونه منسجم باشه-چون نمیتونیم به هیچ چیزی اشاره کنیم که محتوی خوبی خدا باشه So the property of goodness, as it applies to God, is undifferentiated, a ‘featureless property’.

آلستون یک دیدگاه خاصی رو مطرح میکنه که تصور میکنه این مشکل رو هم حل میکنه

Alston writes: Note that on this view we are not debarred from saying what is supremely good about God. God is not good, qua bare particular or undifferentiated thisness. God is good by virtue of being loving, just, merciful and so on.13 Does this answer the objection?

It is unclear. For mark how the passage continues: Where this view differs from its alternative is in the answer to the question, ‘By virtue of what are these features of God good-making features?’ The answer given by this view is: ‘By virtue of being features of God.’14

So Alston is explicit here that these features are only good because God possesses them. As Alston writes earlier in his essay,

Lovingness is good (is a good-making feature, that on which goodness is supervenient) not because of the Platonic existence of a general principle or fact to the effect that lovingness is good, but because God, the supreme standard of goodness, is loving. Goodness supervenes on every feature of God, not because some general principles are true but just because they are features of God. 15

So we have a puzzle. The first passage indicates that God is good because of these good-making traits (such as lovingness, mercy, and so on). But the second and third quotes reverse the order of explanation: they say not that God is good because He possesses these traits, but that these traits are good-making because God possesses them. What is the correct order of explanation?

میشه هم کیکش رو داشته باشه هم بخوره در دوجهت خوبی رو تبیین کنه/؟

Alston’s particularism requires that God’s goodness be logically prior to the goodness of the moral virtues.

بین دو دیدگاه تمایز قائل میشه:ـ

(a) ‘Platonic’ predicates, the criterion for the application of which is a general ‘essence’ or ‘Idea’ that can be specified in purely general terms, and (b) ‘particularist’ predicates, the criterion for the application of which makes essential reference to one or more individuals.16 Alston suggests ‘triangle’ as a good paradigm of the former kind. Alston’s theory of the good is particularist: a particular individual (God) is the standard of goodness. Alston suggests an illuminating analogy:

مثال مثلش شبیه اخلاق افلاطونی

Alston suggests an illuminating analogy: A sub-type closer to our present concern is the much-discussed ‘meter’. Let’s say that what makes a certain length a meter is its equality to a standard meter stick kept in Paris. What makes this table a meter in length is not its conformity to a Platonic essence but its conformity to a concretely existing individual. Similarly, on my present suggestion, what most ultimately makes an act of love a good thing is not its conformity to some general principle but its conformity to, or imitation of, God, who is both the ultimate source of the existence of things and the supreme standard by which they are to be assessed.17

توضیح اینکه این میله یک متری بار اول میشه معیار هر اندازه گیری دیگه ای خوده میله به طور فردی هست the length of the meter was determined only by reference to this particular entity, the meter bar

it is truly accurate to say that anything that is (or approximates) a meter is so purely in virtue of resembling the meter bar, and not in virtue of matching any pre-existing standard independent of the meter bar.

خب حالا میرسیم به مشکل Now consider an object – say, a piece of wood. This piece of wood has a particular length, L. Suppose this length, L, is the same length as that of the Paris meter bar. Thus, L is 1 meter. Which of the following claims is true? (1) This particular length, L, is 1 meter because the Paris meter bar has this particular length. (2) The Paris meter bar is 1 meter because it is this particular length, L

If the Paris meter bar is a genuine particularist standard, (1) is true and (2) is false. As Alston writes, “What makes a certain length a meter is its equality to a standard meter stick kept in Paris.”18 (2) must be rejected for multiple reasons, not the least because it smacks of the Platonism rejected by Alston – “What makes this table a meter in length is not its conformity to a Platonic essence but its conformity to a concretely existing individual.”19 But more importantly, (2) reverses the order of explanation – the measurement of the meter bar isn’t fixed by comparison with some abstract length, or by comparison with some external standard. Rather, the meter bar is the standard which determines the unit of measure for L and other lengths. That is how a particularist model works. So understanding the Paris meter bar as a particularist example, (1) is true and (2) is false

خب حالا بیایم سراغ خدا

For sentences precisely parallel to (1) and (2) can also be constructed with respect to God, goodness, and the virtues: (3) These particular virtues (lovingness, mercy, etc.) are good because God possesses these particular virtues. (4) God is good because God possesses these particular virtues (lovingness, mercy, etc.)

-3) and (4) are precisely parallel in structure to (1) and (2)20; and with the particularist example of the Paris meter bar, (1) is true and (2) is false. (2) is false because with particularism, the order of explanation goes in a particular direction: from the exemplar toward the traits the exemplar is established to exemplify. The order of explanation does not reverse; if it does, you are not a particularist. This strongly suggests that if we construe God as a particularist paradigm, as Alston intends, we should likewise find (3) to be true and (4) to be false.

The meter bar confers meter-hood on its specific length; that is its job as the particularist model of the meter. The order of explanation does not reverse: meter-ness, as a Platonic entity or independently-defined length, does not define the meter bar as being a meter long. Similarly, God defines the virtues as good, by being the particularist model of goodness. The virtues do not confer goodness on God, any more than a meter length confers meter-hood on the meter bar.

Similarly, if God is to serve as a particularist exemplar, He must confer goodness on the virtues. The virtues cannot confer goodness on him, cannot explain wherein God’s goodness consists. For to say that God is good because he possesses these virtues, or that God’s goodness supervenes on these virtues, is to reject particularism in favour of some theory that locates the source of moral value outside of God.

[Morriston] Is God good because He has these good-making properties?...If this is the right way to look at the matter, then moral goodness supervenes directly on the good-making properties, and it makes not the slightest difference to their good-makingness who has them. A person is morally good to the degree that she possesses these properties. That goes for God as much as for anyone else. But then we are right back in the box we were trying to get out of. God is subject to an independent standard of goodness…21

خب اومدیم ما هیت خدا به جای فلان و فلان و فلان این بود- خب اینا میشدن خوب - یعنی باز دوراهی اوتیفرون توی این مرحله مجددا ظهور میکنه خدا خوبه چون ویژ"گی هایی که داره خوبه یا چو خدا این ویژگی ها رو داره خوبه؟

Alston cannot consistently maintain that “God is good by virtue of being loving, just, merciful and so on”22 and be a particularist. If he wants to be a particularist, the order of explanation can only go in one direction: the character traits like being loving, just and merciful are virtues – are good – just because they are possessed by God.

Morriston writes, Alston’s point…is that explanation must come to an end somewhere. Whatever our ultimate standard is – whether it is an individual paradigm or a general principle of the sort favored by Platonists – that is as far as we can go. If Alston cannot say what makes goodness supervene on God’s characteristics, neither can the Platonist say what makes it supervene on a bunch of properties. In either case, it just does supervene, and that is all there is to say. But even if this is right, we can still ask which stopping point is preferable. If we have to stop somewhere, why not stop with the special combination of love and justice that make up God’s moral character? Why go further and insist that goodness supervenes on these characteristics only because they are characteristics of the particular individual who is God? From the point of view of moral theory, it is hard to see any real advantage in doing this; it complicates things considerably, and the theological window-dressing seems quite superfluous.23

Of course, Adams’ and Alston’s answer to Morriston’s hypothetical question (“Why not stop with the special combination of love and justice…?”) must be that if these were not characteristics of God, they wouldn’t be virtues – they wouldn’t be good.

Alston, as we have seen, seems to make a similar claim, writing, Lovingness is good (is a good-making feature, that on which goodness is supervenient) not because of the Platonic existence of a general principle or fact to the effect that lovingness is good, but because God, the supreme standard of goodness, is loving. Goodness supervenes on every feature of God, not because some general principles are true but just because they are features of God.

If there were no God, and someone were loving, merciful, and so forth, then that person (on the Adams/Alston view) would not be good. Thus, God’s goodness is logically prior to the goodness of these traits – these traits are not intrinsically good (for without God, they are not good). God is good, and in virtue of God’s possession of these traits, they too are good. We see, then, that God cannot be good in virtue of these traits, because God’s goodness must be logically prior to the goodness of these traits.

حالا برمیگردم به راه حل آلستون

Note that on this view we are not debarred from saying what is supremely good about God. God is not good, qua bare particular or undifferentiated thisness. God is good by virtue of being loving, just, merciful and so on.26

This cannot be right. God cannot be good by virtue of possessing these traits, because these traits don’t have the power to confer goodness upon God. God’s goodness is logically prior to the goodness of these traits, so logically speaking God’s goodness comes first, and then comes the goodness of these traits. You cannot explain God’s goodness in terms of His being “loving, just, merciful, and so on,” because the goodness of these traits is logically subsequent to God’s goodness, and is to be explained in terms of the latter property.

The essential problem in the Adams/Alston view can be brought into sharp relief by discussing another objection addressed by Alston. Speaking for his opponent, Alston writes, “Isn’t it arbitrary to take some particular individual, even the supreme individual, as the standard of goodness, regardless of whether this individual conforms to general principles of goodness or not?”

و این مار ومیرسونه به مشکل آنچه در فلسفه خود بدوی یا ابتدایی میگیریم

In response to this objection, Alston writes,

An answer to the question, ‘What is good about?’ will, sooner or later, cite certain good-making characteristics. We can then ask why we should suppose that good supervenes on those characteristics. In answer either a general principle or an individual paradigm is cited. But whichever it is, that is the end of the line…On both views something is taken to be ultimate, behind which we cannot go, in the sense of finding some explanation of the fact that it is constitutive of goodness

There are a few comments that need to be made at this point. First, Alston is making a familiar point about explanatory regress, and solving it in a familiar way: eventually, you reach a stopping point in the regress of explanations, and some principle or exemplar must be taken as ultimate. While this may, in some instances, be an acceptable move, it is not acceptable in all cases. One’s stopping point must be intelligible as a stopping point.

as we have already seen, God is not morally good in virtue of any of the familiar characteristics (such as being just or loving). God’s moral goodness is utterly blank, without any features that make it intelligible as a stopping place in an inquiry into the ultimate foundation of goodness. Since Alston and Adams make God’s goodness prior to any of God’s concrete moral virtues, the person of God is not intelligible as a stopping place in the quest for the ultimate source of good. God’s supposed goodness, as I said above, is a complete blank, lacking any features whatsoever that would make it intuitively appealing why the object in question should be regarded as the ultimate exemplar of moral goodness[as morriston pointed out:if we have to stop somewhere, why not stop with the special combination of love and justice that make up God’s moral character? Why go further and insist that goodness supervenes on these characteristics only because they are characteristics of the particular individual who is God?]

is self-evident or known via intuition. Once again, our question must be, ‘Is this plausible?’ Alston implies that one who is sufficiently acquainted with God and who has given the matter adequate, impartial thought will come to see (with justification or warrant) that God is the standard of moral perfection. But we can now see why this is wrong. For when one imagines acquaintance with God, and contemplation of the divine, one naturally imagines contemplating God given his attributes – such as being perfectly loving, just, merciful, and so forth. And of course someone who contemplated God as so presented might well come to believe in God’s moral perfection. But Alston must claim that God is the standard of moral perfection independently of his possession of these characteristics. He is not morally perfect because he possesses these characteristics; these characteristics are features of moral perfection only because they are possessed by God. Thus, what Alston should exhort us to do is this: imagine God, stripped of every moral perfection – His lovingness, His justice, His caring. Now is it self-evident that God as so conceived is morally perfect, the ultimate standard of good? Intuition is not a magical power; it needs something to work with. If intuition is a genuine mental power (and presumably, if it is, it is the power of forming non-inferential beliefs in response to some stimulus or mental input), then intuition requires inputs to generate an output

When Alston tells us that God’s moral perfection is self-evident, he is imagining God’s moral virtues as cognitive inputs, in which case we should expect as an output the belief “God is the standard of goodness”. But the question must be reconceived: ‘Does it make sense to say of God, independent of these virtues, that He is good?’ I have argued this is not coherent; it is certainly not self-evident that God so conceived is the ultimate standard of moral perfection

Anyhow, this discussion of self-evidence may mislead us: the problem we are dealing with is metaphysical, not epistemological. Alston presents the regress problem almost as an epistemological problem: how do we identify the ultimate source of good? If we have some knowledge of what traits (such as being loving and just) are good, then (plausibly) we need only find the being who exemplifies these traits to the maximal degree to find the exemplar of the good. But the problem we are grappling with is metaphysical, not epistemological: we are not (merely) trying to identify the source of good; we are trying to explain how it confers goodness on all things. So we cannot help ourselves to these virtuous traits (even if we know they are virtuous), because our problem is to explain how they are virtuous, not merely to identify which being is most virtuous.

we want to see what is the ontological foundation not how we come to know it.

We must consider the source of these traits’ goodness (God), and ask, “How is it that this being confers goodness on these traits?” Alston, Adams, Craig and others answer, “In virtue of being supremely good.” But once we confine ourselves to a strictly metaphysical investigation, we see that this statement is meaningless, because we are debarred from appealing to any features of God which might make His goodness coherent, or explain why His goodness is worthy of admiration or capable of conferring praiseworthiness on the traits (such as lovingness and justice) that He possesses.

پس برگردیم به نکته اصلی یعنی نقطه پایانی در تبیین

we must distinguish between explanations-why and explanations-what. Even if explanationswhy come to an end, and no further reasons can be given at this point, it does not follow that at this point there can be no further explanationwhat. For we should still be able to explain what something is even if we can give no further explanation for why it is the way that it is. For example: suppose (contrary to fact) that the electron’s negative charge were simply a brute fact, and that no explanation could be given for why electrons have a negative charge. This would be an example of running to the end of explanations for why things are the way they are. But we could still give an explanation of what a negative charge is: how it interacts with positively-charged items (like protons), what the strength of its electrical charge is, and so forth. So even if we can say nothing about why the electron has this charge, we can say quite a lot about what this charge is.

To deny this with respect to God’s goodness is to conflate the two types of explanation, explanations why and explanations what. (This confusion is, I think, a natural consequence of confusing the epistemological and the metaphysical.) The particularist says, in explaining why certain things are good, that at some point these why-explanations run out when we arrive at the exemplar of God’s character. But this does not entail the absence of any what-explanations, and we should still be able to say what God’s moral goodness consists in. But the particularist has debarred us from doing this: since God’s goodness is prior to any feature we could cite in an explanation (what) of God’s goodness, we cannot say what God’s goodness is. It is, again, a featureless property. The particularist is not just saying that there is an end to why-explanations; she is saying that no what-explanation can be given either. And that is simply not plausible, since this makes God’s goodness completely unintelligible.

Perhaps one could say that God’s goodness consisted of God always doing what was right. This won’t work, though, as theological voluntarists have specifically bifurcated their moral theory to respond to the original Euthyphro problem for divine command theory: there is a theory of the good for God, and a theory of obligation for finite beings like humans. More importantly, though, good must be definable antecedent to right (since it is God’s goodness that gives God reason to issue the particular commands that He does). Thus, on this view, good is logically prior to the right, and so it must be possible to give a definition of ‘good’ that makes no reference to rightness, obligation, or other cognate notions.

One cannot say that God’s goodness consists in that He always does the good, for not only is that definition circular, but it uses a predicate (good) that we are already complaining is undefined

Consider again Aquinas’ suggestion: “the essence of goodness consists in this, that it is in some way desirable.”32 However, as Scanlon33 and Quinn34 have argued, something is desirable not because you desire it, but because it has features that render it desirable – that is, in some way good. Now, there is a clear risk of circularity here – “the essence of goodness consists in this, that it is in some way good” – so to render our formulation non-circular, we must specify the precise ways in which God is good: we must specify the features of God that render Him desirable, good.

if there were specific features of God, in virtue of which He was good, then we would be thrown back on the first horn of our dilemma: God is good in virtue of certain features (and hence there is a standard of goodness independent of God) and if he is desireable somply becuase he has some vitues then no matter what virtues he has it will be arbitray

Indeed, the whole problem of trying to move the explanations-what up to the level of thin virtues must fail. As I have repeatedly emphasized, agents instantiate morally thin properties (such as goodness) in virtue of the morally thick properties these agents instantiate. Alston’s particularism cannot countenance this fact, and so must fail as a supplement to the divine command theory.

in the end: The critic of DCT will not be impressed and will argue that modified DCT merely recreates the Euthyphro dilemma at a new level. Thus, the critic asks, are various traits (kindness, justice, mercy, etc.) good because they are traits of God, or is God good because he possesses these traits? I will call this the God’s Nature Euthyphro Dilemma (GNED)

در پایان What is it about God’s nature that has the power to confer upon mercy, justice, loving-kindness, and so on, goodness and pursuit-worthiness—in a way that (for example) Satan’s nature does not confer these properties upon the traits that Satan possesses?

راه حل های احتمالی دیگه؟

We must distinguish between explanations-why and explanations-what. Even if explanations-why come to an end [you reach some explanatory ultimate; in the theist’s case God…], and no further reasons can be given at this point, it does not follow that at this point there can be no further explanation-what. For we should still be able to explain what something is even if we can give no further explanation for why it is the way that it is. I am amazed that he doesn’t apply this to Alston’s view of God! That seems to me perfectly correct. When you get to God you have reached the moral stopping point—the moral ultimate. There is no further reason why something is good. When you get to God you’ve reached the metaphysical and moral ultimate, the explanatory stopping point. But that doesn’t mean you can’t explain what goodness is or wherein the goodness of God consists. As Alston says, you can still explain to people that God is loving, kind, merciful, generous, and so forth. That would be an explanation-what, but not an explanation-why. (Craig 2015)

I think, however, that Craig’s response misreads the original objection. As I originally argued, “Suppose (contrary to fact) that the electron’s negative charge were simply a brute fact, and that no explanation could be given for why electrons have a negative charge. This would be an example of running to the end of explanations for why things are the way they are. But we could still give an explanation of what a negative charge is: how it interacts with positively-charged items (like protons), what the strength of its electrical charge is, and so forth. So even if we can say nothing about why the electron has this charge, we can say quite a lot about what this charge is” (Koons 2012, p. 191). We are to imagine, on the modified DCT, that God’s nature ends the ‘why’-regress. That is, there is no further question to be asked about why certain traits or properties are good—they are good because they are traits or properties of God, who is the exemplar of goodness. But, as I argued, we should still be able to say what this goodness is, just as we should be able to say something about what the electron’s negative charge consists in. Now Craig is correct—we can say many things about what God is, on the modified DCT. We can say that God is loving, just, kind, and so on. But these cannot be answers to questions concerning what God’s goodness consists in. God’s goodness is logically prior to these virtues, and so one cannot cite these virtues in an explanation-what of God’s goodness

I am willing to grant to the modified DCT that we can attribute many traits to God—but none of these can constitute an explanation or account of what God’s goodness consists in, since again God’s goodness is prior in the order of explanation to any of these traits God may possess. Thus, the original problem remains: We can talk about what traits God has, but the notion of God’s goodness remains incoherent, on the modified DCT, since God’s goodness is logically prior to any of these traits God possesses (and indeed, confers goodness on them in virtue of God’s possession of these traits)

Finally, it has been suggested8 that the GNED can be avoided if we regard the relation between God (the perfect being) and the person who exemplifies the virtues (loving-kindness, justice, etc.) to a maximal degree as a relation of identity. The reply can be fleshed out as follows:

Consider an analogy. Suppose water is identical to H2 0, implying that something is water if and only if it is H2 0. If you ask what makes this stuff water, it’s sensible for me to respond that it’s H2 0. No bare particular required. Similarly, now, suppose a perfect being is identical to a person who exhibits lovingness, justice, and related virtues to a maximally compossible degree. Now, if you ask me what makes this being perfect, it’s sensible for me to respond that it’s a person who exhibits lovingness, justice, and related virtues to a maximally compossible degree. No bare particular required.9

However, the analogy with water allows us to see precisely what is wrong with this response. Divine particularists insist on a particular relation—a particular order of explanation—between God’s goodness and the specific virtues and traits that he exhibits. This relation is such that (as indicated in the quote from Adams at the end of section III above) if there were no God, these traits might exist, but they wouldn’t be good—there would be no goodness in such a world. The whole point of evaluative particularism is that the specific particular (namely, God) confers goodness on the various traits (just as the Paris meter bar confers ‘meterhood’ on specific lengths).

It is not clear what it would mean to say (in the case of water) that there is no particular that confers water-hood on H2 0. But to follow the modified DCT as closely as possible, we would have to say that in such a possible world, there might be H2 0, but no H2 0 is water. Thus, there must be some criterion for counting as water outside of being identical with H2 0. In other words, we should be able to identify possible worlds where there is H2 0 but no water, but also identify possible worlds where there is H2 0 and water. Thus, we must have independent criteria for the existence of H2 0 and for the existence of water.

For starters, this intermediate conclusion will come as a shock to all of the fans of the Earth-Twin Earth/water-twater/H2 0-XYZ saga, who take it absolutely for granted that it is an essential property of water that it is identical to H2 0.10 But let us set aside this (quite deep) problem, and let us assume that there are criteria for water-hood independent of chemical constitution: Perhaps a substance is water iff it is clear, drinkable, freezes at 0°C and boils at 100°C, etc. Thus, either H2 0 or XYZ could be water (on this account)—Horgan and Timmons be damned! You may be willing to bite this particular bullet, in the case of water; but an analogous move is not obviously available to the modified divine command theorist

For while we may have independent criteria for water-hood, the whole point of the GNED is that we don’t have independent criteria of goodness—apart from the morally thick virtues, such as justice, loving-kindness, and so on (which, again, we may not appeal to as an explanation of God’s goodness). And so the modified divine command theorist who wants to say that God is identical to the being who maximally exemplifies the virtues, but also that God has an independently intelligible property of goodness—such that his exemplification of these virtues confers goodness on them, and they wouldn’t be good if God didn’t exemplify them—is again embroiled in a contradiction

-A bit of history and a brief intro

What are some other recent attempts to save the common consent argument? A brief view of Kelly [2011a] and Zagzebski [2012])

The best version of the argument supports the proposition, not that a god exists, but that some version of animism is probably true.

What is animism?

Animism is a religious tradition (held primarily by hunter[1]gatherer societies) committed to a belief in nature spirits, such as mountain spirits

Why is animism as minority position a good candidate for common consent arguments?

The reason for this surprising result is that any argument from common consent must be heedful of the way in which the agreement in question has been generated. Proselytizing theistic traditions typically generate agreement by a process of cultural diffusion. Although this can mean that such traditions become very popular, this also means that the agreement concerning the doctrines of such traditions might not be taken to be particularly strong evidence for the truth of their doctrines. In contrast, when agreement between separate knowledge communities has been generated (or sustained for very prolonged periods) independently of any knowledge of others, this is good prima facie evidence for the truth of the agreed-upon claim(s). Thus, while it is true that animists are in the overwhelming minority, separate animistic communities have nevertheless come to agree about important religious propositions while in a state of extreme historical and geographical isolation from one another.

Why a focus on animism? (philosophy of religion limitations)

Political beliefs appear to depend on various other theories that one might hold about economics, about social justice, about future trends, about well-being, etc. If one of these other theories changes, our vote might follow suit. In contrast, the belief about sour milk is relatively stable under various changes of higher-level theory. Importantly, observations concerning the kinds of entities that exist (even when such entities lie beyond what our ordinary unaided perception can detect) are relatively stable intersubjectively and this stability is seen even through changes of high-level theory [Hacking 1983: 199]. Therefore, if we want to take agreement as evidence for the truth of particular religious claims, it should be taken as evidence for the existential claims of religions, such as that gods, ghosts, spirits, or forces such as qi exist.

#higher_level_theory On the question of gods, the agreement numbers not in the thousands, or millions, but billions. However, the evidential value of agreement plummets once the agreement can be traced to recent waves of cultural diffusion in the form of proselytization or other social and political influences. Such agreements, generated in this way, are not obviously truth-tracking. In contrast, when those who are agreeing are unaware of their shared belief, this is much more compelling evidence that the common belief might be caused by reliable cognitive faculties

On the contrary, over the course of multiple generations, wars were fought and taxes were levied against unbelievers. Marriages were forbidden without conversion, and orphans were adopted and schooled by righteous clerics. Entire continents were colonized. Missionaries of various traditions canvassed the globe, converting infidels with zeal. Countless minds were changed. The product of this effort has been agreement in theism, but it is not evidentially salient. As Tom Kelly artfully puts the point: ‘The intellectual case for Islam would not be any stronger today if birthrates in Muslim countries had been twice as high in past decades as they actually were’ [2011b: 205–6].

Would be good if:

Linda Zagzebski, a contemporary defender of the common consent argument for the existence of God, accepts that widespread agreement about God is prima facie reason to believe that God exists, but that independent agreement would count as even stronger evidence: ‘If millions of people believe in God’ she says, ‘because they all acquired the belief by testimony from a small number of sources, the vast number of believers does not count as much as the same number of beliefs acquired independently’ [2012: 185].

Why care about independet agreement?

-comment Arif Ahmed and Hume

kelly's suggestion ‘The friend of the [common consent] argument’ says Tom Kelly, ‘should argue, not that widespread belief in God renders such belief reasonable all things considered, but rather that widespread belief in God is a significant piece of evidence in favour of the truth of that belief’ [2011a: 144].

So, it seems that one problem with the traditional common consent argument is that its second (suppressed) premise does not make the crucial distinction between mere agreement and independent agreement**?**

We also have reason to think that agreement— even independent agreement—is defeasible evidence which gives, at best, probabilistic support to the agreed-upon proposition. With these two cautions in mind, we may modify the problematic missing premise.

a.* Whatever near enough everyone, in near enough every isolated community, in near enough every historical era, believes independently from the beliefs of outsiders is probably true.

Although this premise is still open to various objections, it is far more plausible than (a). If this is a better way to understand the second premise of the argument, then we have some direction to take with regard to modifying the first premise. The first premise will state, not some fact about the overall distribution of religious belief, but instead a fact about the common ground shared by isolated religious communities, whose respective doctrinal commitments have been, as much as possible, isolated from any communication or cultural diffusion from outsiders.

Additionally, the idea that near enough everyone in near enough every nation accepts theism is also off-the-mark. In contemporary religious traditions of the Far East, such as Daoism and mainstream Theravāda Buddhism, there may exist some kinds of disembodied minds and supernatural forces, yet these religions do not obviously posit creator gods or powerful supernatural beings. So, if we are to reformulate the first premise, we must alter it such that it describes the surprising agreement found between historically isolated religious traditions. Such a fact cannot simply consist in a poll of world religious belief, since popular theistic traditions have generated widespread agreement about theism by way of proselytization (often of disempowered colonized peoples, many of whom previously had no commitments to high gods). Unfortunately, in a globalized and interconnected world, it is very difficult to find examples of truly isolated groups of religious believers. The best candidates would be hunter-gatherer societies that currently have (or have had until very recently) no contact with missionaries from foreign religious cultures.

‘Animism’ writes Peoples et al., ‘is the belief that all “natural” things, such as plants, animals, and even such phenomena as thunder, have intentionality (or a vital force) and can have influence on human lives’ [2016: 266]. This is, however, something of an overstatement. The animist does not accept that all natural things have intentionality, but only that some do [Harvey 2005: 33]. Animism, then, is better defined as the belief that some natural phenomena have spirits or an interior life akin to our own. There may be something that it is like to be a particular boulder, or mountain, or river. A

The animist pictures the natural world as sharing a common kind of interiority, cloaked in diverse exterior appearances. Thus, our relationship with an external nature is as social as our relationships within human communities. Isolated religious communities converge in their view that this picture is correct. So, using this anthropological data to reformulate the first premise of the common consent argument, and inserting the previously suppressed premise about independent agreement, we can reform the common consent argument like so:

One possible worry is this: if there exist major differences in the theoretical and mythological backdrops of each animist community, then presumably we cannot call this a kind of agreement at all. If a New Zealand animist takes some local mountain to be a non-human person, then presumably she will not be convinced by the claims of other animists elsewhere that their own mountain is. But that’s not quite right. Animism can be understood as fundamentally a relational epistemology, in which the individual’s identity just is the sum of her relations within her community, which will include relations with non-human persons [Bird-David 1999: 77–9]. If an animist from New Zealand were dropped into Montana, say, she would not necessarily disagree with the community in Montana that some bison were persons (despite never having seen such a beast before). It is, rather, the case that the New Zealander ‘wouldn’t know anyone around these parts’. One might remember the old adage: strangers are just friends you haven’t met yet.

*Different animist traditions will no doubt have different commitments with regard to the ways in which the spirits are causally efficacious, and these differences will likely affect the plausibility of the tradition under scrutiny. Moreover, one might think that, since we have other non-intentional explanations available to explain natural phenomena, we need not appeal to agency in order to explain such phenomena. But these different kinds of explanations (intentional and mechanistic) are not necessarily in competition. Such explanations appear to sit at very different levels. For more discussion on this point, see Dawes [2009: 39–42].

*?

The religions of hunter-gatherer societies have been isolated from one another for long enough to discount the possibility of any recent horizontal cultural diffusion. However, an objection to my argument might say that animism has been inherited by each community separately, by way of vertical transmission. If that’s the case, then the agreement found between animistic communities might be the result of a common cultural transmission, and so the agreement about animism would have been caused by the very same kind of process as the agreement about theism

There is a common cause for the agreement surrounding animism, says the objector, but this cause is not the fact that animism is true; it is the fact that the now-isolated animist communities once shared a common ancestor

?

There is something to be said for this argument. Indeed, Peoples et al. conclude that the widespread distribution of animism is indeed the result of vertical transmission. However, I do not believe that such a finding, if indeed correct, is fatal to the claim that this agreement gives prima facie support to the claim that animism is true

The very fact that animistic beliefs have been retained across so many millennia is nearly miraculous. If animism has been inherited by each community from a common ancestor, and if each community has retained animism despite there existing some probability that the belief will be rejected, then this shows that animism has not been rejected by any of these isolated communities over what can only be described as an unimaginably long period (most likely, upwards of 120,000 years for the most isolated communities. To put that in context, this harks back to a period during which we still shared the Earth with our cousins, the Neanderthals and the Denisovans [Bae et al. 2017]). One explanation for this retention over such an extraordinarily long period of time might be that animism is approximately true

Evolutionary debunkings? HADD+ Tom

At the very least, this debunking argument against animism requires its proponent to accept stronger metaphysical commitments than would be needed to defeat theism on the same grounds. Why so? Simply because a typical theistic claim is that at least one mind exists without a body. This is a nomologically suspect belief. If one believes (as most philosophers do) that minds are either physical or supervene on the physical, then the theistic belief in disembodied minds is apparently just plain false, and the belief’s popularity requires some explanation. The HADD + ToM account is then a reasonable explanation for why human beings would often commit themselves to mistaken theistic beliefs. Such beliefs are clear-cut cases of overprediction of agency

But the animist’s claim is metaphysically much less ambitious than the theist’s. The animist does not necessarily say that there are any disembodied minds, but only that some minds are embodied in surprising places, such as rivers. If the charge is made that the animist overpredicts agency, this requires stronger metaphysical commitments than just a blanket physicalism. It requires that we restrict the class of mind-bearing objects more narrowly than is required to reject theism on the same ground. Indeed, if we accept that HADD is just ADD plus H, and if we accept that ADD is (generally speaking) reliable when it comes to detecting agency in the natural world, then the question of whether animist beliefs are caused by an off-track process can be quite reasonably disputed.4 Sure, the animist might take, say, a tree to be an agent, but arguably trees are more like human beings than gods are like human beings. so more stronger than theism.

To this claim, a critic might respond that, although the animist’s claims are less ambitious than the theist’s, they are quite ambitious nonetheless. It seems that any metaphysics of mind worth its salt will take a claim about, say, forest spirits to be as much an example of overprediction of agency as is any claim about immaterial gods. The animist is, then, a stronger opponent than the theist is, only in the sense that a puppy is a stronger opponent than a kitten. But I think that the problem is stickier than this.

?

If the criteria for consciousness that we adopt are liberal enough to cover less-contentious entities such as small mammals and highly intelligent aliens, then it seems that evolutionary debunking arguments appealing to such criteria will struggle to give any principled reason to exclude a substantial number of the denizens of the animist’s worldview

Theistic Debunking Arguments Thus, so long as we are willing to count animist communities as having their own traditions and authorities, it seems that the case that Zagzebski advances for rational religious belief will apply just as well to the case of animism.

Plantinga argues that, from such experiences of the awe-inspiring grandeur of nature, theistic beliefs are spontaneously produced as outputs. I cannot help but find it ironic that the kinds of inputs specified by Plantinga are precisely the kinds of imposing natural phenomena that the animist takes as the central objects of religious focus. The animist might have good reason to suspect that it is Plantinga’s sensus divinitatis that is malfunctioning if, when he observes the majestic thunder of a great waterfall, he comes to believe that an invisible person is very powerful, while failing to fear, respect, or greet the very waterfall thundering away at him

theistic debunking if true,If this argument were successful, then the agreement surrounding nature spirits in isolated hunter-gatherer societies could be explained as the result of a corrupted sensus divinitatis. The cognitive faculty by which the animists have acquired their belief is currently malfunctioning. It is impaired

There is an obvious theological problem that arises. Why would a non-deceiving god cause a malfunctioning cognitive mechanism to generate widespread independent agreement? Typically, malfunctioning cognitive mechanisms generate disagreement in their outputs. The man who drinks too much sees snakes, but two men who drink too much do not both see snakes—the other might see spiders, or fairies, or nothing at all. It is this disagreement between the men, and between sober others, that leads us to conclude that the beliefs of the drunkard are incorrect. We take it that their cognitive processes have been impaired, not enhanced, by excessive alcohol. Such widespread independent agreement in animism could easily be mistaken as good evidence for animism. Only a deceiver god would allow this kind of misleading malfunction to occur. God’s will might be inscrutable, but it is entirely unclear why a non-deceiving god would create a faculty that malfunctioned in a way that resembled proper functioning.

Another way to adress theistic debunkings: value laden and theory first epistemologies

Hendricks

Perry Hendricks agrees with me! Hendricks argues that surprising independent agreement about animism would indeed raise the posterior probability of animism. However, Hendricks says, I have failed to give any extra weight to the claims of animists, since the widespread rejection of animism across the globe is at least as strong evidence against it. According to Hendricks, the current widespread unpopularity of animism neutralizes any strength my argument might have given to the animist.

Although Hendricks does not present an argument for it, he goes so far as to say that he is “inclined to think [that the current unpopularity of animism] is far stronger evidence against animism than Smith’s evidence is for animism, and so we have good reason to reject animism, all things considered” (Hendricks 2022, p. 547). Of course, he is welcome to feel that way. But whatever his personal inclinations, the core of Hendrick’s argument is narrower and rather simple in form: “Sure,” thinks Hendricks, “you may have independent agreement, but I have the raw numbers!” Whereas I may have a rag-tag army of isolated animists, Hendricks has the full might of the non-animist mob behind him. So, this philosophical game was nothing but a tit-for-tat that ended in a draw.

Hendricks and Hiddenness Adopting Schellenberg’s approach, Hendricks develops what he calls “the problem of animistic hiddenness” which focuses specifically on non-believers in animism. There are some differences between the two arguments. Hendricks notes that since the omnibenevolence of nature spirits is not assumed, the notion of nonresistence is not at issue. And, cutting a fairly short story shorter, Hendricks concludes that the situation is basically the same for animism as it is for theism. If Schellenberg is right, there should not exist nonresistant nontheists if theism is true. And if Hendricks is right, there should not exist such a preponderance of non-animists if animism is true. If there were nature spirits, he argues, then “they are equally as likely to reveal themselves to past generations as they are to the current generation”. He then goes on to make the stronger claim that “it would be very surprising if belief in nature spirits was not widespread during any historical era”.

the first assumption is that raw numbers matter, at least when it comes to religious belief. So, the fact that there is overwhelming agreement about some religious proposition is at least prima facie evidence for that proposition. It does not ultimately matter, Hendricks seems to think, how any particular agreement is generated.

he second assumption that Hendricks appears to make has to do with the constancy of the behaviour of nature spirits (or non-human persons) over time. The behaviour of these religious entities should not radically change over time or place. As Hendricks writes: “they are equally as likely to reveal themselves to past generations as they are to the current generation”

The third assumption that Hendricks makes is that human beings are as capable of receiving this spiritual communication during all eras and in all places. So, whereas the constancy principle states that spirits should communicate with us at a constant rate, this principle holds that human beings are roughly equally receptive to this communication at all times and places. We can call this the receptiveness principle.

The fourth assumption is that animism is currently unpopular. Indeed, this was an assumption that Hendricks borrowed directly from me.

Animist beliefs were decimated during the age of discovery (and have continued to be discouraged ever since) by a (violent) process of colonization and by the oppression of traditional cultures, languages, and religions. The introduction of foreign germs also took a devastating toll on the colonized, whose societies suffered wave after wave of decline. The superior technology and science of the invaders was often taken as evidence (by indigenous peoples) for the truth of the invaders’ religious beliefs, despite the fact that the advanced body of technological and scientific knowledge had not been drawn from religion. For example, in Aotearoa New Zealand, indigenous Māori converted to Christianity en masse, often under the belief that the impressive medical skills of European settlers derived from magical processes associated with the cross. Interestingly, it is only since the so-called “Māori renaissance” beginning in the mid-1980s (a time during which Māori language and culture were reinvigorated) that animist commitments came to be both appreciated again and even effected by law (as in the 2017 Te Awa Tupua Bill).

I disagree that one can point to the raw numbers in this particular case, a case in which the raw numbers are clearly non-evidential, and claim any kind of victory. On the contrary, The arguments discussed in the section suggest that the ascendency of anti-animism is a historical quirk of fortune, which can be explained away quite easily.

the constancy principle There are, it seems to me, all sorts of reasons that we might expect animistic communications to be, in the current era, not forthcoming. A major reason for this could potentially be due to our own contemporary disregard for the good of the environment, and for our taking it as a mere resource for consumption. To give a very human parallel, it may be that nature spirits have decided to cut off all diplomatic ties with human societies. We have declared our position, we have assumed the role of aggressor, and in such a situation, animistic communication channels may presently be closed off to us. And if we (taking the natural environment to be impersonal and beyond moral concern) set ourselves in a non-communicative position with nature, I see good reason why nature herself may take the same position with regard to us. And while we largely remain committed to this stance, I see no reason why it should be nature who reaches out first to end the impasse. Hendricks anticipates this argument and gives his own view on the matter: The way that we (modern civilization) treat the environment threatens nature spirits (if any exist) with extinction. However, the best bet for nature spirits to avoid extinction would be to reveal themselves to us, and this remains true even if they distrust us—even if they distrust modern civilization, the threat of extinction would override their distrust and make it likely that they would reveal themselves (to save themselves). And so a distrust of modern civilization will not suffice to explain animistic hiddenness. (Hendricks 2022, p. 548)

As an aside, it is difficult to understand how to interpret Hendricks’ constancy principle in any way that is not cartoonishly anthropomorphic. He seems to take it that if nature spirits are so like us, they ought to communicate in exactly the same manner, as expressively, and as consistently, as we ourselves communicate with each other. But of course, that is not what we find. To my mind, this view of “nature’s voice” simply conflates human and non-human communication in a way that can only be an Aunt Sally: a caricature of non-human persons as like the imaginary tree who might shout “Oi, stop that!”

Moreover, since we are dealing with beings who are neither omnibenevolent nor omnipotent, we are ultimately in the dark about the true communicative capabilities of these beings. This is a point that I must credit an anonymous reviewer for making. Sure, we may need to assume that the prevalence of animism among hunter gatherers (for example) has something to do with successful communication. But this assumption does not tell us much about how hard it was to achieve this communication in the first place. In addition, given the widespread destruction of natural ecosystems, the beings in question may be considerably weaker than they ever have been in the past.

So, the manner in which communication is advanced may be different enough from human communication to go unnoticed, especially by groups who have not cultivated the necessary relationships. The communications of nature are carried out in her own voice. Indeed, it is reasonable to think that the problem is not on her side, but on ours. Perhaps the natural world has been as communicative and as constant as ever, but it is we humans that fail to hear. Let us now look at that line of argument.

The Receptiveness Principle

One reviewer suggests that it’s possible that we’re not able to connect with nature spirits because we lack the right technique, whereas our ancestors didn’t lack this technique. This is, of course, a possible explanation. But for this to challenge my argument, it needs to be likely, and we have no reason to think it is

But there are various reasons that we may think it likely that the receptiveness of human beings differs from age to age. This may not simply be a matter of lacking a skill, but of adopting an infected theoretical framework. In communities which raise their young to reject the idea that there are any nature spirits to communicate with, a harder time will be had communicating with such entities. The communication itself may be subtle enough to go unnoticed by modern communities, who have discarded their animist commitments.

But there are various reasons that we may think it likely that the receptiveness of human beings differs from age to age. This may not simply be a matter of lacking a skill, but of adopting an infected theoretical framework. In communities which raise their young to reject the idea that there are any nature spirits to communicate with, a harder time will be had communicating with such entities. The communication itself may be subtle enough to go unnoticed by modern communities, who have discarded their animist commitments. For such people, the true source of spiritual communication may be clouded. I am reminded of Plantinga’s laundry list of the sorts of experiences which are supposed to trigger an awareness of a divine being: “The marvelous, impressive beauty of the night sky; the timeless crash and roar of the surf that resonates deep within us; the majestic grandeur of the mountains . . . ; the ancient, brooding presence of the Australian outback; the thunder of a great waterfall” (Plantinga 2000, p. 174).

One factor not discussed by Hendricks is urbanization. I find it surprising that Hendricks says, in yet another footnote, “if nature spirits exist, then we would expect them to reveal themselves to distinct populations roughly equally, since such populations are roughly equally exposed to nature” (Hendricks 2022, p. 546). Is it as simple as that? Are we all “equally exposed” to nature? A growing proportion of humans live in urban centers and, indeed, that proportion is now the majority. This trend has continued ever since the industrial revolution and counters Hendricks’ claim that we are more or less equally exposed to the natural environment as ever. Even where rural populations persist, the landscape is far from a natural ecosphere of interdependent organisms and geographical features

And if the constancy principle fails, then we may need no rebuttal to the receptiveness principle at all, since the relative lack of communication would be explained by a lack of constancy in its rate. To sum up, the apparent silence may be actual silence, or it may be a cacophony of screams, which are simply falling on deaf ears.

Animistic Unpopularity The last of Hendricks’ assumptions that I wish to challenge is animistic unpopularity. Before proceeding, I want to reiterate that this assumption was one that I made in my paper. However, I am nowadays inclined to doubt the universality of this claim. In particular, there is a serious problem that arises with respect to childhood animism, which is a universal feature of human developmental psychology. This fact was first noted by Jean Piaget in his 1927 work The Child’s Conception of the World. Since that time, Piaget’s general claim (i.e., that children have innate animist tendencies in their thinking) has been repeatedly replicated in multiple studies (see, for example, Dennis and Russell (1940), Dennis (1943), Nurcombe (1970), and Madsen (1982)).

Indeed, consider Deborah Kelemen’s famous example of how children account for the existence of “pointy prehistoric rocks”. Kelemen showed that children invoke teleological explanations for the pointiness of the rocks e.g., “so that animals wouldn’t sit on them and smash them” or “so that animals could scratch on them if they got itchy” (Kelemen 2004). Both explanations are animist in Piaget’s sense. In the first case we seem to have a sly and wiley rock, mounting a clever defense against pesky animals. In the second case, we are invited to view the rock as part of the material culture of animals

Whereas I previously argued that there is surprising independent agreement across extremely isolated human communities, I now believe that the independent agreement in animism is virtually universal in human thought. It arises in every one of us from birth, and remains robust until puberty. This is a point that shares overlap with Stewart Guthrie’s account of anthropomorphism as an innate feature of human thought (Guthrie 1995).

A possible relation between sets, more elementary than belonging, is equality. The equality of two sets A and B is universally denoted by the familiar symbol A =B; the fact that A and B are not equal is expressed by writing A**≠**B.

![[Pasted image 20230112211444.png]]

From this, we can see that the states most prefer attacking while the other one plays defensively. (This is due to the first-strike advantage.) Their next best outcome is to maintain the peace through mutual defensive strategies. After that, they prefer declaring war simultaneously. Each state’s worst outcome is to choose defense while the other side acts as the aggressor. We do not need to solve this game—we already have! This is the same game from the previous section, except we have exchanged the labels “quiet” with “defend” and “confess” with “attack.” Thus, we know that both states attack in this situation even though they both prefer the outcome. The first-strike advantages trap the states in a prisoner’s dilemma that leads to war.

states must simultaneously choose whether to develop a new military technology. Constructing weapons is expensive but provides greater security against rival states. We can draw up another matrix for this scenario: ![[Pasted image 20230112211610.png]] Here, the states most prefer building while the other state passes. Following that, they prefer the outcome to the outcome; the states maintain the same relative military strength in both these outcomes, but they do not waste money on weaponry if they both pass. The worst possible outcome is for the other side to build while the original side passes. Again, we already know the solution to this game. Both sides engage in the arms race and build.

Now consider international trade . Many countries place tariffs (a tax) on imported goods to protect domestic industries even though this leads to higher prices overall. We can use the prisoner’s dilemma to explain this phenomenon. A country can levy a tariff against another country’s goods or opt for no taxes. The best outcome for a country is to tax imports while not having the other country tax its exports. This allows the domestic industries to have an advantage at home and be competitive abroad, and the country also earns revenue from the tax itself. Free trade is the next best outcome, as it allows the lowest prices for each country’s consumers. Mutual tariffs is the next best outcome, as they give each country an advantage at home but a disadvantage abroad; ultimately, this leads to higher prices than the free trade outcome. The worst possible outcome is to levy no taxes while the other country enforces a tariff, as domestic industries stand no chance against foreign rivals. ![[Pasted image 20230112212715.png]]

We know this is a prisoner’s dilemma and both sides will tariff each other’s goods: taxing strictly dominates not taxing in this setup.

Ads: another classic example of the prisoner’s dilemma ![[Pasted image 20230112212819.png]] Thus, both sides advertise to preempt the other side’s campaign. The ads ultimately cancel each other out, and the firms end the game in a worse position than had they both not placed ads.

The Public Health Cigarette Smoking Act is a noteworthy application of the advertising game. In 1970, Richard Nixon signed the law, which removed cigarette ads from television. Tobacco companies actually benefited from this law in a perverse way—the law forced them to cooperating with each other. In terms of the game matrix, the law pushed them from the <2, 2> payoff to the mutually preferable <3, 3> payoff. The law simultaneously satisfied politicians, as it made targeting children more difficult for all tobacco companies.

These examples illustrate game theory’s ability to draw parallels between seemingly dissimilar situations. We have seen models of prisoner confession, wars, arms races, taxation, and advertisements. Despite the range of examples, each had an underlying prisoner’s dilemma mechanism. In this manner, game theory allows us to unify a wide-range of life decisions under a single, unified framework.

The quality of any corresponding outcome is diagrammed in the game matrix below: ![[Pasted image 20230112213049.png]] Ordinarily, we would expect trying to be a good thing and failing to be a bad thing. The reverse is true here. Each team most prefers failing while the other team tries; this ensures the team in question will lose, drop into the lower part of the quarterfinals bracket, and thus avoid the world’s second best team. The worst outcome for a team is for that team to try while the other team fails; this ensures that the original team wins the match but then must face a harder path through the single elimination bracket. If both try or both fail, then neither has an inherent strategic advantage. Like the prisoner’s dilemma, we can solve this game with strict dominance alone.

Two thieves plan to rob an electronics store. As they approach the backdoor, the police arrest them for trespassing. The cops suspect that the pair planned to break in but lack the evidence to support such an accusation. They therefore require a confession to charge the suspects with the greater crime.

Having studied game theory in college, the interrogator throws them into the prisoner’s dilemma. He individually sequesters both robbers and tells each of them the following:

We are currently charging you with trespassing, which implies a one month jail sentence. I know you were planning on robbing the store, but right now I cannot prove it—I need your testimony. In exchange for your cooperation, I will dismiss your trespassing charge, and your partner will be charged to the fullest extent of the law: a twelve month jail sentence. I am offering your partner the same deal. If both of you confess, your individual testimony is no longer as valuable, and your jail sentence will be eight months each. If both criminals are self-interested and only care about minimizing their jail time, should they take the interrogator’s deal?

Looking at the game matrix, people see that the outcome leaves both players better off than the outcome. They then wonder why the players cannot coordinate on keeping quiet. But as we just saw, promises to remain silent are unsustainable. Player 1 wants player 2 to keep quiet so when he confesses he walks away free. The same goes for player 2. As a result, the outcome is inherently unstable. Ultimately, the players finish in the inferior (but sustainable) outcome.

One of game theory’s greatest strengths is in analyzing how companies optimally act in a world of imperfect competition. When the number of companies in the world is arbitrarily large, a single company cannot manipulate the market on its own. But if only two rival companies exist, their individual business decisions have a great impact on the others. Let’s see this in action.

Watch this: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O8T9spKHVWQ&list=PLKI1h_nAkaQoDzI4xDIXzx6U2ergFmedo&index=3

We can use strict dominance on games even when they are not as symmetric as the prisoner’s dilemma or deadlock. Consider this one: Unlike before, each player has a distinct set of payoffs. But if we run through the same process as before, we will see that is the only reasonable solution. ![[Pasted image 20230112213501.png]]

Overall, strict dominance is a powerful tool in game theory. But while the concept is simple, applying it can be difficult. Even in matrix form, a game still has a lot of information. To successfully find dominated strategies, we must focus on one player’s payoffs at a time. Above, we used question marks to isolate the relevant payoffs. When searching for strictly dominated strategies on your own, mentally block out the irrelevant payoffs and strategies in a similar manner.

Takeaway Points

1. Game theory is a mathematical method to ensure that assumptions imply conclusions.
2. Payoffs in a game matrix represent a player’s preferences according to the assumptions.
3. Strategy x strictly dominates strategy y if it produces a higher payoff than y regardless of what all other players do.
4. Playing a strictly dominated strategy is irrational— another strategy always yields a better outcome.

Interestingly, the cardinal values of the numbers are irrelevant to the outcome of the prisoner’s dilemma.

To be clear, this preference ordering exclusively over time spent in jail is just one way the players may interpret the situation. Suppose you and a friend were actually arrested and the interrogator offered you a similar deal. The results here do not generally tell you what to do in that situation, unless you and your friend only cared about jail time. Perhaps your friendship is strong, and both of you value it more than avoiding jail time. Since confessing might destroy the friendship, you could prefer to keep quiet if your partner kept quiet, which changes the ranking of your outcomes. Your preferences here are perfectly rational. However, we do not yet have the tools to solve the corresponding game. We will reconsider these alternative sets of preferences in Lesson 1.3.

Indeed, the possibility of alternative preferences highlights game theory’s role in making predictions about the world. In general, we take a three step approach:

1. Make assumptions.
2. Do some math.
3. Draw conclusions.

For the given payoffs in the #prisoners_dilemma, we have seen an example of #strict_dominance. We say that a strategy x strictly dominates strategy y for a player if strategy x provides a greater payoff for that player than strategy y regardless of what the other players do. In this example, confessing strictly dominated keeping quiet for both players. Unsurprisingly, players never optimally select strictly dominated strategies—by definition, a better option always exists regardless of what the other players do.

#axiology #meaning_of_life #moderate_supernaturalism I argued that Life, meaning the sum of the lives of all living things, had a meaning if and only if it had been purposefully brought about by a designer or creator. Michael Hauskeller has recently criticized this argument, responding that this sense of ‘meaning’ is not the one in view when we are discussing ‘the meaning of life’... still works but I a moving to moderate supernatiralism.Despite this distinction, Metz has argued in this volume that moderate supernaturalism is vulnerable to the same objection as in his view defeats extreme supernaturalism, and I close by responding to this argument.

1. The Meaning of ‘The Meaning of Life’ Peter van Inwagen writes: If we have a purpose, then our existence ‘has a meaning’ in the only sense these words can be given. It must be admitted that it is not at all clear what these words do mean. The term ‘meaning’ has various senses, but none of them lends any sense to the question, What is the meaning of our existence? other than this sense: Explain why we exist in terms of the purposes we serve. (If Alice surprises a trusted employee who has broken into her office and is going through her files and asks that person, ‘What is the meaning of this?,’ she is requesting an explanation of a certain state of affairs in terms of the purposes of her employee or those whose agent the employee is.)

Van Inwagen mentions that there are ‘various senses’ of the term ‘meaning’. Robert Nozick distinguishes eight such senses in his Philosophical Explanations. The first is‘meaning as external causal relationship’. Nozick gives three examples in a row: ‘those spots mean measles, smoke means fire, red sky at night means fair weather’ (Nozick, 1981, p. 574). This sense of ‘meaning’ seems to be similar to H P Grice’s ‘non-natural meaning’, and Nozick’s first example is in fact taken from Grice (Grice, 1957, p. 213). Nozick’s third sense is the one that van Inwagen has in mind, ‘Meaning as intention or purpose’. Nozick’s examples include ‘what is the meaning of this outburst?’, ‘did you mean to do that?’, ‘this play is meant to catch the conscience of the king’, and ‘by that gesture he meant to insult us’ (Nozick, 1981, p. 574). In what follows I restrict myself to this third sense of ‘meaning’. so not true as Can Inwagen says that "none of them lends any sense …other than this sense"

On this understanding, the primary use of the word ‘meaning’ in the sense of intention or purpose would be to refer to something that agents had in their minds, and the secondary use would be to refer to something that actions had in virtue of their being performed by agents with purposes in their minds.so the word ‘meaning’ in the present context may be extended from the agents to the acts performed and then to the events or states of affairs produced by those acts. Imagine, then, to vary the example slightly, that Alice discovered the state of affairs of her papers’ being in a mess on the floor of the office, and asked ‘what is the meaning of this?’. An answer to her question would consist in telling her that the state of affairs was the result of a purposeful action, and what the purpose behind that action was: for example, that someone wanted to upset her.

however, would have no meaning in the sense of intention or purpose if it were the result of a purely natural process – if it had been caused by the wind, perhaps.4 It would also have no meaning in this sense if it had been caused aimlessly by a conscious agent’s accidentally knocking the papers onto the floor, or by a drunken or entranced agent’s throwing them on the floor without any ulterior motive.5 A more difficult case would be if a preoccupied agent randomly hurled them over their shoulder without having any intention concerning where or how they should land: in this case the mess would have been produced by a purposeful action, but the production of the mess would not have been a purpose of the action, so the mess would have no meaning in the sense of intention or purpose

Suppose that the papers were left in a mess in order to upset Alice, is it still the case that there is a meaning in the sense of intention or purpose to the continuing existence of the mess if, after getting upset, Alice makes a full recovery, or even if she never gets upset at all? One thing we can do here is to distinguish between the bare existence of the mess, on the one hand, and, on the other, the continued existence of the mess after a certain time: it may be that the continued existence of the mess has no meaning in the sense of intention or purpose even if the fact of its bare existence does have a meaning. It seems to me that if Alice asks on her return ‘what is the meaning of this?’ having forgotten about the incident then the correct response is to say ‘the meaning is that it was put there in order to upset you’. But if Alice asks ‘what is the meaning of this mess’s still being here?’ it is clear that she is asking what the purpose of her staff was in failing to clean it up.

We have to distinguish between, for example, asking at 11pm ‘what is the meaning of this?’, on the one hand, and, on the other, asking (whether at 11pm or not) ‘what is the meaning of this at 11pm?’. These two questions may have quite different correct answers.

t if the existence of the World, by which I meant the sum of contingent states and events, had a meaning, then that meaning had to be a purpose that it gained in virtue of being an intended product of the purposeful action of a necessary being (Hill, 2002). This was because, for one thing, no contingent being would have existed beforehand to have endowed the World from its very first moment with meaning in the sense of intention or purpose,6 and, for another, no contingent being as a matter of fact creates itself or even everything else, or even most other things.

it would not seem to suffice, if Life had no beginning, for each individual life to have its meaning in the sense of intention or purpose given to it by an antecedent living thing in a backwards-infinite sequence, as Life as a whole would still not be the intentional product of a purposeful action. Also, what would be the meaning in this sense in our example of this Life, this endless backwards-infinite sequence of lives, rather than another one? What about individual lives, especially human lives? It is possible that an individual’s life could be endowed with meaning in the sense of intention or purpose by their parents. For example, it may be that the parents brought the child into existence in order to have someone to look after them in their old age. This example shows that a life can have more than one meaning in this sense, since a life can be the product of a joint action undertaken with different intentions. It is possible that the parents had different purposes in bringing the child into the world. Indeed, it is possible that a life could have two meanings or purposes that could not both be fulfilled: perhaps one parent decided to bring the child into the world to provide someone that would go away and earn money to keep them well off, whereas the other parent decided to bring the child into the world to provide someone that would stay at home as a full-time carer for them.

Also, while (given the assumptions above that retrospective and simultaneous donation of meaning are impossible) one cannot give meaning in the sense of intention or purpose to one’s own life as a whole, one can give a large part of it meaning in this sense. Imagine someone tempted to commit suicide deciding at the last moment ‘no, I shall live – and devote the rest of my life to the relief of suffering’. In this case, the person has, in a way, brought about the existence of the rest of their life by refraining from suicide, and brought it about with a specific purpose, the relief of suffering. This suffices, in my view, to give meaning in this sense to the rest of their life. (Perhaps more disturbingly, if my would-be murderer changes their mind and decides to spare my life in order that I may cook and clean for them for the rest of my days, that would also give meaning in this sense to the rest of my life, albeit a meaning that I might want to reject.) It is not necessary that one explicitly consider and reject suicide. If one thinks simply ‘I shall devote the rest of my life to the relief of suffering’ then one has repurposed the rest of one’s life, just as one might repurpose a book as a paperweight or doorstop. Nor need this decision be conscious or explicit.

Drawing an inference from all the above, I wrote in 2002 that someone that believed that Life had no creator or designer was rationally compelled to believe that Life had no meaning in the sense of intention or purpose.

Not only does it not follow from Life’s having a meaning in the sense of intention or purpose that each individual life has a meaning in that sense, but it also does not follow from an individual life’s having a meaning in that sense that every moment or period of that life has a meaning in that sense. Indeed, it is possible that most of the life will have no meaning in that sense if, for example, the purpose for which the being was brought into existence was fulfilled pretty much immediately, and the being did not repurpose the rest of its life.

On the other hand, it does not follow from a life’s lacking meaning overall in the sense of intention or purpose that every significant period of it will lack meaning in that sense. Further, it does not follow from one’s whole life’s having a meaning in that sense that one is able to make it one’s own meaning, that one is able to adopt it as one’s own purpose for one’s life – perhaps my parents intended that I be an Olympic athlete, but this dream is sadly impossible for me. Or perhaps my parents brought me into the world simply to show that they were capable of bringing a child into the world, leaving me nothing left to do to achieve this goal. Nor does it follow that if one is able to adopt it as one’s own purpose that one should – perhaps my parents brought me into the world intending that I pursue a long-standing vendetta, but it would be wrong for me to do so. I should also stress that the argument concerns just states of affairs and events, such as lives. It does not concern individual substances, such as human beings, considered in themselves apart from their existence or lives.

while I insist that if someone denies the existence of a necessary being then they cannot consistently affirm that the World (i. e. the sum of contingent states and events) has a meaning, I do concede that if someone denies the existence of a necessary being and even of any creator or designer, they could nevertheless consistently affirm that Life (i. e. the sum of the lives of living things) had a meaning. This meaning would be a naturalistic explanation of the origin of life in terms of non-living things.

2. Michael Hauskeller’s Critique Michael Hauskeller has criticized this account of mine in some online Reading Notes not only with respect to Nozick’s ‘meaning as intention or purpose’ but also with respect to Nozick’s first sense, ‘meaning as external causal relationship’: The problem is that when we ask about meaning in life we are not really asking for an explanation at all. Instead, in many cases what we are asking for is a justification. If life has a purpose, that purpose does not answer our question about life’s meaning, or if it does, then not because it is life’s purpose, but because it gives us a reason to live and to find our life worth living. The question we want answered is why we should live, or why we should go on living. It is not impossible that what gives us a reason to live and what makes our life worth living is in fact also the purpose of our life. But even if it were not the purpose of our life, whatever it is that gives us a reason to live and makes our life worth living would still continue to do so. (Hauskeller, Daniel_Hill_on_God_Purpose_and_the_Meani)

It should be noted that Hauskeller’s focus here is on the individual’s life, not, as mine was, on Life as a whole.

Hauskeller also deploys three counter-examples to my account, including the famous example of Sisyphus, who was punished for tricking Death by being forced to roll a rock up a hill only for it to roll down when it got to the top, forcing him to go down to the bottom and repeat the process. If, for instance, God had created life because he thought he might enjoy the spectacle of our suffering, then that would be the meaning of our life. Or if my role in God’s plan were to amass the largest collection of bottle caps, then this would be the meaning of my life however trivial collecting bottle caps may appear to me and to everyone else. If God had created us to forever roll rocks up a hill only to see them roll down again shortly before we get to the top, then this would be the meaning of our life, even though such a life, the life of a Sisyphus, is widely seen as a paradigmatic case of a life entirely devoid of meaning. Of course God, being God, would not think of creating life for such reasons. But that is beside the point. (Hauskeller, ibid)

It should be noted that these counter-examples are against the assertion that purpose is sufficient for meaning in the sense relevant to ‘the meaning of life’. They are not against the assertion that purpose is necessary for meaning in that sense, though Hauskeller disputes that too.

3. Response to Michael Hauskeller I still believe that one meaning of ‘meaning’ in ‘what is the meaning of life?’ relates to the notion of purpose, just as it did in the example from van Inwagen of ‘what is the meaning of this?’ asked about the reading of private files or the making of a mess in Alice’s office. In each case, one is looking for the purpose of the phenomenon (life, the existence of the mess or its being made) in terms of the intentions of agents in the purposeful action that had the phenomenon as its intended product. Nevertheless, I accept that Hauskeller is right that when people talk about the meaning of life it is often in fact the case that what they really want is an answer to what seems to me to be a different question, about what would make their lives meaningful.

Here is the connection I see between the two notions. In the case of ‘the meaning of’, we look at the purpose with which the thing in question, be it the World as a whole, or an individual constituent element of it, such as a human being, was brought into being. In fact, when people ask ‘what is the meaning of life?’ they often really mean ‘is there a purpose that I should make my own for the rest of my life?’. I agree with Hauskeller that knowing the purpose for which one was brought into existence, if there was one, does not in and of itself tell one whether one should make that purpose one’s own for the rest of one’s life.

Suppose two humans bring a child into the world to provide genetic material to save an older sibling.13 Suppose further that the sibling sadly dies before the child is born, and that the parents lose interest in the child, who grows up to become a drifter with no set projects or purpose and accomplishing little of value. In this case, even though there was a meaning to the bringing into existence of the drifter it does not seem right to call the drifter’s life ‘meaningful’, absent further information. And that is because neither the purpose with which the drifter was brought into the world nor any other purpose (I also suppose in this example that neither God nor anybody else has a different purpose for the child’s life.) actually governed the drifter’s life. For someone’s life to be meaningful it has to be that the living of at least a significant portion of their life actually fulfils a purpose. In other words, a purpose actually has to direct at least a significant number of their major decisions, priorities, and plans. (Even a perfectly happy existence would be meaningless, it seems to me, if one’s happiness were not the result of any purposeful actions, if one just sat there serenely doing absolutely nothing).14 This issue is also raised by Hauskeller’s counter-examples. On my account, Sisyphus’s existence would have a meaning in the sense of intention or purpose if his parents brought him into the world for a purpose. What is more, if his parents did bring him into the world for a purpose, then even the fact that he ended up being punished as he did in Tartarus would not bring it about that his existence overall lacked a meaning in the sense of intention or purpose. Furthermore, if the gods could have annihilated Sisyphus, but purposefully allowed him to continue to exist, then, on my account, Sisyphus’s continued existence in Tartarus would also have meaning in the sense of intention or purpose, and it would also give meaning in this sense to his activity in Tartarus: the gods purposed or meant to punish him by it. Nevertheless, I acknowledge that the object of his activity, the task that occupies Sisyphus’s postmortem life, is meaningless in and of itself, and that is precisely why that task was chosen for him: it is of no value in and of itself, and, in and of itself, does no good to anyone

Further, the intuition is that even if Sisyphus devoted his life to the rock-rolling, so that he literally lived to roll rocks, his life in Tartarus would still not be meaningful despite his giving himself this purpose,16 at least, if he did not do it for an ulterior valuable purpose, such as punishing himself for his crimes by doing it.

This last point provides material for a response to Hauskeller’s other two examples, featuring a trivial purpose and an evil purpose. What if my parents brought me into existence with the purpose of bringing into existence a bottle-top collector, and that for its own sake, not for any further purpose? Or what if my parents brought me into the world for sadistic reasons, to see me suffer? There would be no moral obligation on me to make those purposes my own, but what if in fact I did dedicate my life to one of those purposes? Would my life be meaningful in those conditions? On my account it would have meaning in the sense of intention or purpose, but I accept that it would not be meaningful. This is because these purposes are not valuable (even if they are mistakenly valued). Hauskeller is correct that a life’s having a meaning in the sense of intention or purpose is not sufficient for it to be meaningful; the intention or purpose needs to be a valuable one.

Is it necessary, however, for a life to be meaningful that it be lived for a meaning or purpose for at least a significant proportion of it? Yes. Suppose that there were someone for whose life neither they nor anyone else, including God, had a purpose. Suppose further that, as it happened, this person aimlessly did things that, by accident, turned out to promote goodness or happiness: for example, in blundering about they accidentally broke a gun, thus preventing a murder from taking place, they accidentally dropped food that saved the life of someone starving etc. Would such a person have a meaningful life? No. They may have had a lucky life, or their life may have been lucky for others, but it was not meaningful if there was no purpose to it or any significant part of it.17 What is more, this would apply, I think, even if they were brought into existence for a definite purpose, as long as that purpose did not control their actions.

I have been adding ‘or any significant part of it’ because it would be pedantic to insist that if someone dedicated their life from childhood to helping others they still did not have a meaningful life on the ground that they did not dedicate their life as a baby to helping others. When we ask whether someone had a meaningful life we do not insist that they must have had a purpose governing every second of it right from its beginning.

What, however, if someone, perhaps like Zorba in Zorba the Greek, had no long-term goals at all, and drifted from situation to situation, but, nevertheless, in each situation fulfilled a short-term intention of doing something worthwhile in that situation?18 It is not a requirement of a life’s being meaningful that it be lived with just one purpose. It seems obvious that a life can be meaningful even if a third of it is spent in a state (sleep) for which one might have no purpose at all.19 It also seems obvious that a life lived half in pursuit of one purpose and then half in pursuit of a different purpose would not on that account be meaningless. So, it seems that a life composed of short-term purposeful episodes interspersed with purposeless episodes and with no overall long-term purpose would not on that account be meaningless. It seems, intuitively, however, that a life would not be meaningful if one had a purpose for it, but one couldn’t implement one’s purpose.

In short, it seems that it is necessary for a life to be meaningful that it be freely lived, at least in significant part, for a valuable (important and morally good) purpose, and that, to a significant degree, the life achieve that purpose. Is this condition also sufficient for a life’s being meaningful? I am of the cautious view that it is, but I do not need this assumption in what follows. I deny that it is necessary that the life be enjoyed, or enjoyable, or satisfying, or varied, or interesting, or spectacular, or out of the ordinary, or allow for ‘self-creative autonomy’, 21 or that it be recognized in any particular way by others. Nevertheless, I do not deny that any of these features might increase the meaningfulness of a life, since it is possible for one life to be more meaningful than another not only in the degree to which it is devoted to a given purpose and the degree to which it achieves that purpose, but also in virtue of the degree of value embodied in the purpose.

Meaningfulness is, thus, I think, like a recipe with some necessary ingredients and some optional ingredients, which, despite being optional, might nevertheless improve the whole.

4. Glorifying God and meaningfulness In 2002 I wrote more generally about a ‘creator or designer’. Now, for the sake of convenience, I write more specifically about God. I assert that God created the World as a whole, Life as a whole, humanity as a whole, and each individual human being in order that the World, Life, humanity, and the individual human being might glorify him. So, my view is that we should glorify God (a) because it is morally obligatory, (b) because our creator and benefactor asks us to, and (c) because it will make our lives more meaningful. Glorifying God is, thus, overdetermined as something we should do.

Now, Metz in his piece in this volume seeks to build on this to argue that on this basis moderate supernaturalism must also be rejected: If a life of eternal significance would bring an infinite amount of meaning in its wake, then consider that no life with a finite amount of meaning can compare and hence the supernaturalist cannot account for the intuition that such a life could be meaningful (Metz, 2021b, p. 117). It seems to me that there is an important difference between saying that life not lived in relation to God must be totally meaningless, on the one hand, and, on the other, saying that life not lived in relation to God can be meaningful, but is always far less meaningful than, and even paltry in comparison with, life with God. Metz argues, however, that there is no real difference, saying that the meaning of a life not lived in relation to God would not be a ‘flat zero’, but it would, compared to infinity, come about as close to zero as is mathematically possible for a non-zero number, and that arguably fails to capture the judgement that [a life not lived in relation to God could be] meaningful on balance absent God and a soul. Just as we would not describe someone’s life as ‘happy’ if it had only a smidge of happiness compared to what is frequently on offer, so we cannot plausibly describe someone’s mortal life as ‘meaningful’ if it has only a small dollop of meaning compared to infinity. (Metz, 2019, p. 31).

I agree with Metz that we normally use words such as ‘happy’ and ‘meaningful’ in a comparative way, such that it would seem wrong to call someone’s life ‘happy’ or ‘meaningful’ if its level of happiness or meaningfulness were very low ‘compared to what is frequently on offer’. But the problem is that there are at least three different possible classes in relation to which we could be making the comparison:

(i) The class of all logically possible lives (or activities (which would be my preference)), including lives spent in, for example, Nozick’s experience machine; (ii) The class of all actual lives (or activities), including those after death; (iii) The class of all actual lives (or activities) in the here and now, before death.3

The most natural comparison class is (iii). It would seem wrong to describe, in Metz’s words, ‘someone’s life as “happy” if it had only a smidge of happiness compared to what is frequently on offer’, i. e. frequently on offer in this life. If I asked someone whether they were happy, they would not normally reply ‘I cannot say that I am, when one thinks about how much happiness is on offer in the next life’, any more than if I asked whether they were healthy they would normally reply ‘I cannot say that I am, when one thinks about how much health is on offer in the next life’, or if I asked whether they were old they would normally reply ‘I cannot say that I am, when one thinks about the longevity on offer in the next life

So, the intuitive judgement to which Metz refers that a life not lived in relation to God could be ‘meaningful on balance’ is similarly based on a comparison with other lives in the here and now, not in the hereafter, and is accommodated by moderate supernaturalism. What is more, it is based on a comparison with the publicly accessible appearance of people’s lives or activities, rather than on the secret state of their souls. Now, it is true that in one of the passages quoted above Metz drew a comparison between certain lives in this world on the one hand, and life in the experience machine on the other. This would direct us to the first comparison class that I suggested, the class of all logically possible lives or activities, (i). But it is extremely difficult to work out an average over the whole class of logically possible lives or activities, and, for any possible life you choose of finite meaningfulness, there exists, it is plausible to think, a logically possible life (even one lived without reference to God) containing a life so meaningful (while still being finitely meaningful) as to make the one in question paltry in comparison, even if the life in question consisted of delirious happiness in millions of years of productive work in eliminating suffering. What is more, it is plausible that this point goes not only for lives measured extensively, but also for activities measured intensively, i. e. for any activity you choose of finite meaningfulness there is a logically possible activity whose intrinsic meaningfulness makes the one in question paltry in comparison. So, Metz’s argument cannot be applied in connection with (i), for it would forbid one from calling any possible finite life or activity ‘meaningful’.

I agree that if we adopt (ii) then Metz can compare lives or activities now with lives or activities in the hereafter, and say that all those in the here and now are meaningless by comparison with lives in the hereafter or the activity of sinlessly praising God in the hereafter, and I agree that here moderate supernaturalism gives us a verdict similar to that given by extreme supernaturalism.33 But I deny that this is a problem. I simply do not have the intuition that a life in the here and now spent in alleviating suffering, say, must be meaningful in comparison with a life of infinite meaningfulness in the hereafter.

What is more, even what I have said is the most meaningful activity possible in the here and now, glorifying God, will look meaningless when we compare it in our current sinful states with how the activity will be in the sinless state in the hereafter. I simply don’t think that anybody routinely uses the word ‘meaningful’ in comparison with lives in the hereafter, any more than they routinely use the word ‘happy’ or the word ‘old’ in comparison with lives in the hereafter.

In sum, I insist that moderate supernaturalism does not fall prey to Metz’s argument, and can accommodate the intuitions about which he worries. And I say this despite the fact that I assert that our lives in the hereafter, if lived in sinless union with God, will be, at every moment, actually infinitely meaningful, and more meaningful than any life, no matter how long, lived in the here and now. I have included the word ‘actually’ to show that my position is stronger than that of T J Mawson, who holds that our lives will only ever be potentially infinitely meaningful, and never become actually infinitely meaningful (Mawson, 2018, p. 202). So, my particular version of moderate supernaturalism is almost as close to extreme supernaturalism as it is possible for moderate supernaturalism to be.34

-Articles

[[God, The Meaning of Life, and Meaningful Lives DANIEL J HILL]]

Philosophy #philosophy

• [[#^Explanation]]
• [[#^Reasoning]] Epistemology
• [[#^Epistemology of groups]] Value Theory
• [[#^Value theory]] Creationism
• [[#^Creationism]] -Sociology
• #sociology

Sleep #sleep #dreaming

• [[#^Sleep]]

Explanation

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1- Explanation

[[1- Reasons why - BradFord Skow]]

*A summary of BradFord Skow's book on explanation

[[1- Reasons why - BradFord Skow]] [[2- From Explanations to Why-questions]] [[3- Reasons Why Are Casues or Grounds]] [[4- Levels of Reaons Why]]

Reasoning

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2- Choice and Chance

A summary of Skyrim's Choice and chance

Chapter 1 and part sof Chapter 2 are covered topics on propositional logic and basic argumentation. We start then witht he following sectino f Chapter 2:

[[2.5 Epistemic Probability]] [[3 The Traditional Problem of Induction]] [[4. The Goodman Paradox and The New Riddle of Induction]]

Epistemology

Epistemology of Groups

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Groups as Agents

A summary of group epistemology

[[1- Introduction to Groups]]

[[1-2 Some Recent Accounts of Group Belief]] [[2- Groups Intention]]

Value Theory

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Value theory: an introduction

[[1- Introduction to value theory]] [[2.Meet the Values -Intrinsic Final & Co]]

Creationism

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Penncock Tower of Babel

[[01- Preface Creationism]] [[1-Creation and Evolution of a Controversy]] [[2- The Evidence for Evolution]]

Shanks - God, the devil and darwin

[[01 - prologue]] [[1- preface]] [[2- chapter 1]]

Sleep

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[[1- Consciousness in sleep- Jennifer M. Windt]]

#sleep #mind #world

[[1- Consciousness in sleep- Jennifer M. Windt]]

[[01 - prologue]] [[1- preface]] [[2- chapter 1]]

(A) #summative_account: When we attribute a belief to a group we are really just saying that all or most of the group members believe this. The truth of these ascriptions, then, rests on whether or not all or most of the members believe whatever we have attributed to the group.

Anthony Quinton in “Social objects” (1976):

To ascribe mental predicates to a group is always an indirect way of ascribing such predicates to its members. With such mental states as belief and attitudes, the ascriptions are of what I have called a summative kind.

We might formalize the #summative_account account in the following way, where “p” stand for a proposition: Group G believes that p if and only if all or most of the members of G believe that p.

**problem But imagine a case where each individual believes that p but no member knows that other members have such a belief.

summative account needs a condition that specifies that members know of the existence of others' beliefs. There must be “common knowledge” among the members: members of the group must be aware that the belief is shared and that this awareness itself is manifest to all.

If we add common knowledge to the summative account, then we have something like the following:

Group G believes that p if and only if all or most of the members of G believe that p, under conditions of common knowledge.

Now there are certain cases that the summative account seems to fit:

#distributive_belief vs #non-distributive_belief

Americans believe that Mojitos are delicious. Such an ascription is purely #distributive_belief: delicious to all or most Americans. The summative account seems to make sense of this sort of ascription quite well.

But there are cases where ascriptions are #non-distributive_belief. Attributions of beliefs to groups such as committees, boards, corporations, and teams are often such cases

Reasons to be skeptical about the adequacy of summative accounts for #non-distributive_belief

1- Seems a bit too strong to require that all or most of the members of a group believe that p. Imagine a hiring committee of ten people that issues the following statement through its committee chair:

We believe candidate X is the most qualified candidate.

Suppose only two members believe that candidate X is the most qualified. The rest of the committee either doesn't believe it or doesn't have a view of the matter at all – perhaps they didn't do any work and just went along with others.

**too strong: *All the committee's actions up to that point and going forward suggest that it believes candidate X to be the best candidate, and yet not all of the members believe this to be so.

**2- no individual believes that p but the attribution of a group belief that p is appropriate

*Consider: a conservative committee is attributed the belief that marriage, as the union of one man and one woman, must be upheld as the national standard. Suppose we found out that no member of this committee actually believes that heterosexual marriage must be upheld as the national standard. We can suppose that some of them believe the opposite but are afraid to lose their position in the party and that some of them believe that heterosexual marriage should be the standard in their own lives but don't believe it should be the national standard. If we found this out, would we claim that the attribution is false?

whether the committee believes this or not depends a great deal (but perhaps not exclusively) on how the committee acts and what it does. Suppose, despite the individual members' personal beliefs, the committee continues to issue statements that express and reaffirm this “core value.” It adds the core value to policy statements, implements education policies around it, and, when in public, members affirm that heterosexual marriage should be upheld as the national standard.

Now one might balk at such an example and insist that the group will behave this way precisely because at least one person believes the proposition attributed to the group, and he or she is perhaps pulling the strings. This may in fact happen, but the point of the example is to show that it is conceptually possible for there to be a case where no individual believes that p but the attribution of a group belief that p is appropriate.

3- summative accounts fail to provide sufficient conditions for group belief

Margaret Gilbert provides the following example to motivate this criticism:

Assume there are two committees – say, the Library Committee and the Food Committee of a residential college – with the same members. without contradiction, (a) most members of the Library Committee personally believe that college members have to consume too much starch, and this is common knowledge within the Library Committee; (b) the same goes, mutatis mutandis, for the members of the Food Committee ; (c) the Food Committee believes that college members have to consume too much starch, whereas the Library Committee has no opinion on the matter.

It seems that one can infer that according to our intuitive conceptions it is not logically sufficient for a group belief that p either that most group members believe that p, or that there be common knowledge within the group that most members believe that p.

Summative accounts don't quite capture what is going on in many cases of group belief ascription. we want to show that belief plays a role within the life of the group, within its deliberations.

Consider a case in which every member of the philosophy department believes that smoking causes cancer. This belief is held in common, and it may even be that each faculty member believes that every other faculty member believes that smoking causes cancer. It would be unusual, however, to ascribe such a belief to the department. The belief plays no role in the life of the department as a group – it does not enter deliberations or planning, and it doesn't influence the actions of the department or the actions of the faculty qua faculty.

The summative account, then, doesn't really provide us with an account of group belief at all. It provides us with an account of shared belief or commonly held belief

(B) #acceptance_account : Acceptance accounts attempt to provide an account of group belief in terms of individual members' acceptance of a proposition.

a group, such as a corporation, believes something if and only if there are members within the organization who have a special position and decision-making role and those folks accept together (or jointly accept) that proposition as the view of the group. These folks know that there is such acceptance in place by all others, and the non-operative members – the poor guys on the assembly line, for instance – tacitly accept that this proposition is the view of the group.

(Belief of Group) G believes that p in the social and normative circumstances C if and only if in C there are operative members A1 … Am in G with respective positions P1 … Pm such that:

1.      (1) the agents A1 to An they are performing their social tasks in their positions P1 to Pn, and due to their exercising the relevant authority system in G, (intentionally) jointly accept p as the view of G, and because of this exercise of the authority system they ought to continue to accept or positionally believe that p;

2.      (2) there is a mutual belief among the operative members to the effect that (1);

3.      (3) because of (1) the full-fledged and adequately informed non-operative members of G tend to tacitly accept – or at least ought to accept – p as members of G;

4.      (4) there is a mutual belief in G to the effect that (3). (1995, p. 295)

This account relies heavily on a distinction between #operative_members and #non-operative_members, acceptance and belief, and the notion of correct social and normative circumstances. Let's consider each of these features in turn.

#operative_members those who are responsible for the group belief having the content that it does. In the case of a corporation, the board of directors... those who work on the assembly line or in the credit department, for instance, are non-operative members. Which members are operative is determined by the rules and regulations of the corporation.

• The relevant social and normative circumstances involve tasks, social roles, and rules – either formal (resembling laws or statutes) or informal (based on informal group agreements).

#Summative_accounts require that all or some of the members believe that p in order for the group to believe that p. As we have seen, this seems too strong. Tuomela attempts to avoid this problem by requiring that operative members merely accept that p. No member actually has to believe that p.

The operative members have what Tuomela calls “positional beliefs.” Positional beliefs are views a position-holder has accepted as a basis for his performance of certain kinds of social tasks and are different from personal beliefs. For instance, the CEO might personally believe that it is wrong for the company to fire 10,000 employees...Positional views (he accepts the proposition of position and acts on it), need not be truth-related.

Tuomela's account has a number of merits.

First, it avoids the pitfalls of the summative account. We have a theory of how the ascription to a group could be not merely an account of commonly held beliefs. Second, it takes into account the fact that in certain groups there are various roles, rules, and responsibilities. Not every group member will play a role in realizing the group's belief.

A number of concerns:

First, consider, again, condition (1): The operative members must intentionally jointly accept p as the view of the group, where joint acceptance simply means that each operative member accepts p as the view of the group and it is common knowledge that each operative member does so.

But what are we to make of the reference to “the view of the group”? Prima facie, what it is to have a view on some issue is to have an opinion or a belief. The “view” of the group, then, seems to be simply the belief of the group

Tuomela's analysis appears to be circular. For Tuomela, there is a group belief that p if and only if operative members accept p as the group belief. But group belief (the view of the group rather than the view of its individual members) is the concept the analysis is supposed to illuminate by providing necessary and sufficient conditions for its application. Tuomela may have provided an account of how group beliefs are formed but he hasn't really told us what a group view or belief is.

*Second: Eliminativism about group belief

On his account, group belief is merely joint acceptance of a proposition. Why talk of group beliefs at all? This is an unhappy result, especially when we are confronted with our practice of epistemically appraising groups. We attribute knowledge and belief to groups in the context of epistemic and moral appraisal. But such appraisal presupposes belief.

Consider the case of lying. When we accuse another person of lying to us, we accuse the person of misrepresenting the facts – facts they themselves believe to be otherwise. Lying presupposes belief.

An example: Tobacco industry and ads -The advertisement claimed that there was no evidence linking cigarette smoking and cancer and that the industry believed that there was no reason to think that tobacco products were harmful to one's health. That meeting, according to lawsuits filed in federal and state courts across the United States, began a decades-long campaign to deceive the public about the health risks of smoking. The tobacco industry lied

It didn't just accept this for the sake of argument. But, on Tuomela's view, it could be possible for no one in the industry or the industry itself to believe that cigarettes caused cancer. But without belief there is no lie.

(c) #commitment_account

There is a sort of normativity involved in group belief (and other group attitudes such as group intention) that needs to be captured and isn't captured by the summative or acceptance views.

Example: Imagine an academic meeting when one person shockingly disagrees (entrance exam is so easy my child can pass it) the Chair of the department are likely to respond in a less than positive way. They might say to Professor Troublemaker, “We agreed that it was the best method! Why are you doing this?

According to Margaret Gilbert (1994), a “shocked rebuke” will be a very normal response to this sort of behavior that moves away from the commitment of the group. she thinks her account of group belief best accounts for this phenomenon. The obligations and entitlements that arise from this commitment justify the shocked rebuke.

The commitment is of a very special kind, According to Gilbert, who calls this a #joint_commitment, paradigmatic social groups are constituted by one or more joint commitments. When they are so constituted they become “plural subjects,” to which actions and intentional states may be ascribed.

In the case of belief, groups become the plural subject of a belief by forming a joint commitment to believe as a body. What is a #joint_commitment and what does it mean to #believe_as_a_body”

Distinctions: #personal_commitment vs #joint_commitment

#personal_commitment : commitments we can make by ourselves and can rescind on our own.

When I decide to write a book I have a reason to pursue certain courses of action rather than others, and if I fail to pursue actions conducive to writing a book I could be charged with irrationality if there are no overriding reasons that would explain my choice of action

#joint_commitment : commitments made by two or more people and cannot be rescinded unilaterally. Just as individual decisions do, joint commitments rationalize action. When one becomes party to a joint commitment it gives one reason to act in a certain way, and if one doesn't one is susceptible to charges of irrationality and, in addition, rebuke from other parties.

Consider again the academic committee and the chock reaction If Professor Troublemaker says something opposite the group's belief, then the others are justified in rebuking her. Professor Troublemaker can't just change the group belief on her own. Their joint commitment brings with it certain obligations and entitlements. The obligations involved in joint commitments are not, according to Gilbert, moral obligations but a function of the fact that the parties have together imposed rationally constraining commitments on each other.

Like personal commitments, joint commitments involve the norms of practical rationality.

how are joint commitments formed?

When each individual expresses their readiness or willingness jointly to commit them all to X as a body (again where X stands for an action or mental state) under conditions of common knowledge. This set of expressions of readiness suffices jointly to commit them all, and the relevant obligations and entitlements then come into play (readiness can be implicit...even nodding head to say yes).

Remember the example: The members of the program assessment committee need not have all said, “I express my willingness to commit to believing as a body that the California Critical Thinking Skills test is a suitable assessment tool.” The fact that no one objected strongly to its use can, according to Gilbert, constitute a readiness to be jointly committed with the others. Once a joint commitment is formed, each individual is committed (though not via a personal commitment) to doing certain things.

#believe_as_a_body :“The members are jointly committed to emulate, by virtue of their combined actions and utterances, a single believer of the proposition in question”

Gilbert makes it clear that members themselves do not have to believe that p in order to achieve this. This allows her to avoid the pitfalls of the summative accounts. Neither do the members have to act as if they personally believe that p.

in the context of a group belief, then, seems to involve at least not saying anything contrary to the group belief while speaking as a member of the group or acting contrary to the group belief while acting in one's capacity as a group member. One who participates in a joint commitment to believe that p thereby accepts an obligation to do what he can to bring it about that any joint endeavors among the members of S be conducted on the assumption that p is true. He is entitled to expect others' support in bringing this about. Further, if one does believe something that is inconsistent with p, one is required at least not to express that belief baldly. The committee members would have a right to rebuke one of their own if, in acting as a member of the committee, that person expressed views that were contrary to the group view without prefacing their remarks by stating, “I personally believe that …”

what is the difference between Tuomela's acceptance account and Gilbert's commitment account?

willingness or readiness to be jointly committed to believing as a body that p looks very close to accepting p as the view of the group, which is basically the acceptance account

For Gilbert, however, the expression of willingness to be jointly committed is a precursor to the setting up of a pool of wills. Once each member expresses his or her willingness, something new comes into being – a joint commitment.

Unlike the acceptance view, Gilbert's joint commitment view does not reduce to an individual commitment or acceptance. Whatever the individuals are committed to in a joint commitment is derivative of the joint commitment. This allows Gilbert to avoid worries about eliminativism that plague Tuomela's account. We cannot eliminate the notion of joint commitment because it cannot be reduced to individual commitments or acceptances --the notion of acceptance does not provide the normativity Gilbert thinks is part and parcel of the social world. It is from the joint commitment that obligations and entitlements flow, and this is unique to her account.

The framework of joint commitment has been used to offer joint commitment account of group intention as well.

A number of concerns again Gilbert and #commitment_account

Consider, again, our tobacco company. Is it necessary that each member of the tobacco company express their willingness to be jointly committed ? This seems too demanding. Gilbert's theory doesn't seem to fit large-scale groups such as corporations, where members often leave but both the organization and its beliefs remain the same. On Gilbert's account, members must intentionally express their willingness to be jointly committed with the others. However, in larger groups or groups that do not engage in a joint discussion about the group's view but hold a vote, one that is private so that members cannot know how the others voted, there is no way to know the intentions of the other participants (Baltzer, 2002).

Gilbert has responded to this criticism by saying that her account provides the core notion of a group belief. Other cases of group belief will be extensions of this core. The beliefs of large-scale groups or corporations, for instance, can be explained by members allowing certain people to form the group's beliefs – a prior joint commitment to allow certain members to form, via further joint commitments, the group's beliefs.

**Why an irreducible normative element?

Gilbert's appeal to an irreducible normative element has also been criticized. Critics (Bratman 2007, 2014; Bittner 2002) have argued that she introduces an apparatus to explain a type of normativity that either isn't there or doesn't need to be explained by a new apparatus. Why appeal to a technical notion such as joint commitment when one could appeal to a general principle of fidelity? A principle of fidelity such as “Do what you say you will do” will ensure that, once each individual expresses their willingness to act as a body, various expectations and obligations will be set up.

Consider again the academic assessment committee. Professor Troublemaker might best be understood as violating Gricean norms of conversation. Professor Troublemaker is going in the wrong direction! If the norms involved in these cases can be understood in terms of conversational norms, then why introduce a new apparatus to do so?

one merit for #commitment_account as Gilbert gives it: seems to acknowledge groups as the bearer of mental states

She argues that the notion of a joint commitment is a primitive one and that members of a group will have an intuitive idea of what it is to be jointly committed to believing as a group, but what we want from a theory of group belief is an account of why group belief is belief-like. As with Tuomela's acceptance account, we seem to have an account of how group beliefs are realized or formed (via joint commitments) but no account of why group beliefs should be counted as beliefs at all.

Gilbert hasn't remained entirely silent on this issue

Let me now say a word more on the analogy between group beliefs and the beliefs of individuals. Both of these “phenomena of belief” may be seen as essentially involving a relation between a proposition and a subject … The proposition figures in the life of the group or in the life of the individual. In picking out belief, then, we may not primarily be concerned to pick out a special state of mind, so much as picking out a certain proposition as one which has an explanatory role to play in an account of the behavior of individuals on the one hand and sets of individuals on the other … If we look at things this way the analogy between group belief and individual belief may seem, after all, to be quite close.

It is this very insight that motivates my own positive proposal, developed in Chapter 5

#Atheism #Modal #Phil_of_religion

#Phil_of_religion

[[1- Introduction to value theory]] [[2.Meet the Values -Intrinsic Final & Co]]

#value_theory #philosophy

Table of Content

Summaries

This shouldn't be

#Atheism #Perception #sociology

3.1 introduction

In Chapter II we saw that inductive logi is used to shape our expectations of that which is as yet unknown on the basi of those facts that are already known; for instance, to shape our expectations o the future on the basis of our knowledge of the past and present. Our proble is the rational justification of the use of a system of scientific inductive logic rather than some other system of inductive logic, for this task.

The Scottish philosopher David Hume first raised this problem, which w shall call the traditional problem of induction, in full force. Hume gave th problem a cutting edge, for he advanced arguments designed to show that n such rational justification of inductive logic is possible, no matter what the details of a system of scientific inductive logic tum out to be.

3.2. HUME' S ARGUMENT

Presumably we could rationally justify such a system if we could show that it is well-suited for the uses to which it is put. One of the most important uses of inductive logic is in setting up our predictions of the future. Inductive logic figures in these predictions by way of epistemic probabilities. If a claim about the future has high epistemic probability, we predict that it will prove true. And, more generally, we expect something more or less strongly as its epistemic probability is higher or lower. The epistemic probability of a statement is just the inductive probability of the argument which embodies all available information in its premises.

Thus, the epistemic probability of a statement depends on two things: (i) the stock of knowledge, and (ii) the inductive logic used to grade the strength of the argument from that stock of knowledge to the conclusion

Can't use deducive argumets here so ...For this sort of daring behavior we will have to rely on inductively strong arguments-and we will have to give up the comfortable assurance that we will be right all the time.

How about most of the time? Let us call the sort of argument used to set up an epistemic probability an e-argument. That is, an e-argurnent is an argument which has, as its premises, some stock of knowledge. We might hope, then, that inductively strong e-arguments will give us true conclusions most of the time. Remember that there are degrees of inductive strength and that, on the basis of our present knowledge, we do not always simply predict or not-predict that an event will occur, but anticipate it with various degrees of confidence.

We might hope further that inductively stronger e-arguments have true conclusions more often than inductively weaker ones. Finally, since we think that it is useful to gather evidence to enlarge our stock of knowledge, we might hope that inductively strong e-arguments give us true conclusions more often when the stock of knowledge embodied in the premises is great than when it is small.

The last consideration really has to do with justifying epistemic probabilities as tools for prediction. The epistemic probability is the inductive probability of an argument embodying all our stock of knowledge in its premises. The requirement that it embody all our knowledge, and not just some part of it, is known as the Total Evidence Condition. If we could show that basing our predictions on more knowledge gives us better success ratios, we would have justified the total evidence condition.

We are now ready to suggest what is required to rationally justify a system of inductive logic:

Rational Justification Suggestion:

A system of inductive logic is rationally justified if and only if it is shown that the arguments to which it assigns high inductive probability yield true conclusions from true premises most of the time, and the e-arguments to which it assigns higher inductive probability yield true conclusions from true premises more often than the arguments to which it assigns lower inductive probability

It is this sense of rational justification, or something quite close to it, that Hume has in mind when he advances his arguments to prove that a rational justification of scientific induction is impossible.

If scientific induction is to be rationally justified in the sense of Suggestion above, we must establish that the arguments to which it assigns high inductive probability yield true conclusions from true premises most of the time. By what sort of reasoning, asks Hume, could we establish such a conclusion? the argument that we must use is to have any force whatsoever, it must be either deductively valid or inductively strong. Hume proceeds to show tha neither sort of argument could do the job.

Suppose we try to rationally justify scientific inductive logic by means of a deductively valid argument. The only premises we are entitled to use in thi argument are those that state things we know. Since we do not know what th future will be like (if we did, we would have no need of an inductive logic o which to base our predictions), the premises can contain knowledge of onl the past and present. But if the argument is deductively valid, then the conclu sion can make no factual claims that are not already made by the premises Thus, the conclusion of the argument can only refer to the past and present not to the future, for the premises made no factual claims about the future. Such a conclusion cannot, however, be adequate to rationally justify scientific induction.

To rationally justify scientific induction we must show that e-arguments t which it assigns high inductive probability yield true conclusions from true premises most of the time. And "most of the time" does not mean most of the time in only the past and present; it means most of the time, past, present, an future. It is conceivable that a certain type of argument might have given us true conclusions from true premises in the past and might cease to do so in the. future. Since our conclusion cannot tell us how successful arguments will be in the future, it cannot establish that the e-arguments to which scientific induction assigns high probability will give us true conclusions from true premises rrwst of the time. Thus, we cannot use a deductively valid argument to rationally justify induction.

Suppose we try to rationally justify scientific induction by means of an. inductively strong argument. We construct our argument, whatever it may be, and present it as an inductively strong argument. 'Why do you think that this is an inductively strong argument?" Hume might ask. "Because it has a high inductive probability," we would reply. "And what system of inductive logic assigns it a high probability?" "Scientific induction, of course." What Hume has pointed out is that if we attempt to rationally justify scientific induction by use of an inductively strong argument, we are in the position of having to assume that scientific induction is reliable in order to prove that scientific induction is reliable; we are reduced to begging the question. Thus, we cannot use an inductively strong argument to rationally justify scientific induction.

A common argument is that scientific induction is justified because it has een quite successful in the past. On reflection, however, we see that this argument is really an attempt to justify induction by means of an inductively strong argument, and thus begs the question.

We can view the traditional problem of induction from a different perspective by discussing it in terms of the principle of the uniformity of nature. Although we do not have the details of a system of scientific induction in hand, we do know that it must accord well with common sense and scientific practice, and we are reasonably familiar with both. A few examples will illustrate a general principle which appears to underlie both scientific and common-sense judgments of inductive strength.

Thus, it seems that underlying our judgments of inductive strength in both common sense and science is the pre' ! supposition that nature is uniform or, as it is sometimes put, that like causes produce like effects throughout all regions of space and time. Thus, we can say that a system of scientific induction will base its judgments of inductivly strength on the presupposition that nature is uniform (and in particular that the future will resemble the past).

This rough understanding is suffi- · cient for the purposes at hand. But we should bear in mind that the task of giving an exact definition of the principle, a definition of the sort that would be presupposed by a system of scientific inductive logic, is as difficult as the construction of such a system itself. One of the problems is that nature is simply not uniform in all respects, the future does not resemble the past in all respects. Bertrand Russell once speculated that the chicken on slaughter-da imight reason that whenever the humans came it had been fed, so when the humans would come today it would also be fed. The chicken thought that the future would resemble the past, but it was dead wrong.

The future may resemble the past, but it does not do so in all respects. And we do not know beforehand what those respects are nor to what degree the future resembles the past. Our ignorance of what these respects are is a deep, !reason behind the total evidence condition. Looking at more and more evidence helps us reject spurious patterns which we might otherwise project into the future. Trying to say exactly what about nature we believe is uniform:thus turns out to be a surprisingly delicate task.

But suppose that a subtle and sophisticated version of the principle of the #uniformity_of_nature can be formulated which adequately explains the judgments of inductive strength rendered by scientific inductive logic. Then if nature is indeed uniform in the required sense (past, present, and future), e-arguments judged strong by scientific induction will indeed give us true conclusions most of the time. Therefore, the problem of rationally justifying scientific induction could be reduced to the problem of establishing that nature is uniform.

But by what reasoning could we establish such a conclusion? If an flargument is to have any force whatsoever it must be either deductively valid or inductively strong. Seems like we are stuck.

3.2 THE INDUCTIVE JUSTIFICATION OF INDUCTION

The answer to the question "Why should we believe that scientific induction is a reliable guide for our expectations?" that immediately occurs to everyone is "Because it has worked well so far." Hume's objection to this answer was that it begs the question, that it assumes scientific induction is reliable in order to prove that scientific induction is reliable. The proponents of the inductive justification of induction, however, claim that the answer only appears to beg the question, because of a mistaken conception of scientific induction. They claim that if we properly distinguish levels of scientific induction, rather than lumping all arguments that scientific induction judges to be strong in one category, we will see that the inductive justification of induction does not beg the question. Just what then are these levels of scientific induction? And what is the relevance to the inductive justification of induction? We can distinguisg different levels of argument, in terms of the things they talk about. Arguments level 1 will talk about individual things or events; for instance:

**Many jub-jub birds have been observed, and they have all been purple.

The next jub-jub bird to be observed will be purple.**

Level 1 of scientific inductive logic would consist of rules for assigninii inductive probabilities to arguments of level 1. Presumably the rules of level 1 of scientific induction would assign high inductive probability to the preceeding argument. Arguments on level 2 will talk about arguments on level 1; for instance:

**Some deductively valid arguments on level 1 have true premises. All deductively valid arguments on level 1 which have true premises have true conclusions.

Some deductively valid arguments on level 1 have true conclusions**

This is a deductively valid argument on level 2 which talks about deductively valid arguments on level 1. The following is also an argument on level 2 whichft talks about arguments on level 1: **Some arguments on level 1 which the rules of level 1 of scientific inductive logic say are inductively strong have true premises. The denial of a true statement is a false statement.

Some arguments on level 1 which the rules of level 1 of scientific inductive logic say are inductively strong have premises whose denial is false .

This is a deductively valid argument on level 2 that talks about arguments on flevel 1, which the rules of level 1 of scientific inductive logic classify as inductively strong.

There are, of course, arguments on level 2 that are not deductively valid, band there is a corresponding second level of scientific inductive logic which lconsists of rules that assign degrees of inductive strength to these arguments;There are arguments on level 3 that talk about arguments on level 2, arguments on level 4 that talk about arguments on level 3, and so on. For each level of argument, scientific inductive logic has a corresponding level of rules. This characterization of the levels of argument, and the corresponding. levels of scientific induction, is summarized in Table III. I.

![[Pasted image 20220826220036.png]]

As the table shows, scientific inductive logic is seen not as a simple, homogeneous system but rather as a complex structure composed of an infinite number of strata of distinct sets of rules. The sets of rules on different levels are not, however, totally unrelated. The rules on each level presuppose, in some sense, that nature is uniform and that the future will resemble the past. If this were not the case, we would have no reason for calling the whole system of levels a system of scientific inductive logic.

We are now in a position to see how the system of levels of scientific induction is to be employed in the inductive justification of induction. In answer to the question, 'Why should we place our faith in the rules of level 1 of scientific inductive logic?" the proponent of the inductive justification of induction will advance an argument on level 2:

**Among arguments used to make predictions in the past, e-arguments on level 1 (which according to level 1 of scientific inductive logic are inductively strong) have given true conclusions most of the time.

With regard to the next prediction, an e-argument judged inductively strong by the rules of scientific inductive logic will yield a true conclusion.

The proponent will maintain that the premise of this argument is true, and if we ask why he thinks that this is an inductively strong argument, he will reply ,that the rules of level 2 of scientific inductive logic assign it a high inductive probability. If we now ask why we should put our faith in these rules, he will advance a similar argument on level 3, justify that argument by appeal to the rules of scientific inductive logic on level 3, justify those rules by an argument on level 4, and so on.

The inductive justification of induction is summarized in Table III.2. The arrows in the table show the order of justification. Thus, the rules of level 1 are justified by an argument on level 2, which is justified by the rules on level 2r which are justified by an argument on level 3, and so on.

Let us now see how it is that the proponent of the inductive justification of induction can plead not guilty to Hume's charge of begging the question; that is, of presupposing exactly what one is trying to prove. In justifying the rules of level 1, the proponent of the inductive justification of induction does not prersuppose that these rules will work the next time; in fact, he advances an argment (on level 2) to show that they will work next time.

Now it is true that the use of this argument presupposes that the rules of level 2 will work next time, But there is another argument waiting on level 3 to show that the rules of leveJ.f 2 will work. The use of that argument does not presuppose what it is trying to establish; it presupposes that the rules on level 3 will work. Thus, none of th I arguments used in the inductive justification of induction presuppose what they are trying to prove, and the inductive justification of induction does not technically beg the question.

![[Pasted image 20220826220355.png]]

Perhaps how these levels work can be made clearer by looking at a simple example. Suppose our only observations of the world have been of 100 jub-jub birds and they have all been purple. After observing 99 jub-jub birds, we advanced argument jj-99:

**We have seen 99 jub-jub birds and they were all purple.

The next jub-jub bird we see will be purple.

This argument was given high inductive probability by rules of level 1 of scientific inductive logic. We knew its premises to be true, and we took its conclusion as a prediction. The 100th jub-jub bird can thus be correctly described as purple-or as the color that makes the conclusion of argument jj-99 true-or as the color that results in a successful prediction by the rules of level 1 of scientific inductive logic. Let us also suppose that similar arguments had been advanced in the past: jj-98, jj-97, etc. Each of these arguments was an e-argument to which the rules of level 1 assigned high inductive probability. Thus, the observations of jub-jub birds 98 and 99, etc., are also observations of successful outcomes to predictions based on assignments of probabilities to e-arguments by rules of level 1. This gives rise to an argument on level 2:

e-arguments on level 1, which are assigned high inductive probability by rules of level 1, have had their conclusions predicted 98 times and all those predictions were successful.

Predicting the conclusion of the next e-argument on level 1 which is assigned high inductive probability will also lead to success.

This argument is assigned high inductive probability by rules of level 2. If the next jub-jub bird to be observed is purple, it makes this level 2 argument successful in addition to making the appropriate level 1 argument successful. A string of such successes gives rise to a similar argument on level 3 and so on, up the ladder, as indicated in Table IIl.2.

If someone were to object that what is wanted is a justification of scientific induction as a whole and that this has not been given, the proponent of the inductive justification of induction would reply that for every level of rules of scientific inductive logic he has a justification (on a higher level), and that certainly if every level of rules is justified, then the whole system is justified. He would maintain that it makes no sense to ask for a justification for the system over and above a justification for each of its parts. This position, it must be admitted, has a good deal of plausibility; a final evaluation of its merits, however, must await some further developments.

The position "held by the proponent of the inductive justification of induction contrasts with the position held by Hume in that it sets different requirements for the rational justification of a system of inductive logic. The following is implicit in the inductive justification of induction:

Rational Justification Suggestion II:

A system of inductive logic is rationally justified if, for every level (k) of rules of that system, there is an e-argument on the next highest level (k + 1) which:

**i. Is judged inductively strong by its own system's rules (these will be rules oflevel k + 1).

ii. Has as its conclusion the statement that the system's rules on the original level (k) will work well next time.

It is important to see that whether a system of induction meets these conditions depends not only on the system of induction itself but also on the facts, on the way that the world is. We can imagine a situation in which scientific induction would indeed not meet these conditions. Imagine a world which has been so chaotic that scientific induction on level 1 has not worked well; that is, suppose that the e-arguments on level 1, which according to the rules of level 1 of scientific inductive logic are inductively strong and which have been used to make predictions in the past, have given us false conclusions from true premises most of the time. In such a situation the inductive justification of induction could not be carried through. For although the argument on level 2 used to justify the rules of level 1 of scientific induction, that is:

**Rules of level 1 of scientific inductive logic have worked well in the past.

They will work well next time.

would still be judged inductively strong by the rules of level 2 of scientific inductive logic, its premise would not be true. Indeed, in the situation under consideration the following argument on level 2 would have a premise that was known to be true and would also be judged inductively strong by the rules of level 2 of scientific inductive logic:

Rules of level 1 of scientific inductive logic have not worked well in the past.

They will not work well next time.

Thus, we can conceive of situations in which level 2 of scientific induction, instead of justifying level 1 of scientific induction, would tell us that level 1 is unreliable.

We are not, in fact, in such a situation. Level 1 of scientific induction has served us quite well, and it is upon this fact that the inductive justification o f induction capitalizes. This is indeed an important fact, but it remains to be seen whether it is sufficient to rationally justify a system of scientific inductive logic.

The proponent of the inductive justification of scientific inductive logic has done us a service in distinguishing the various levels of induction. He has also made an important contribution by pointing out that there are possible situations in which the higher levels of scientific induction do not always support the lower levels and that we are, in fact, not in such a situation. But as a justification of the system of scientific induction his reasoning is not totally satisfactory. While he has not technically begged the question, he has come very close to it. Although he has an argument to justify every level of scientific induction, and although none of his arguments presuppose exactly what they are trying to prove, the justification of each level presupposes the correctness of the level above it. Lower levels are justified by higher levels, but always higher levels of scientific induction. No matter how far we go in the justifying process, we are always within the system of scientific induction.

Now, isn't this loading the dice? Couldn't someone with a completely different system of inductive logic execute the same maneuver? Couldn't he justify each level of his logic by appeal to higher levels of his logic? Indeed he could. Given the same factual situation in which the inductive justification of scientific induction is carried out, an entirely different system of inductive logic could also meet the conditions laid down under Rational Justification, Suggestion II. Let us take a closer look at such a contrasting system of inductive logic

We said that scientific induction assumes that, in some sense, nature is uniform and the future will be like the past. Some such assumption is to be found backing the rules on each level of scientific inductive logic. The assumptions are not exactly the same on each level; they must be different because we can imagine a situation in which scientific induction on level 2 would tell us that scientific induction on level 1 will not work well. Thus, different principles of the uniformity of nature are presupposed on different levels of scientific inductive logic. But although they are not exactly the same, they are similar; they are all principles of the uniformity of nature. Thus, each level of scientific inductive logic presupposes that, in some sense, nature is uniform and the future will be like the past. A system of inductive logic that would be diametrically opposed to scientific inductive logic would be one which presupposed on all levels that the future will not be like the past. We shall call this system a system of counterinductive logic.

Let us see how counterinductive logic would work on level 1. Scientific inductive logic, which assumes that the future will be like the past, would assign the following argument a high inductive probability:

Many jub-jub birds have been observed and they have all been purple.

The next jub-jub bird to be observed will be purple.

Counterinductive logic, which assumes that the future will not be like the past, would assign it a low inductive probability and would instead assign a high inductive probability to the following argument:

Many jub-jub birds have been observed and they have all been purple.

The next jub-jub bird to be observed will not be purple.

In general, counterinductive logic assigns low inductive probabilities to arguments that are assigned high inductive probabilities by scientific inductive logic, and high inductive probabilities to arguments that are assigned low inductive probabilities by scientific inductive logic.

Now suppose that a counterinductivist decided to give an inductive justification of counterinductive logic. The scientific inductivist would justify his rules of level 1 by the following level 2 argument:

Rules of level 1 of scientific induction have worked well in the past.

They will work well next time.

The counterinductivist, on the other hand, would justify his rules of level 1 by another kind of level 2 argument:

Rules of level 1 of counterinductive logic have not worked well in the past.

They will work well next time

By the counterinductivisf s rules, this is an inductively strong argument, for on level 2 he also assumes that the future will be unlike the past. Thus, the counterinductivist is not at all bothered by the fact that his level 1 rules have been failures; indeed he takes this as evidence that they will be successful in the future. Granted his argument appears absurd to us, for we are all at heart scientific inductivists. But if the scientific inductivist is allowed to use his own rules on level 2 to justify his rules on level 1, how can we deny the same right to the counterinductivist? If asked to justify his rules on level 2, the counterinductivist will advance a similar argument on level 3, and so on. If an inductive justification of scientific inductive logic can be car ried through, then a parallel inductive justification of counterinductive l gic can be carried through. Table III.3 summarizes how this would be done.

![[Pasted image 20220826221230.png]]

The counterinductivist is, of course, a fictitious character. No one goes through life consistently adhering to the canons of counterinductive logic, although some of us do occasionally slip into counterinductive reasoning. The poor poker player who thinks that his luck is due to change because he has been losing so heavily is a prime example. But aside from a description of gamblers' rationalizations, counterinductive logic has little practical significance.

It does, however, have great theoretical significance. For what we have shown is that if scientific inductive logic meets the conditions laid down under Rational Justification, Suggestion II, so does counterinductive logic. This is sufficient to show that Suggestion II is inadequate as a definition for rational justification. A rational justification of a system of inductive logic must provide reasons for using that system rather than any other. Thus, if two inconsistent systems, scientific induction and counterinduction, can meet the conditions of Suggestion II, then Suggestion II cannot be an adequate definition of rational justification. The arguments examined in this section do show that scientific inductive logic meets the conditions of Suggestion II, but these arguments do not rationally justify scientific induction.

Let us say that any system of inductive logic that meets the conditions of Suggestion II is inductively coherent with the facts. It may be true that for a system of inductive logic to be rationally justified it must be inductively coherent with the facts; that is, that inductive coherence with the facts may be a necessary condition for rational justification. But the example of the counterinductivist shows conclusively that inductive coherence with the facts is not by itself sufficient to rationally justify a system of inductive logic. Consequently, the inductive justification of scientific inductive logic fails. We may summarize our discussion of the inductive justification of induction as follows:

1. The proponent of the inductive justification of scientific induction points out that scientific inductive logic is inductively coherent with the facts.
2. He claims that this is sufficient to rationally justify scientific inductive logic.
3. But it is not sufficient since counterinductive logic is also inductively coherent with the facts.
4. Nevertheless it is important and informative since we can imagine circumstances in which scientific inductive logic would not be inductively coherent with the facts.
5. The proponent of the inductive justification of scientific induction has also succeeded in calling to our attention the fact that there are various levels of induction.

3.4 the pragmatic justification of induction

Remember that the traditional problem of induction can be formulated as a dilemma: If the reasoning we use to rationally justify scientific inductive logic is to have any strength at all it must be either deductively valid or inductively strong. But if we try to justify scientific inductive logic by means of a deductively valid argument with premises that are known to be true, our conclusion will be too weak. And if we try to use an inductively strong argument, we are reduced to begging the question. Whereas the proponent of the inductive justification of scientific induction attempts to go over the second horn of the dilemma, the proponent of the pragmatic justification of induction attacks the first horn; he attempts to justify scientific inductive logic by means of a deductively valid argument.

The pragmatic justification of induction was proposed by Herbert Feigl and elaborated by Hans Reichenbach, both founders of the logical empiricist movement. Reichenbach's pragmatic justification of induction is quite complicated, for it depends on what he believes are the details (at least the basic details) of scientific inductive logic. Thus, no one can fully understand Reichenbach's arguments until he has studied Reichenbach's definition of probability and the method he prescribes for discovering probabilities. We shall return to these questions later; at this point we will discuss a simplified version of the pragmatic justification of induction. This version is correct as far as it goes. Only bear in mind that there is more to be learned.

Reichenbach wishes to justify scientific inductive logic by a deductively valid argument. Yet he agrees with Hume that no deductive valid argument with premises that are known to be true can give us the conclusion that scientific induction will give us true conclusions most of the time. He agrees with Hurne that the conditions of Rational Justification, Suggestion I, cannot be met. Since he fully intends to rationally justify scientific inductive logic, the only path open to him is to argue that the conditions of Rational Justification, Suggestion I, need not be met in order to justify a system of inductive logic. He proceeds to advance his own suggestion as to what is required for rational justification and to attempt to justify scientific inductive logic in these terms.

If Hume's arguments are correct, there is no way of showing that scientific induction will give us true conclusions from true premises most of the time. But since Hume's arguments apply equally well to any system of inductive logic there is no way of showing that any competing system of inductive logic will give us true conclusions from true premises most of the time either. Thus, scientific inductive logic has the same status as all other systems of inductive logic in this matter. No other system of inductive logic can be demonstrated to be superior to scientific inductive logic in the sense of showing that it gives true conclusions from true premises more often than scientific inductive logic.

Reichenbach claims that although it is impossible to show that any inductive method will be successful, it can be shown that scientific induction will be successful, if any method of induction will be successful. In other words, it is possible that no inductive logic will guide us to e-arguments that give us true conclusions most of the time, but if any method will then scientific inductive logic will also. If this can be shown, then it would seem fair to say that scientific induction has been rationally justified. After all, we must make some sort of judgments, conscious or unconscious, as to the inductive strength of arguments if we are to live at all. We must base our decisions on our expectations of the future, and we base our expectations of the future on our knowledge of. the past and present. We are all gamblers, with the stakes being the success or failure of our plans of action. Life is an exploration of the unknown, and every human action presumes a wager with nature.

But if our decisions are a gamble and if no method is guaranteed to be successful, then it would seem rational to bet on that method which will be successful, if any method will. Suppose that you were forcibly taken into a locked room and told that whether or not you will be allowed to live depends on whether you win or lose a wager. The object of the wager is a box with red, blue, yellow, and orange lights on it. You know nothing about the construction of the box but are told that either all of the lights, some of them, or none of them will come on. You are to bet on one of the colors. If the colored light you choose comes on, you live; if not, you die. But before you make your choice you are also told that neither the blue, nor the yellow, nor the orange light can come on without the red light also coming on. If this is the only information you have, then you will surely bet on red. For although you have no guarantee that your bet on red will be successful (after all, all the lights might remain dark) you know that if any bet will be successful, a bet on red will be successful. Reichenbach claims that scientific inductive logic is in the same privileged position vis-a-vis other systems of inductive logic as is the red light vis-a-vis the other lights. This leads us to a new proposal as to what is required to rationally justify a system of inductive logic:

Rational Justification Suggestion III: A system of inductive logic is rationally justified if we can show that the e-arguments that it judges inductively strong will give us true conclusions most of the time, if e-arguments judged inductively strong by any method will. Reichenbach attempts to show that scientific inductive logic meets the conditions of Rational Justification, Suggestion III, by a deductively valid argument. The argument goes roughly like this: Either nature is uniform or it is not. If nature is uniform, scientific induction will be successful.

If nature is not uniform, then no method will be successful.

If any method of induction will be successful, then scientific induction will be successful.

There is no question that this argument is deductively valid, and the first and second premises are surely known to be true. But how do we know that the third premise is true? Couldn't there be some strange inductive method that would be successful even if nature were not uniform? How do we know that for any method to be successful nature must be uniform?

Reichenbach has a response ready for this challenge. Suppose that in a completely chaotic universe, some method, call it method X, were successful. Then there is still at least one outstanding uniformity in nature: the uniformity of method X's success. And scientific induction would discover that uniformity. That is, if method X is successful on the whole, if it gives us true predictions most of the time, then sooner or later the statement "Method X has been reliable in the past" will be true, and the following argument would be judged inductively strong by scientific inductive logic:

Method X has been reliable in the past.

Method X will be reliable in the future.

Thus, if method X is successful, scientific induction will also be successful in that it will discover method X's reliability, and, so to speak, license method X as a subsidiary method of prediction. This completes the proof that scientific induction will be successful if any method will. The job may appear to be done, but in fact there is a great deal more to be said. In order to analyze just what has been proved and what has not, we shall use the idea of levels of inductive logic, which was developed in the last section. When we talk about a method, we are really talking about a system of inductive logic, while glossing over the fact that a system of inductive logic is composed of distinct levels of rules. Let us now pay attention to this fact. Since a system of inductive logic is composed of distinct levels of rules, in order to justify that system we would have to justify each level of its rules. Thus, to justify scientific inductive logic we would have to justify level 1 rules of scientific inductive logic, level 2 rules of scientific inductive logic, level 3 rules of scientific inductive logic, and so on. Let us now pay attention to this fact. Since a system of inductive logic is composed of distinct levels of rules, in order to justify that system we would have to justify each level of its rules. Thus, to justify scientific inductive logic we would have to justify level 1 rules of scientific inductive logic, level 2 rules of scientific inductive logic, level 3 rules of scientific inductive logic, and so on.

1: Level 1 rules of scientific induction will be successful if level 1 rules of any system of inductive logic will be successful. 2: Level 2 rules of scientific induction will be successful if level 2 rules of any system of inductive logic will be successful. . . . k: Level k rules of scientific induction will be successful if level k rules of any system of inductive logic will be successful.

But if we look closely at the pragmatic justification of induction, we see that it does not establish this but rather something quite different. Suppose that system X of inductive logic is successful on level 1. That is, the arguments that it judges to be inductively strong give us true conclusions from true premises most of the time. Then sooner or later an argument on level 2 which is judged inductively strong by scientific inductive logic, that is:

Rules of level 1 of system X have been reliable in the past.

Rules of level 1 of system X will be reliable in the future.

will come to have a premise that is known to be true. If the rules on level 1 of. system X give true predictions most of the time, then sooner or later it will be true that they have given us true predictions most of the time in the past. And once we have this premise, scientific induction on level 2 leads us to the conclusion that they will be reliable in the future.

Thus, what has been shown is that if any system of inductive logic has successful rules on level 1, then scientific induction provides a justifying argument for these rules on level 2. Indeed, we can generalize this principle and say that if a system of inductive logic has successful rules on a given level, then scientific induction provides a justifying argument on the next highest level. More precisely, the pragmatist has demonstrated the following: If system X of inductive logic has rules on level k which pick out, as inductively strong arguments of level k, those which give true predictions most of the time, then there is an argument on level k + 1, which is judged inductively strong by the rules of level k + 1 of scientific inductive logic, which has as its conclusion the statement that the rules of system X on level k are reliable, and which has a premise that will sooner or later be known to be true.

Now this is quite different from showing that if any method works on any level then scientific induction will also work on that level, or even from showing that if any method works on level 1 then scientific induction will work on level 1. Instead what has been shown is that if any other method is generally successful on level 1 then scientific induction will have at least one notable success on level 2: it will eventually predict the continued success of that other method on level 1.

Although this is an interesting and important conclusion, it is not sufficient for the task at hand. Suppose we wish to choose a set of rules for level 1. In order to be in a position analogous to the wager about the box with the colored lights, we would have to know that scientific induction would be successful on level 1 if any method were successful on level 1. But we do not know this. For all we know, scientific induction might fail on level 1 and another method might be quite successful. If this were the case, scientific induction on level 2 would eventually tell us so, but this is quite a different matter.

In summary, the attempt at a pragmatic justification of induction has made us realize that a deductively valid justification of scientific induction would be acceptable if it could establish that: if any system of inductive logic has successful rules on a given level, then scientific inductive logic will have successful rules on that level. But the arguments advanced in the pragmatic justification fail to establish this conclusion. Instead, they show that if any system of inductive logic has successful rules on a given level, then scientific inductive logic will license a justifying argument for those rules on the next higher level.

Both the attempt at a pragmatic justification and the attempt at an inductive justification have failed to provide an absolute justification of scientific induction. Nevertheless, both of them have brought forth useful facts. For instance, the pragmatic justification of induction shows one clear advantage of scientific induction over counterinduction. The counterinductivist cannot prove that if any method is successful on level 1, counterinduction on level 2 will eventually predict its continued success. In fact some care is required to even give a logically consistent formulation of counterinduction as a general policy. It seems, then, that there is still room for constructive thought on the problem, and that we can learn much from previous attempts to solve it.

3.5 Summary

We have developed the traditional problem of induction and discussed several answers to it. We found that each position we discussed had a different set of standards for rational justification of a system of inductive logic.

I. Position: The original presentation of the traditional problem of induction. Standard for Rational Justification: A system of inductive logic is rationally justified if and only if it is shown that the e-arguments that it judges inductively strong yield true conclusions most of the time.

II. Position: The inductive justification of induction. Standard for Rational justification: A system of inductive logic is rationally justified if for every level (k) of rules of that system there is an e-argument on the next highest level (k + 1) which: i. Is judged inductively strong by its own system's rules. ii. Has as its conclusion the statement that the system's rules on the original level (k) will work well next time.

III. Position: The pragmatic justification of induction. Standard for Rational justification: A system of inductive logic is rationally justified if it is shown that the e-arguments that it judges inductively strong yield true conclusions most of the time, if e-arguments judged inductively strong by any method will.

The attempt at an inductive justification of scientific inductive logic taught us to recognize different levels of arguments and corresponding levels of inductive rules. It also showed that scientific inductive logic meets the standards for Rational Justification, Suggestion II. However, we saw that Suggestion II is really not a sense of rational justification at all, for both scientific inductive logic and counterinductive logic can meet its conditions. Thus, it cannot justify the choice of one over the other.

The attempt at a pragmatic justification of scientific inductive logic showed· us that Suggestion III, properly interpreted in terms of levels of induction, would be an acceptable sense of rational justification, although it would be a weaker sense than that proposed in Suggestion I. However, the pragmatic justification fails to demonstrate that scientific induction meets the conditions of Suggestion III. It seems that we cannot make more progress in justifying inductive logic until we make some progress in saying exactly what scientific inductive logic is. The puzzles to be discussed in the next chapter show that we have to be careful in specifying the nature of scientific inductive logic.

We have seen that the concept of inductive probability applies to arguments. The inductive probability of an argument is the probability that its conclusion is true given that its premises are true. Thus, the inductive probability of an argument is a measure of the strength of the evidence that the premises provide for the conclusion. It is correct to speak of the inductive probability of an argument, but incorrect to speak of the inductive probability of statements.

inductive probability papplies ot premises or conlucion but we can't apply the same thing to statments.

There is, however, some sense of probability in which it is intuitively acceptable to speak of the probability of a premise or conclusion. When we said that it is improbable that there is a 2000-year-old man in Cleveland, we were relying on some such intuitive sense of probability. There must then be a type of probability, other than inductive probability, that applies to statements rather than arguments.

Let us call this type of probability epistemic probability because the Greek stem episteme means knowledge, and the epistemic probability of a statement depends on just what our stock of relevant knowledge is. Thus, the epistemic probability of a statement can vary from person to person and from time to time, since different people have different stocks of knowledge at the same time and the same person has different stocks of knowledge at different times. For me, the epistemic probability that there is a 2000-year-old man now living in Cleveland is quite low, since I have certain background knowledge about the current normal life span of human beings. I feel safe in using this statement as an example of a statement whose epistemic probability is low because I feel safe in assuming that your stock of background knowledge is similar in the relevant respects and that for you its epistemic probability is also low.

It is easy to imagine a situation in which the background knowledge of two people would differ... For example, the epistemic probability that Pegasus will show in the third race may be different for a fan in the grandstand than for Pegasus' jockey, owing to the difference in their knowledge of the relevant factors involved.

It is also easy to see how the epistemic probability of a given statement cartchange over time for a particular person. The fund of knowledge that each oftus possesses is constantly in a state of flux.

It is important to see how upon the addition of new knowledge to previous body of knowledge the epistemic probability of a given statement could either increase or decrease . Suppose we are interested in the epistemic! probability of the statement that Mr. X is an Armenian and the only relevant) information we have is that Mr. X is an Oriental rug dealer in Allentown, Pa. ithat 90 percent of the Oriental rug dealers in the United States are Armenian,!1and that Allentown, Pa., is in the United States. On the basis of this stock ofirelevant knowledge, the epistemic probability of the statement is equal to the'!inductive probability of the following argument: ![[Pasted image 20220825125925.png]] The inductive probability of this argument is quite high. If we are now givenlthe new information that although 90 percent of the Oriental rug dealers in0the United States are Armenian, only 2 percent of the Oriental rug dealers in!Allentown, Pa. , are Armenian, while 98 percent are Syrian, the epistemic! probability that Mr. X is Armenian decreases drastically, for it is now equal to:the inductive probability of the following argument:

![[Pasted image 20220825125958.png]] The inductive probability of this argument is quite low. ***Note that the decrease in the #epistemic_probability of the statement "Mr. X is an Armenian" results not from a change in the inductive probability of a given argument but from the fact that, upon the addition of new information, a different argument with more premises becomes relevant in assessing its epistemic probability.

Epistemic probabilities are important to us. They are the probabilities upon which we base our decisions. From a stock of knowledge we will arrive at the associated epistemic probability of a statement by the application of inductive logic. Exactly how inductive logic gets us epistemic probabilities from a stock of knowledge depends on how we characterize a stock of knowledge. Just what knowledge is; how we get it; what it is like once we have it; these are deep questions. At this stage, we will work within a simplified model of knowingthe Certainty Model.

The Certainty Model:

Suppose that our knowledge originates in observation; that observation makes particular sentences (observation reports) certain and that the probability of other sentences is attributable to the certainty of these. In such a situation we can identify our stock of knowledge with a list of sentences, those observation reports that have been rendered certain by observational experience.

It is then natural to evaluate the probability of a state- j ment by looking at an argument with all our stock of knowledge as premise and the statement in question as the conclusion. The inductive strength of that argument will determine the probability of the statement in question. In the certainty model, the relation between epistemic probability and inductive ' probability is quite simple:

Definition 5: The epistemic probability of a statement is the inductive probability of that argument which has the statement in question as its conclusion and whose premises consist of all of the observation reports which comprise our stock of knowledge.

The Certainty Model lives up to its name by assigning epistemic probability , of one to each observation report in our stock of knowledge. The certainty of observation reports may be something of an idealization- But it is a useful idealization, and we will adopt it for the present. Later in the course we will discuss some other models of observation.

11.6. PROBABILITY AND THE #PROBLEMS_OF_INDUCTIVE_LOGIC

Deductive logic, at least in its basic branches, is well-developed. The definitions of its basic concepts are precise, its rules are rigorously formulated, and the interrelations between the two are well understood. Such is not the case, however, with inductive logic. This is not to say that inductive logicians are wallowing in a sea of total ignorance; many things are known about inductive logic, but many problems still remain to be solved. We shall try to get an idea of just what the problems are, as well as what progress has been made toward their solution.

The logician, is not satisfied with an intuitive feeling for the meaning of key words and phrases. He wishes to analyze the concepts involved and arrive at precise, unambiguous definitions. Thus, one of the problems of inductive logic which remains outstanding is, what exactly is inductive probability?

This problem is intimately connected with two other problems: How is the inductive probability of an argument measured? And, what are the rules for constructing inductively strong arguments? Obviously we cannot develop an exact measure of inductive probability if we do not know precisely what it is.

And before we can devise rules for constructing inductively strong arguments, we must have ways of telling which arguments measure up to the required degree of inductive strength. Thus, the solution to the problem of providing a precise definition of inductive probability determines what solutions are available for the problems of determining the inductive probabilities of arguments and constructing systematic rules for generating inductively strong arguments.

Let us call a precise definition of inductive probability, together with the associated method of determining the inductive probability of arguments and rules for constructing inductively strong arguments, an inductive logic. Thus, different definitions of inductive probability give rise to different inductive logics.

We want a system that gives the result that most of the cases that we would intuitively classify as inductively strong arguments do indeed have a high inductive probability. We want a system that accords with scientific practice and common sense, but that is more precise, more clearly formulated, and more rigorous than they are; a system that codifies, explains, and refines our intuitive judgments. We shall call such a system of inductive logic a scientific inductive logic. The problem that we have been discussing can now be reformulated as the problem of constructing a scientific inductive logic.

The second major problem of inductive logic, and the one that has been more Widely discussed in the history of philosophy, is the problem of rationally justifying the use of a system of scientific inductive logic rather than some other system of inductive logic. After all, there are many different possible inductive logics...there are possible inductive logics which are diametrically opposed to scientific inductive logic, which are in total disagreement with scientific practice and common sense. Why ··.· should we not employ one of these systems rather than scientific induction?

Any adequate answer to this question must take into account the uses to which we put inductive logic (or, at present, the vague intuitions we use in place of a precise system of inductive logic). One of the most important uses of inductive logic is to frame our expectations of the future on the basis of our knowledge of the past and present. We must use our knowledge of the past and present as a guide to our expectations of the future; it is the only guide we have. But it is impossible to have a deductively valid argument whose premises contain factual information solely about the past and present and whose conclusion makes factual claims about the future. For the conclusion of a deductively valid argument makes no factual claim that is not already made by the premises. Thus, the gap separating the past and present from the future cannot be bridged in this way by deductively valid arguments, and if the arguments we use to bridge that gap are to have any strength whatsoever they must be inductively strong.

Let us look a little more closely, then, at the way in which inductive logic would be used to frame our expectations of the future. Suppose our plans depend critically on whether it will rain tomorrow. Then the reasonable thing to do, before we decide what course of action to take, is to ascertain the epistemic probability of the statement. "It will rain tomorrow." This we do by putting all the relevant information we now have into the premises of an argument whose conclusion is "It will rain tomorrow" and ascertaining the inductive probability of that argument. If the probability is high, we will have a strong expectation of rain and will make our plans on that basis. If the probability is near zero, we will be reasonably sure that it will not rain and act accordingly.

Now although it is doubtful tl1at anyone carries out the formal process outlined above when he plans for the future, it is hard to deny that, if we were to make our reasoning explicit, it would fall into this pattern. Thus, the making of rational decisions is dependent, via the concept of epistemic probability, on our inductive logic. The second main problem of inductive logic, then, leads us to the following question: How can we rationally justify the use of scientific inductive logic, rather than some other inductive logic, as an instrument for shaping our expectations of the future?

The two main problems of inductive logic are:

1. The construction of a system of scientific inductive logic.
2. The rational justification of the use of that system rather than some other system of inductive logic.

It would seem that the first problem must be solved before the second, since 11 we can hardly justify the use of a system of inductive logic before we know what it is. Nevertheless, I shall discuss the second problem first. It makes sense to do this because we can see why the second problem is such a problem without having to know all the details of scientific inductive logic. Furthermore, philosophers historically came to appreciate the difficulty of the second problem much earlier than they realized the full force of the first problem. This second problem, the #traditional_problem_of_induction, is discussed in the next chapter.

So what is the problem? Surely a theory that accounts for what is going on in these examples, a theory of the kind of scientific achievement they are instances of, deserves to be called a #theory_of_explanation

Sue, and a student Marcel; Marcel knows that electrons fly off metals, but doesn’t know the correct theoretical account of this effect. Sue imparts to Marcel the knowledge I sketched above, in a way that makes it true that (1) Sue explained the photoelectric effect to Marcel. In (1) the object of the verb “explained” is “the photoelectric effect”—so isn’t it the photoelectric effect that is being explained?

What epistemologists aim to understand is the propositional attitude knowledge—what we ascribe when we say things like “Smith knows that Barack Obama was born in Hawaii,” or “Bloggs knows where the President lives.” But not all uses of “know” attribute a propositional attitude.

One might say, for example, that Fred knows Ed, meaning not that Fred knows that P is true for some sentence P that is about Ed, but that Fred has met Ed, that they are friends, or something like that. Now suppose I present a certified epistemologist with the sentence

(2) John knows Bill’s telephone number.

and ask her for the conditions under which (2) is true. On the surface (2) looks to have the same form as “Fred knows Ed,” so the epistemologist might say that answering my question falls outside her domain of expertise. But this would be a mistake. Despite their surface similarity, “knows" in (2) is not being used in the same way as in “Fred knows Ed.” For it is evident that (2) is equivalent to

(3) John knows what Bill’s telephone number is, and in (3) “knows” is being used in its propositional-attitude sense.

Linguists say that when a noun phrase like “Bill’s telephone number” is used so that it has the same meaning as an indirect question (here, “what Bill’s telephone number is”), it is being used as a #concealed_question.

, it is evident that “the photoelectric effect” is a concealed question in (1). Make the question explicit and we get

(4) Sue explained to Marcel why the photoelectric effect happens (why electrons fly off metals when light is shone on them).

Insofar as philosophers of science are after what is going on when sentences like (1) are true, they are really after what is going on when sentences like (4) are true. And (4) contains “why” as well as “explains".

Reasons favoring this view:

• One fact that favors my thesis is that explanation and why-questions come apart, and the interests of philosophers of science seem to go with why-questions, not with explanation. One way in which explanation and why-questions come apart is that not all cases of explaining are cases of explaining why. The verb “explain” can take any indirect wh-question as a complement, not just a why-question. Someone can explain where the bread is, who is coming to the party, or how to ride a bike. But figuring out what was going on when John explained who was coming to the party does not seem like a job for the philosophy of science e. (The same goes for explaining where, or explaining what; the case of explaining how is more controversial.)
• And there are two separable parts to explaining the answer to a wh-question. The first part is to— somehow—convey to one’s audience what that answer is. One can do this first part in many ways; and it can be done without explaining anything. One can, for example, merely tell one’s audience what the answer is. The second part involves doing the first part in a way that counts as explaining. Maybe to explain an answer one must go through it slowly and clearly. - if you want to know what it takes for someone to have explained the answer to a why-question, you will have to do more than consult your best theory of explanation. You will have to combine what that theory tells you about what it takes to explain the answer to a question with what your best theory of answers to why-questions says it takes to be the answer to a why-question.

Failure to appreciate these points has fostered confusion.

Think about Carl Hempel’s DN model of explanation.The DN model says, roughly, that X explains Y iff X is a sound argument with Y as its conclusion that essentially contains a law-stating premise (a premise that expresses a law of nature). This model fits many examples in which someone explains why something is the case, but isn’t even remotely plausible as a theory of what is happening when a policeman explains where the train station is, or when a biologist explains what the theory of evolution says. (Hempel emphasized that his was a theory of scientific explanation, so maybe the policeman example isn’t fair, but in the second example we have a scientist explaining a scientific theory.)

one need not produce any valid arguments or cite any laws of nature to explain.

If I were defending the DN model I would reply: so what? Hempel may have called the DN model a model of “explanation,” but he shouldn’t have. It is best evaluated as a theory of answers to why-questions. Understood as a theory of that kind, it says nothing about answers to what-questions, or about what it takes to explain an answer to a what-question.

There are distinctions to be made—and that I will make—between partial answers and complete answers to why-questions, and between “merely” partial answers and partial answers that are also part of the complete answer to a why-question.

Hempel claimed that not all why-questions are “explanation-seeking” why questions; some are instead “epistemic.” He took explanation-seeking why-questions to be the target of his theory. Hempel’s distinction has been quite influential. Nearly forty years later Salmon reports no challenges to it, and does not challenge it himself, in his book-length history Four Decades of Scientific Explanation.

Does Hempel’s distinction even exist? “Not all why-questions call for explanations,” he wrote as he introduced it, “some of them solicit reasons in support of an assertion”. This is hard to understand. Hempel seemed to think that offering evidence (“reasons in support”), and explaining, were exclusive activities. But I can do both simultaneously: I can explain what evidence there is for, say, the proposition that the earth is heating up. And how can it be that not all why questions “call for explanations”? A natural interpretation makes this the claim that explaining why Q is not always the response called for when someone asks why Q. But since “John explained why Q” is roughly equivalent to “John explained the answer to the question why Q,” on this interpretation Hempel comes out saying that sometimes, when we ask a why-question, we are not looking for an answer to the question we are asking. That can’t be right.

Instead of asserting that every why-interrogative has an epistemic reading, Hempel may have meant to assert that why-interrogatives with certain forms are epistemic (and can only be read as epistemic), those forms being closely related to the form “Why should it be believed that P?”

Why call them the explanation-seeking why-questions? Why think that there is a theoretically interesting difference between them and the epistemic why questions?

There are evidently at least two forms that answers to why-questions can take. They can use “because,” or they can use “in order to.” “In order to” answers are connected with ends or purposes: teleology. Because that is a fraught topic I am going to set aside why-questions that demand “in order to” answers for later. I will discuss the relationship between “because” answers and “in order to” answers in section 6.1. Elizabeth Anscombe said that an #intentional_action is one “to which a certain sense of the word ‘Why?’ is given application; the sense is of course that in which the answer, if positive, gives a reason for acting” . For now I want to set aside why-questions that are requests for such reasons. This excludes some why-questions that demand “in order to” answers. It also excludes some why-questions that take “because” answers, for “because” can also be used to give someone’s reason for acting—the most natural way to hear “I am walking to the store because it sells milk” is as equivalent to “My reason for walking to the store is that it sells milk.”

Why questions of the type the author is focused on is thought to be more fundamental, in the sense that a theory of answers to them can be used to construct theories of the other kinds of answers.

2.2 More red hearring

For another example of how over-use of “explanation” can obscure what is really going on, consider Peter Lipton’s essay “Understanding without Explanation.” He begins the essay like this:

Explaining why and understanding why are closely connected. Indeed, it is tempting to identify understanding with having an explanation. Explanations are answers to why questions, and understanding, it seems, is simply having those answers.

#Lipton, however, wants to resist this identification: he holds that understanding is to be identified, not with having an explanation, but with “some of the cognitive benefits of an explanation”. He goes on to argue that “there can be understanding without explanation”.

so “there can be understanding without explanation” means that someone can understand why Q without “having” an answer to the question why Q. Lipton’s thesis becomes the claim that one can understand why Q without knowing why Q. That sounds pretty wild.

Lipton’s examples of “understanding without explanation” suggest a second interpretation of his thesis. Lipton understands why some planets engage in retrograde motion, without anyone having explained to him why they do so, and without him being able to explain to anyone else why they do so. Since the example is meant to support Lipton’s thesis, his use of it suggests that his thesis is that someone can understand why Q without anyone having explained to her why Q, and without her being able to explain why Q. But who would deny this?

The second interpretation, while it may fit the example, does not fit at all with the way Lipton introduced his thesis, as the claim that one may have understanding without “having” an explanation. Just because no one explained to him why planets engage in retrograde motion, just because he cannot explain it to anyone else, does not mean he does not “have” an explanation.

A theory of “because” answers to why-questions (that do not give an agent’s reason for acting) fills in the right-hand side of the schema

(1) Q because R if and only If... .

I said at the end of section. I would give a theory like this, but that was false advertising. I will give a theory, not of answers of the form “Q because R,” but of answers of the form “that R is a reason why Q,” or “one reason why Q is that R.”

It wasn’t really false advertising, though, since “reasons why” answers and corresponding “because” answers are often equivalent, in some sense. In response to the question “Why is it raining?” one might answer

(2) It is raining because a cold front has moved in

Alternatively, one might answer

(3) The reason why it is raining is that a cold front has moved in.

There may certainly be stylistic reasons for preferring (2) to (3). But the answers one gives by uttering (2) and by uttering (3) seem to be the same, the two sentences just being different means for giving it. I’m not saying that (2) and (3) are synonymous sentences; if sentence-meanings are fine-grained enough, the fact that (2) and (3) do not have the same surface syntactic structure is good evidence that they are not synonymous.

When there is only one relevant reason why Q, and it is that R, then (and only then) is it the case that Q because R.

The reasons for the above is: Better evidence might come from contemplating a scenario with more than one relevant reason why something happened.

One this reason fot the above formulation is:

• It is the best precisification of the vague idea that “explanations cite causes.”
• Another is that the notion of a complete answer, and of a partial answer, to a why-question, can be analyzed in terms of the notion of a reason why.
• Less important to me, but also worth noting, is that speaking of the reasons why such-and-such happened is a more flexible way of talking. It lets us make more fine-grained distinctions. “Reason,” as used in “reason why Q,” is a count noun, so we can speak of a reason why Q, or the reason why Q; we can discuss some or all or just three of the reasons why Q. This flexibility is absent if we are limited to saying things of the form “Q because R.

Declarative sentences express propositions, interrogative sentences “express” (have as their semantic value, for the purposes of compositional semantics) sets of propositions. For example, the #semantic_value of “Who came to the party?” at a world W is the set of propositions P satisfying (i) there is a person X such that P is the proposition that X came to the party, and (ii) P is true at W.

Jason Stanley suggests that the natural extension of his theory to why questions treats interrogative “why,” like “who,” as an existential quantifier. But instead of ranging over people, like “who” does, “why,” Stanley suggests, ranges over reasons. “Why” contributes the “there is a reason” to this specification of the semantic value of an interrogative “why Q”:

• The semantic value of “why Q” at W is the set of propositions X satisfying (i) there is a reason R such that X is the proposition that R is a reason why Q, and (ii) X is true.

3.2 A Simplish Theory

. It is a theory of reasons why Q when the fact that Q “corresponds to the occurrence of a concrete event.” The fact that a certain firecracker exploded corresponds to a concrete event, namely the explosion. The fact that 2 + 2 = 4 does not. I will not try to give a precise definition of “concrete event,” or much of a theory of which concrete events there are, or a rule for determining which event corresponds to a given fact. It is never going to matter which event corresponds to a given fact; and only some very general claims about which events exist, and are concrete, will be important.

I’m a liberal about what events there are. Events don’t have to be changes, like the explosion of a firecracker, or the swerving of an atom. If a room is completely empty for an hour, there is an #event that occurs in that room during that hour. I am not, however, an extreme liberal about events. I don’t think that every fact corresponds to an event; I also doubt that every fact “about some particular things” corresponds to an event.

Concrete events include, among other kinds, physical, biological, sociological, geo-political, and mental events. So my theory makes claims, not just about the reasons why a given rock accelerated when dropped but also about the reasons why the economy collapsed in  , and even the reasons why a given non-physical mind (if there are any such things) thought “I think.” What my use of “concrete event” excludes are “events” concerning, for example, only mathematical objects, like— to use my earlier example—the event consisting in the numbers  and  being related such that 2 + 2 = 4. I imagine most philosophers would deny that there is any such event; even if they’re wrong, my theory says nothing about the reasons why 2 + 2 = 4.

A first draft of my theory consists of instances of the following schema, in which “Q” is replaced by a sentence expressing a fact that corresponds to the occurrence of a concrete event:

(T0) That R is a reason why Q if and only if the fact that R is a cause of the fact that Q.

Many philosophers have believed that “explanations of events cite, or describe, causes.” They do not all construe this vague claim in the same way. Theory (T0) is, I think, the best way to make it precise. I will say something about the ways in which it is superior to another well-known precisification.

For example, (T0) has a lot going for it. The car skidded off the road. One reason why is that the tire blew out. The fact that the tire blew out is also a cause. Again, the main reason why the dinosaurs went extinct is that a comet (or asteroid) hit the earth. The comet impact also caused the extinction.

Nevertheless, I have to acknowledge that (T0) is false, in fact quite obviously false. For example, one reason why this ball is either red or green is that it is red. But the fact that the ball is red is not a cause of the fact that it is either red or green. If this reason why is not a cause, what kind of thing is it? It is a ground. The fact that the ball is red grounds the fact that the ball is either red or green. In general, “grounding explanations” of events are counterexamples to (T0).

Is there really such an event as the ball’s being either red or green? I’m liberal enough to say yes, but this question can, as Judith Thomson likes to say, be bypassed. Even if there is no such event as this ball’s being either red or green, there are other examples of reasons why that are grounds that are uncontroversially reasons why some event occurred. The temperature of the air in this room just increased from X degrees Fahrenheit to X+1 degrees Fahrenheit. Why? Because the average kinetic energy of the molecules that constitute the air in this room just increased from X Joules to X+1 Joules. The increase in kinetic energy did not cause the increase in temperature; it is the ground for the increase in temperature.

So there exist reasons that are grounds as well as reasons that are causes. But that is where I draw the line. Here is a preliminary statement of my theory:

(T1p) That R is a reason why Q if and only if the fact that R is a cause of the fact that Q, or a (partial) ground of the fact that Q.

Carl Hempel entertained, but then rejected, the idea that “all explanations of events are causal.

cosndier this: why the period of some given pendulum is two seconds: this pendulum has a period of two seconds because it is one hundred centimeters long. But “surely” the length does not cause the period.

Now “this pendulum has a period of two seconds because it is one hundred centimeters long” is true only if we interpret the talk of the pendulum’s period as talk of a disposition. Phrased in terms of reasons why the claim then becomes: one reason why the pendulum is disposed to take two seconds to complete a full swing is that it is one hundred centimeters long. Hempel is right, the length does not cause the dispositional period. Once again we have a counterexample to (T), but once again it is compatible with (Tp). While the length may not cause the period, it does ground it.

David Lewis entertained, and then accepted, the idea that “all explanations of events are causal. Reasons that are grounds refute Lewis’s theory.

Walt’s immunity to smallpox cannot be caused? Go to the press and announce that philosophers have discovered that no one at the Centers for Disease Control has ever immunized anyone. We’ll be laughed out of town. certainly whenever someone immunizes someone against smallpox, he causes that person to be immune to smallpox. Walt’s immunity can be caused; so it is an event.

What we should do is abandon (T0) and move to (T1p). Walt’s immunity is grounded in his possession of antibodies. That’s why his having the antibodies is a reason why he is immune.

Theory (T1p) says that these are both correct answers. Still, it might seem bad to give both of them at once. “The temperature increased for several reasons, among them: the fact that someone turned up the thermostat, and the fact that the mean molecular kinetic energy went up.” I don’t find this particularly odd, but I imagine someone might. Even if it is odd, and my judgment that it is fine is off, I don’t see a threat to (T1p). Maybe the right thing to say is that in some contexts we use “why” to ask for reasons why that are causes, and in other contexts we use “why” to ask for reasons why that are grounds, and we never use “why” to ask for both kinds of reasons simultaneously.

It’s not crazy to think that we make this restriction, since causation and grounding are different things. All of this is compatible with the claim that, speaking unrestrictedly, causes and grounds, and only causes or grounds, are reasons why.

Theory (T1p) raises the question: what is grounding? I do not have a lot to say about this question. I have given examples: the temperature of a gas is grounded in the average kinetic energy of its constituent molecules, a disjunction is grounded in its true disjunct(s). If these sound right then you already sort of know what grounding is. Another way into the notion of grounding is to trace its connections to other notions. For example, fact G grounds fact H iff G is a metaphysically more basic fact in virtue of which H obtains. That is not much help since “H obtains in virtue of the fact that G obtains” is close to synonymous with “H is grounded in G.” But few of those who theorize about grounding give reductive definitions of grounding. They do not try to say in more basic terms what grounding is.

in theory (T1p) causation is treated as a relation between facts rather than events. I prefer “the fact that Suzy threw a rock at the window was a cause of the fact that the window broke” to “the throw was a cause of the breaking”—at least when it comes to choosing a way of talking to build a theory of causation around. But I’m not going to defend here the thesis that a #theory_of_causation should treat causation as fundamentally a relation between facts.

but “causation is not a relation” in the first place (for the author). That is, I like the idea that the proper way to regiment causal talk, for philosophical purposes, is to use, not a predicate “X is a cause of Y” that is true of two things only if both are facts (or both are events), but to use a sentential connective that takes two sentences and makes a sentence. If we use “C” for this connective, then “Suzy’s throw caused the breaking” and “The fact that Suzy threw a rock is a cause of the fact that the window broke” get replaced by “C(Suzy threw a rock; the window broke).”There seem to be expressions in English the function of which is close to that of “C”: for example, “Suzy threw a rock, and as a result, the window broke.” In fact, I think that “The fact that ... is a cause of the fact that ... ” is another such expression. (I am saying that these expressions have similar functions, not that they are synonymous; they have syntactic, and therefore presumably semantic, complexity missing from “C(... ; ...).”) One objection to treating causation as a relation between facts, rather than events, is that it makes causation too “unworldly”: surely it is things in space and time that cause other things in space and time, but it is events that happen in space and time; facts are “out there” with the other abstract objects, the numbers for example, and numbers are the wrong kind of thing to do any causing. The thesis that causal talk is best regimented using a sentential connective, while in many respects very similar to the thesis that causation relates facts, avoids this objection. If asked to identify the thing doing the causing, and the thing being affected, in the sentence “Suzy threw a rock, and as a result, the window broke,” the best answer is that it is Suzy and the rock (both worldly things in time and space) that do the causing, and the window that is affected.

Anyway, (Tp) can be reformulated to treat causation as a relation between events. It will say: that R is a reason why Q iff the fact that R is a ground of the fact that Q, or the event corresponding to the fact that R is a cause of the event corresponding to the fact that Q.

(Tp), reformulated in this way, is most plausible if we assume a plenitudinous theory of events, one that, roughly speaking, denies that distinct facts ever correspond to the same event. If one held, instead, that, for example, the fact that Jones walked home, and the fact that Jones walked home slowly, correspond to the same event, an event that is both a walking home by Jones and a slow walking home by Jones, then there is trouble; I’ll be stuck saying that, if one reason why Jones arrived late is that he walked home slowly, then also one reason why Jones arrived late is that he walked home, even if it is true that had he walked home without walking home slowly, he wouldn’t have been late. (As is well-known, Davidson had a “non-plenitudinous” theory of events; see for example his paper “Causal Relations.” I guess I should mention that Davidson also objected to speaking of “the” event that corresponds to a given fact. I’m not going to dwell on this, though, since in my official theory it never matters whether a fact corresponds to a single unique event.)

I will sometimes speak of causation as a relation between events, and also sometimes speak as if it is events that are reasons why

While I am discussing what I am taking causes to be, I should say something about what I am taking reasons to be. It is probably clear that I am taking reasons to be facts (even if, as I just said, I will sometimes write as if reasons are events). It is worth emphasizing, however, that officially, grammatically, the “X” in “X is a reason why Q” and in “one reason why Q is X” holds the place, not for a term denoting a fact, but for a thatclause that expresses a fact. The officially-true thing to say is: “that the car had a flat tire is a reason why it skidded off the road,” not “the fact that the car had a flat tire is a reason why it skidded off the road.” This is not super-important, and I will sometimes put terms for facts in for “X” when I think it aids comprehension.The difference is still worth noting, though, because it makes my theory immune to a certain kind of objection. If you could put a term for a fact in for “X,” then you could answer the question why the car skidded off the road by saying “Fred’s favorite fact is a reason why the car skidded off the road,” or (worse) “Xvvb is a reason why the car skidded off the road,” where “Xvvb” is a name one has introduced for the fact that the car had a flat tire. But these do not seem to be answers. (Saying that Fred’s favorite fact is a reason seems instead to be a way to inform someone of how to find out the answer—ask Fred what his favorite fact is.)

One choice point in the theory of causation is between facts and events; another is between treating the causal relation as a two-place relation and treating it as a four-place relation. “Contrastivists” about causation think it is a four-place relation: a relation between a cause, a contrasting fact/event (or set of contrasts), an effect, and another contrasting fact/event (or set of contrasts).- Although I will speak exclusively in binary terms, this is just for convenience; I do not take a stand in this book on whether contrastivism is correct. (If contrastivism about causation turns out to be correct, then I will advocate contrastivism about reasons why as well. On that combination of views, the number of relata of the causal relation will continue to line up with the number of relata of the reasons-why relation.

Theory (Tp), again, applies only when the sentence that goes in for “Q” describes the occurrence of a concrete event. But lots of why-questions are not about events: why is Galileo’s law of free-fall true? Why does every complex polynomial have a root? Presumably there is some entirely general theory of reasons why, from which it will follow that, for example, certain facts about gravity are among the reasons why Galileo’s law is true.

Oh, how I wish I had a completely general theory of reasons why to show you. But I do not. I have part of a general theory: I certainly think that, in general, if G grounds H, then G is a reason why H obtains. Why not go all the way? Why not take (Tp) and remove the restriction on what goes in for “Q,” to get the theory that the schema is true no matter what goes in for “Q” and “R”:

(T2) That R is a reason why Q if and only if the fact that R is a cause of the fact that Q, or a ground of the fact that Q.

When the sentence that goes in for “Q” is true but does not describe the occurrence of a concrete event, then the fact that Q is not the right sort of thing to have causes. (T2) says that, in this case, the reasons why Q are all and only the grounds of Q. I do not endorse (T2) because I doubt that, in this kind of case, the only way a fact can get to be a reason why Q is by grounding the fact that Q. One general reason for doubting this comes from looking at answers to why-questions about mathematical facts. There are mathematical facts F with the property that the question why F obtains has an answer. But I doubt that every answer to a question like this cites facts that ground that mathematical fact. (I will give another reason for rejecting (T2) in chapter 4, and float a completely general theory of reasons why, one that does better than (T2) but which I still hesitate to fully endorse, in Appendix B, in chapter 4.)

Theory (Tp) connects reasons why to causes and grounds using the biconditional “if and only if.” It is common to state theories this way, but read literally the theory is too weak. I don’t just hold that, as it turned out, reasons why Q are always either causes or grounds of the fact that Q. I hold that this is necessary. More precisely, every instance of the following is true, when “Q” is replaced by a sentence that purports to describe the occurence of an event, and “R” is replaced by any sentence:.

• Necessarily, if it is a fact that Q and it is a fact that R, then that R is a reason why Q if and only if the fact that R is a cause of, or a ground of, the fact that Q.

But there is another way in which (T1p) is too weak, that adding “necessarily” does not address. Suppose that it is a fact that Q, and a fact that R, and that the fact that R is a cause of the fact that Q. According to (T1p), that R is a reason why Q. This is a book about why-questions. It is thus natural in this context to ask, about this kind of example, why it is that one reason why Q is that R. Although my restriction to why-questions about events entitles me to remain silent about this question, it goes against the spirit of (T1p) to say nothing. It is, instead, in the spirit of (T1p) to answer that it is not just a coincidence that (i) the fact that R is a cause of the fact that Q, and also that (ii) the fact that R is a reason why Q. It is in the spirit of (T1p) to assert further that the fact that R is a reason why Q because the fact that R is a cause of the fact that Q. Put into reasons-why talk the assertion is that the reason why one reason why Q is that R is that the fact that R is a cause of the fact that Q.

This iterated reasons-why claim is in the spirit of my theory but does not follow from (Tp). I want it to follow. So a closer-to-official statement of my theory is this:

(T1) Necessarily, if it is a fact that R and it is a fact that Q, then: if the fact that R is a cause of the fact that Q, then one reason why Q is that R, and the reason why one reason why Q is that R is that the fact that R is a cause of the fact that Q. Similarly if the fact that R is a ground of the fact that Q. And every reason why Q is (i) either a cause of the fact that Q or a ground the fact that Q, and (ii) satisfies the relevant one of these conditionals.

Necessarily, if it is a fact that R and it is a fact that Q, then: if the fact that R is a cause of the fact that Q, then one reason why Q is that R, and the reason why one reason why Q is that R is that the fact that R is a cause of the fact that Q. Similarly if the fact that R is a ground of the fact that Q. And every reason why Q is (i) either a cause of the fact that Q or a ground the fact that Q, and (ii) satisfies the relevant one of these conditionals.

But I think it is a mistake to suggest, as Fine does, that “... because ... ” is a close English equivalent of this two-place sentential connective. For if “the fact that the ball is red grounds the fact that the ball is either red or green” means pretty much the same as “the ball is red or green because it is red,” then it cannot be right to say that:

4: ((the ball is red or green because it is red)) because ((the fact that the ball is red grounds the fact that it is either red or green))

For if “because” is just a sentential-connective way of expressing grounding claims, then sentence () has the form “P because P,” and so cannot be true. But () is true. Although every fact that is a ground is also a reason why, it is false that being a ground and being a reason why (or, better, that being a cause or a ground and being a reason why) are the same thing.

Partial and Complete Answers

“Explanations of events cite, or describe, causes”—many philosophers have accepted this sentence, without agreeing on what it means. Theory (T0) is, I have said, the best way to make it precise. So what is wrong with the other ways? The answer will emerge from looking closely at one alternative precisification.

Even though Lewis formulated his theory using, first, “explain,” and later “explanatory information,” I think that Lewis’s theory is best interpreted as a theory of answers to why-questions. As a theory of answers to why-questions, Lewis’s theory, like (T0) and (T1), is limited to why-questions about events. The most direct way to translate Lewis’s statement of his theory into a theory of answers to why questions about events gives us this: X is an answer to the question why E happened iff X is a proposition about E’s causal history. But putting the theory this way leaves it unclear. There are, as we are about to see, several different kinds of answers to why-questions. Just what kind of answer to a why-question is this theory a theory of? It is certainly not a theory of reasons-why answers. Lewis never uses the term “reason why.” Neither does it appear to be a theory of because-answers. Instead it is most naturally understood to be a theory of partial answers to why-questions

The distinction between complete and partial answers applies to any question. The complete answer to the question who came to the party says, of all the people who came to the party, that they came to the party (and perhaps add that no one else came to the party).

#partial_answer #Partial_Explanation #Complete_Answer #complete_Explanation

As for partial answers, in general a proposition is a partial answer to a question if it “rules out” (entails the falsity of) at least one possibly-true-but-actually false complete answer to that question. So “Two people whose names begin with ‘J’, ” if true, is a partial answer to the question who came to the party, since it entails that “Aaron and Moses and no one else came to the party” is not the complete answer.

I take Lewis’s view to be that the complete answer to the question why E happened lists all of E’s causes (and perhaps adds that they are all of the causes). The part of his theory that he is most explicit about, his theory of partial answers, is what you get by taking the general characterization of partial answers to questions that I just gave, and applying it to this case. Since, in general, a partial answer is something that rules out a possible complete answer, a partial answer to the question why E happened is a proposition that rules out some possible specification of the causes of E.

I accept these claims... for the most part. I hold that the complete answer to the question why E happened will list all of the reasons why E happened (and perhaps add that they are all of the reasons why E happened). A canonical statement of the complete answer will have the form “one reason why E happened is that A, another reason why E happened is that B, another reason why E happened is that C, ... , and these are all the reasons why E happened.” Since I think that every cause is a reason why, I agree that the complete answer specifies all the causes. But I do not accept that the complete answer specifies only causes. I hold that grounds of E are also reasons why E happened.

Like Lewis, I accept that a partial answer to the question why E happened is a proposition that rules out a possible complete answer. But since I disagree with him about what a complete answer looks like, I disagree with him about which propositions are partial answers

These places where I disagree with (my reconstruction of) Lewis’s theory, however, are not where I locate the theory’s biggest flaw. Its biggest flaw is that it is incomplete. There is more to a theory of answers to why-questions than a theory of complete answers and a theory of partial answers. A theory of answers to why-questions needs to employ the notion of a reason why, and it needs to contain a theory of reasons why.

The place for disagreement is over what it takes to be a reason why. We recover Lewis’s theory of complete answers to why-questions if we combine this neutral characterization of complete answers with (T), the claim that the (only) reasons why E happened are its causes. If you think that Lewis’s theory is wrong then this claim is the one you should put pressure on. Presenting the theory as a theory of complete and partial answers and nothing else makes the target its opponents should aim at invisible.

This is the same objection again: the hidden structure is the complete answer (it is “hidden” because people can exchange explanatory information, in Lewis’s sense, without knowing much about the complete answer); Lewis, when presented with explanations that don’t identify any causes of the event being explained, maintained that those explanations do convey some information, even if only a little bit, about the complete answer (about the causes of the event being explained); given how easy it is for a proposition to do this, Woodward thinks that this strategy for dealing with apparent counterexamples is, somehow, cheating

This line of opposition to Lewis’s theory is aided and abetted by phrasing his theory of partial answers to why-questions as a theory of explanation, as a theory that fills in the right-hand side of () Fact X explains fact Y if and only if ... It certainly sounds wrong to say that the fact that Jones was at school explains the fact that the window broke. So if one thinks that Lewis’s theory of partial answers is an attempt to complete schema (), one will think that it is false

But the example of Jones and the window does not show Lewis’s theory of partial answers, or his theory of complete answers, to why-questions to be false. The example does show that it was a public-relations mistake for Lewis to use “explanatory information” as a name for the information contained in a partial answer. Once again, blinkered focus on what is or is not an “explanation” can blind you to what is really going on.

The moral is that there is something missing from Lewis’s theory. What is missing is a theory of reasons why.The proposition that Jones was at school may be a partial answer to the question why the window broke, but (if (T) is true) that Jones was at school is not a reason why the window broke. That’s how to reconcile the thought that this proposition does say something (very weak) about the causes of the breaking with the thought that it does not seem to explain the breaking.

The fact that it is very easy for a proposition to be a partial answer to the question why E happened does not make (T) and (T) easy (or “too easy”) to defend. It just shows that trying to refute these theories by producing a proposition that (i) is in fact a partial answer to the question why E happened, but (ii) is not a partial answer according to (T) or (T), is a bad strategy. The good strategy is to produce a (true)

proposition that (i) is a reason why E happened, but (ii) is not a reason why E happened according to one of these theories. For while it is easy for a proposition to be a partial answer to the question why E happened, it is quite hard for a proposition to be a reason why E happened. If one successfully executes this strategy, the proposition one produces will probably be, by the lights of (T) and (T), a partial answer to the question why E happened. It doesn’t matter. If the proposition is not, according to those theories, a reason why E happened, those theories still stand refuted. Lewis cannot distinguish between these two strategies.

Railton offered Lewis the stellar collapse example as a counterexample to his theory. A star is collapsing, then stops. Why? Lewis accepted the answer “Because it’s gone as far as it can go ...It’s not that anything caused it to stop”. He shouldn’t have accepted this answer—something does cause the star to stop. But what Lewis wanted to say about this example applies to uncaused events generally. He was happy to say that uncaused events can be explained by the fact that they are uncaused. To keep things simple let’s suppose that stellar collapse really is this kind of example. Here is how Lewis puts his response:

I reply that information about the causal history of the stopping has been provided, but it was information of an unexpectedly negative sort. It was the information that the stopping had no causes at all, except for all the causes of the collapse which was a precondition of the stopping. Negative information is still information. If you request information about arctic penguins, the best information I can give you is that there aren’t any.

Lewis’s reply is a good one if the fact that the stopping was uncaused was offered (merely) as a partial answer to the question why the collapse stopped. But his reply is irrelevant, as a defense of (T0) anyway, if the fact that the stopping was uncaused was offered as a reason why the collapse stopped. The fact that the stopping was uncaused is not itself a cause of the stopping. So if this fact is a reason why the collapse stopped, we have a counterexample to (T0)—even though Lewis is right that the fact that the stopping was uncaused constitutes a partial answer to the question why the collapse stopped.

But uncaused events are not, in fact, counterexamples to (T)—for I see no reason to accept that the fact that E was uncaused is ever a reason why E happened. To whatever extent “E was uncaused” is a good thing to say in response to the question why E happened, it is only because it constitutes a partial answer to that question.

“E was uncaused” is a way to convey that there are no reasons why E happened, not a way to convey that the fact that E was uncaused is itself a reason why E happened.

Without the distinction between merely partial answers, and partial answers that also put forward reasons why E happened, Lewis is unable to distinguish the stronger reading of the example (where the fact that E was uncaused is offered as a reason why) from the weaker reading, or to disarm the stronger reading

it is Lange’s claim that some explanations that cite causes are not causal explanations. How can this be? If proposition P describes some causes of E, then according to Lewis’s theory, and according to my theory, P is a partial answer to the question why E happened. In what sense, then, is P not a “causal explanation”? Does Lange reject our theories of partial answers? It is hard to say; Lange does not organize his discussion around the notion of an answer to a why-question. Instead Lange’s focus is on “explanations.” He says that an explanation that cites causes may not “derive its explanatory power” from the fact that it cites causes. Such an explanation “just happens” to cite causes, and “[the fact that] a distinctively mathematical explanation happens to cite facts about the explanandum’s causes [causes of the event being explained] does not mean that it works by virtue of describing the explanandum’s causes”. Lange wants to say that citing causes only makes an explanation into a causal explanation if the fact that it cites causes is the “source” of that explanation’s “explanatory power.”

It is much easier to appreciate what Lange is trying to get at if his claims are expressed as claims about answers to why-questions, specifically as claims about reasons why

An explanation of E can happen to cite causes of E without working by virtue of citing those causes

as

An answer to the question why E happened can mention some of E’s causes, without being a correct answer in virtue of the fact that it mentions some of E’s causes.

Does this make sense? It always helps to think about questions other than why-questions. Is there any sense to be made of this claim?

An answer to the question who came to the party can mention Saturn’s rings, without being a correct answer in virtue of the fact that it mentions Saturn’s rings

It is not obvious what to think about this claim. But this much is certainly true: “Tim came to the party, and James Maxwell first figured out the nature of Saturn’s rings” cannot be a correct answer to the question who came to the party in virtue of mentioning Saturn’s rings—because it cannot be a correct answer to the question in the first place! Instead it is a body of fact consisting of two parts, an answer to the question, and also an irrelevant fact

One might think that it is always like this for why-questions about events. Any attempt to present a body of fact that (i) is an answer to the question why E happened, (ii) mentions a cause C of E, but (iii) is not correct in virtue of mentioning C, is really not an answer at all; it is at best the conjunction of an answer with the (irrelevant) fact that C happened. But in fact this conclusion is wrong. For it could be like this: C is a cause of E; and, moreover, C is a reason why E happened—and so the occurrence of C may be mentioned in an answer to the question why E happened; but the fact that C is a cause of E is not the reason why C is a reason why E happened. This, I think, is the distinction Lange was reaching for. Speaking in terms of reasons why, rather than “sources of explanatory power,” provides a clearer way to draw it.

I said that the biggest flaw in Lewis’s theory is that it is incomplete. The biggest flaw lies not in what the theory says but in what it doesn’t say: it says nothing about reasons why.

Lewis begins with an eloquent statement of the idea that we never traffic in complete answers to why-questions, that it is partial answers that we really care about. I remain skeptical. If “why” is a quantifier, if “Why did E happen?” is close in meaning to “Tell me all the reasons why E happened, then in typical contexts the domain of quantification will be restricted, and “tell me all the reasons why E happened” will mean something like, tell me all the reasons of kind K why E happened. So in a restricted context the complete answer to the question expressed by “Why did E happen?” might well be quite short, so short that we do “know enough,” and have enough breath, to state it.

But this isn’t the main point I want to make about what Lewis says. The moral he draws at the end, about the unit of explanation: Lewis was wrong. Yes, it was a mistake to think that the DN argument was the basic unit of explanation. Yes, the assumption that “explanations are arguments” did distort the search for a theory of answers to why-questions. But it is false to say that this mistake and distortion stemmed from a deeper mistake, that of thinking that there is a “basic unit of explanatory information.” There is a basic unit. Hempel just had a false view about what it is. A complete answer to the question why Q is a conjunction of facts expressed by sentences of the form “that R is a reason why Q.” The basic unit out of which answers to why-questions are ultimately built is the reason why.

The word “partial” contains “part,” but there is a sense in which being a partial answer to a why-question is not sufficient for being part of the complete answer. The complete answer is a long conjunction, so one natural sense to give “part of the complete answer” has it that the parts of the complete answer are its sub-conjunctions: a (proper) part of the complete answer to the question why Q is a conjunction of some but not all of the facts expressed by sentences of the form “that R is a reason why Q. The atomic parts of complete answers are individual reasons why. “That Jones was at school is not a reason why the window broke” is a partial answer to the question why the window broke, but it is merely a partial answer, a partial answer that is not part of the answer. After learning it you know a little bit more about the complete answer, but still cannot identify a single one of the reasons why the window broke.

—I claim that the reason why is the unit—and what we care about is not just learning some propositions that rule out one or another hypothesis about what the reasons why Q are, as Lewis maintained—for that would be like having only the note but no treasure at all—, but actually learning what some of those reasons are.

3.4 Preliminary Objections

Some “counterexamples” to (T) are easier to handle than others. This section is for a few easy ones.

1. A body exists alone in a Newtonian universe, moving along a straight line at constant speed. Why is it doing that, instead of accelerating? Because there are no forces acting on it. That is, the reason why it is not accelerating is that no forces are acting on it. But the absence of forces does not appear to be a cause; surely absences cannot be causes. If this is right, then (T) is false. Presumably the example, if good, refutes (T) as well, since the absence of forces does not ground the body’s inertial motion.

This argument rests on controversial premises about causation. Two of them are: (i) fundamentally speaking, the causal relation relates events, and (ii) there are no such events as “absences.” I reject (i). Since facts can be causes, the fact that there are no forces is available. But the argument would not convince me if someone convinced me that (i) is wrong. If at bottom causation is a relation between events, I am willing to embrace the existence of absences. There’s a lot of metaphysics that needs to be done to defend one or another of these claims, but others have defended them well, I think; this is not the place.

Other examples rest on different controversial theses about causation. Many philosophers hold that “dispositions explain their manifestations.” For example: a wine glass is struck, and breaks; one reason why it broke is that it was fragile. But, the argument goes, dispositions do not cause their manifestations. That the glass was fragile was not a cause of its breaking. This is a controversial claim about causation, one that I do not find plausible.

These two examples—one about inertial motion, the other about dispositions—were not intended by their authors to be counterexamples to (T0), they were used to hat “causal explanations” need not cite causes. Was he (Lang) at least right in his intended conclusion?

So far I have studiously avoided, as far as I could, using the terms “causal explanation” and “non-causal explanation.” The time has come for me to say something about them. This game, of saying what it takes to be a “causal explanation,” while popular, baffles me. I have discussed several kinds of answers to why-questions: partial answers, complete answers, and reasons-why answers. When a philosopher urges that causal explanations are explanations that meet conditions X, I never quite know what to think.

Bas Van Fraassen held that why-interrogatives are context-dependent: one and the same interrogative sentence can be used to ask different why questions in different contexts of utterance. I think he is absolutely right about this, and I think it is now a pretty common view. But Van Fraassen also traced the context-sensitivity of why-interrogatives to a particular source. He held that the question a why-interrogative asks in a context depends in part on what “relation of explanatory relevance” is salient in the context. Causation is, perhaps, one relation of explanatory relevance, but it is not the only one, and Van Fraassen seemed to think that there were lots and lots of relations of explanatory relevance, where “lots and lots” is certainly greater than two.

If Van Fraassen is right then (T) is false, for (T) is at best compatible with the thesis that causation and grounding are the only two relations of explanatory relevance. But the examples Van Fraassen used to motivate his view do not convince me. Here is part of his central discussion

Aristotle’s lantern example (Posterior Analytics II) shows that he recognized that in different contexts, verbally the same why question [that is, the same interrogative sentence] may be a request for different types of explanatory factors. In modern dress the example would run as follows. Suppose a father asks his teenage son, ‘Why is the porch light on?’ and the son replies ‘The porch switch is closed and the electricity is reaching the bulb through that switch.’ At this point you are most likely to feel that the son is being impudent. This is because you are most likely to think that the sort of answer the father needed was something like: ‘Because we are expecting company.’ But it is easy to imagine a less likely question context: the father and son are re-wiring the house and the father, unexpectedly seeing the porch light on, fears that he has caused a short circuit that bypasses the porch light switch. In the second case, he is not interested in the human expectations or desires that led to the depressing of the switch.

Let us grant that “A reason why the porch light is on is that the switch is closed” is true in one context and false in the other (and “a reason why the light is on is that we are expecting company” is true in the other and false in the one). Van Fraassen’s thesis is that this difference in truthvalue is due to a difference in which relation of explanatory relevance is operative in the contexts; I interpret this to be the thesis that the word “reason” is context-sensitive, and has a different semantic value in the two contexts.

I think his example supports a different thesis about the source of the context-sensitivity: contextual variation in the domain of quantification. “A reason why Q is that R” can be paraphrased roughly as “There is an X such that X is a reason why Q and X is identical to the fact that R.” Our interests can influence what, in a given context, the quantifier “There is” has as its domain. Just as “There are five things in the fridge” can be true even though the refrigerator has millions of air molecules in it, because we have restricted our quantifier to edible things, “There is a reason why the porch light is on that is identical to the fact that the switch is closed” can be true in one context and false in another, even if “reason why the light is on” applies to the same set of causes of the light’s being on in both contexts; all that is required is for the father through his interests to restrict the quantifier to certain causes, causes other than human intentions. Since domain restriction can account for the example, and since domain restriction is a well-attested phenomenon,there is no pressure, from this example anyway, to also say that “reason” is itself context-sensitive

Van Fraassen cares about the context-sensitivity of “the porch light is on because the switch is closed” because its context-sensitivity shows “Why is the porch light on?” to be context-sensitive. I hold the same view about the source of this interrogative’s context-sensitivity. “Why is the porch light on?” is close in meaning to “Tell me all the reasons why the porch light is on,” so “the porch light is on because the switch is closed” will be true (and so an answer) only in contexts where the causes/reasons in the domain quantified over by “all the reasons” includes the fact that the switch is closed.

One common way of thinking about the semantic values of interrogatives has it that the semantic value of an interrogative is a partition of the set of all possible worlds (a partition in turn can be taken to be a set of propositions that are exhaustive and pairwise incompatible). Each cell of the partition is a possible complete answer to the question, and the true complete answer is the cell in the partition that includes the actual world.

Why are explanations are important

#Scientific_realism Why-questions are important, for example, in the philosophy of science. #Scientific_realism means different things to different people, but one idea commonly associated with this doctrine is that it is one of the aims of science to answer why-questions. Science aims to figure out why things happen, not just describe, even very systematically, what happens.

Action

Why-questions are also important in the philosophy of #action. They help identify one central topic in the philosophy of action, namely intentional action: someone acts intentionally if, and only if, one may ask “Why did he do it?”—where “why” is used in a special way, different from the way it is used when we ask why the moon is waning. (This is Anscombe’s proposal in Intention (§5)

Metaphysics Why-questions are important in metaphysics. The obvious example is their importance to the theory of grounding. Many metaphysicians are very busy producing theories of grounding. A common strategy for helping initiates get a handle on the subject matter of these theories is to say that when one fact grounds another, the first may be used to answer the question why the second obtains.

Modality If some fact F obtains in two possible worlds W and V, then those worlds are in one respect similar. Boris Kment argues, in “Counterfactuals and Explanation,” that this respect of similarity matters for how close V and W are, in the sense of closeness relevant to evaluating counterfactuals, if and only if the question why F obtains has the same answer in both worlds.

Normative Ethics A theory that correctly sorts acts into right and wrong is still false if it gives the wrong answer to the question of why right acts are right

Philsophy of Mind view about the status of mental facts is physicalism, the view that all mental facts are determined by physical facts. But there is a well-known problem for physicalism, a problem known as the #explanatory_gap. What is this problem? What is the gap? The explanatory gap is just this: physicalists have no answer to the question why the physical facts determine the mental ones in the way that they do.

Epistemology “Inference to the best explanation” is the pattern of belief formation whereby, of the possible answers to the question why one’s evidence obtains (or, perhaps, why one has that evidence), one comes to believe the “best” answer.

Goal of the book that is my view about answers to why-questions about events. In this book I will (almost) defend a version of the idea that an answer to the question why some given event E happened must cite causes of E. This idea has been around for a while, but (you will not be surprised to learn) I don’t think others’ defenses of it have been good enough.

I do hope, however, to persuade them that a theory of answers to why-questions should be a theory of reasons why, even if it should not be the one I defend. I will propose a theory of what it takes for one fact to be a reason why some other fact obtains.

I make use of a distinction, a distinction that is much easier to see when we think in terms of reasons why than if we don’t. It is a distinction between different levels of reasons why.

There are, on the one hand, the reasons why it is the case that F, on the other the reasons why those reasons are reasons.

This distinction is an essential component of my strategy for explaining away many apparent counterexamples to the idea that answers to why questions about events must cite causes.

I need to say something about explanation: about why my theory of explanation isn’t a theory of explanation, and about why no one else’s should be either.

Sceptical theists (William Alston and Michael Bergmann) have claimed that considerations concerning human cognitive limitations are alone sufficient to undermine evidential arguments from evil. We argue that, if the considerations deployed by sceptical theists are sufficient to undermine evidential arguments from evil, then those considerations are also sufficient to undermine inferences that play a crucial role in ordinary moral reasoning. If cogent, our argument suffices to discredit sceptical theist responses to evidential arguments from evil.

a number of philosophers endorsed skeptical theism [Alston 1991, 1996; Bergmann 2001; Fitzpatrick 1981; Howard-Snyder 1996a, 1996c; van Inwagen 1991; Plantinga 1979, 1988; Wykstra 1984, 1996]

The core idea behind these responses to evidential arguments from evil is that considerations of human cognitive limitations are alone sufficient to undermine those arguments. This core idea is developed in different ways:

• Some skeptical theists' [Bergmann 2001; Howard-Snyder 1996a, 1996c] human cognitive limitations in the realm of value are alone sufficient to undermine evidential arguments from evil.

• Other sceptical theists [Alston 1991, 1996; van Inwagen 1991; Plantinga 1979, 1988; Wykstra 1984, 1996] human cognitive limitations in various spheres including the realm of value are alone sufficient to undermine evidential arguments from evil.

Three sections:

• First, we argue against [Bergmann 2001, et al.]and
• then argue against the second group

What is crucial is that the kind of evidential argument which we consider and which is the target of sceptical theist' critique contains a key inference which moves from a premise of the form We have found no reasons why . . .' to a conclusion of the form There are no reasons why .. The burden of the sceptical theist' critique of the argument is to attack this inference by appeal to nothing more than certain (alleged) human cognitive limitations; we shall argue in reply, that the inference in question cannot be undermined merely by appeal to considerations about human cognitive limitations by the first group or the second group.

Secondly, stephen Wykstra's claim that the premise in the key inference does not even weakly support the conclusion of that inference, i.e., the claim that our failure to find reasons of a certain kind does not raise the probability that there are no reasons of that kind at all. We suggest that this claim is massively implausible: it would require very special circumstances in order for a claim of the form We have found no reasons why . . .' to fail to provide any support for the claim that There are no reasons why . . .'; and it is not credible to suppose that our evidential argument from evil provides such a case.

thirdly, Michael Bergmann's sceptical theist' argument based on a general scepticism about our knowledge of the realm of value' that the premise in the key inference does not provide substantial support for the conclusion of that inference [Bergmann 2001].3 We claim that, if the inference from We have found no reasons why . . .' to There are no reasons why . . .' is blocked by the considerations to which Bergmann adverts in the case of evidential arguments from evil, then similar inferences will be blocked in cases of ordinary moral reasoning which we all have reason to endorse. Thus, we claim, Bergmann faces a dilemma: either his general scepticism about our knowledge of the realm of value' is too benign to save theism from the evidential argument from evil; or else his general scepticism about our knowledge of the realm of value' is so strong that it threatens to disrupt our ordinary patterns of moral reasoning.

In the fourth and fifth sections of our paper, we turn to consider possible objections to our argument against Bergmann. In particular, we consider the suggestion that our argument fails to pay due attention to the fact that it makes a huge difference that it is not we but rather a perfect being who is the subject of the key inference in our evidential argument from evil; and we also consider the suggestion that we are wrong to think that the moral scepticism which is mandated by the principles that Bergmann endorses is anything other than benign.

In the sixth section of our paper, we consider the prospects for extending our critique of Bergmann [2001] to other kinds of sceptical theist' responses to evidential argument from evil. In particular, we focus on Alston [1991, 1996]. Unlike Bergmann, Alston does not claim that considerations concerning human cognitive limitations in the sphere of value are alone suf®cient to undermine evidential arguments from evil. However, it seems to us that Alston is committed to the claim that considerations concerning human cognitive limitations in a range of spheres including the realm of values are alone suf®cient to undermine evidential arguments from evil.

if the objection that we develop against Bergmann is good, then it carries over to this view as well. Moreover, if we suppose as we think we should that it is constitutive of sceptical theist' responses to evidential arguments from evil to claim that considerations concerning human cognitive limitations in a range of spheres including the realm of values are alone suf®cient to undermine evidential arguments from evil, then our argument carries over to all versions of sceptical theist' responses to evidential arguments from evil.

However, it is important to note that the sceptical theist' response is distinctive because, were it correct, it would establish that no-one theist or non-theist should make the crucial probability judgement that undergirds evidential arguments from evil. The direction of the sceptical theist' argument is from considerations concerning our cognitive limitations and nothing but our cognitive limitations to the conclusion that a certain probability judgement is out of bounds. And it is this that we claim to be able to show is wrong.

section 1

We begin, then, with the formulation of a more or less canonical version of an evidential argument from evil. The main sub-conclusion of the evidential argument from evil that we shall discuss is that there are evils for which it is true that, were a perfect being to prevent those evils, then the world would be non-arbitrarily improved thereby. It follows from this sub-conclusion that, if there are such evils, then there is no perfect being. It is tempting to call such evils gratuitous'; however, it seems doubtful that this usage is in accord with the standard de®nition(s) in the literature.5 So let us instead call them problematic'.

Evidential arguments from evil of the kind which we are investigating here aim to establish that there are problematic evils, or that there is most reason to think that there are problematic evils, or that there is at least some reason to think that there are problematic evils. (Later, we shall fuss more about the strength of the conclusion which is to be drawn in arguments of this kind; for now, we leave the matter open.)

we should explain what we mean when we insist that problematic evils are evils that are such that, if they were prevented by the actions of a perfect being, then the world would be non-arbitrarily improved.

**it should be noted that it would not suffice for the purposes of the argument to claim that there are evils for which it is true that, were a perfect being to prevent those evils, then the world would not thereby be made worse.

Suppose that there are two worlds, W1and W2 which are in all respects alike except that W1 contains evil E1 and W2 contains E2, where E1 and E2 are of equal (dis)value. If W1 is actual, then it casts no doubt on the claim that there is a perfect being to point out that a perfect being could have prevented the occurrence of E1 by actualising world W2 instead without thereby making the world worse. (We assume what some have denied that, if a perfect being must choose between W1 and W2, then it can do so.)

should be noted, too, that it would not suf®ce for the purposes of the argument to claim that there are evils for which it is true that, were a perfect being to prevent those evils, then the world would be improved.

Suppose that there is a sequence of worlds W1, W2, . . ., Wn, . . . which contain sequences of evils {E1, E2, . . ., En, . . .}, {E2, E3, . . ., En, . . .}, . . ., {Ek, Ek ‡ 1, . . ., En, . . .}, . . ., and which are otherwise identical. (So, by hypothesis, W1 is worse than W2, which is worse than W3, etc.) Suppose further that any world which contains only a ®nite number of the Ei is worse than any of the worlds W1, W2, . . ., Wn, . . ., because a ®nal in®nite segment of the sequence of evils E1, E2, . . ., En, . . ., is required in order to ensure some massive `outweighing' good. If Wk is actual, it casts no doubt on the claim that there is a perfect being to point out that a perfect being could have prevented the obtaining of EkÐby actualising world Wk‡1, sayÐand thereby made the world better. (Again, we assumeÐwhat some may denyÐthat if a perfect being has to choose one ®nal in®nite section of the sequence E1, E2, . . ., En, . . ., then it can do so.)

The point here is that it is possible that a perfect being may need to make an arbitrary choice, from amongst a set of worlds which it can make, if it is to make any world at all. If, for example, for any world that a perfect being can make, there is a better world, then, if the perfect being is to make any world at all, it must arbitrarily choose one which is good enough. But, in these circumstances, it is then no criticism of the activity of the perfect being that it could have made a better world: in the circumstances, the mooted improvement of the world is arbitrary. The case that we have described in the previous paragraph is simply meant to show that improvements of the world by the prevention of evils could be arbitrary in exactly the same sense: there may be evils which are not required for the obtaining of greater goods, or for the non-obtaining of greater evils, and yet which a perfect being does not have reason to prevent.

However, we do assume what some may perhaps deny that, if the world would be non-arbitrarily improved by the prevention of some evil then, a fortiori, a perfect being would prevent that evil; in other words, if there are problematic evils, then there is no perfect being

With these preliminaries out of the way, we can now turn to our formulation of an evidential argument from evil. Let E be some candidate i.e., prima facie problematic evil which has occurred, e.g., the rape, beating, and murder by strangulation of a five year old girl; or the prolonged and painful death of a fawn which has been trapped in a forest ®re; or the like. We shall use the following as our representative evidential argument from evil:

(1) We have been unable to find even pro tanto reasons why the world would not be non-arbitrarily improved if a perfect being prevented E. (Premise) (2) (Therefore) There are not even pro tanto reasons why the world would not be nonarbitrarily improved if a perfect being prevented E. (From 1) (3) There are at least pro tanto reasons why the world would be non-arbitrarily improved if a perfect being prevented E. (Premise) (4) (Therefore) There is all-things-considered reason why the world would be nonarbitrarily improved if a perfect being prevented E. (From 2, 3) (5) (Therefore) The world would be non-arbitrarily improved if a perfect being prevented E. (From 4) (6) (Therefore) There is no perfect being. (From 5)

In support of (1), we note that we can point to no greater good which would be lost if E were prevented by a perfect being; no greater evil which would ensue if E were prevented by a perfect being; nothing which suggests that there must be some events like E violations of young children if there are to be greater goods which would otherwise be lost; nothing which suggests that there must be some events like E violations of young children if there are not to be greater evils which would otherwise ensue .

In support of (3), we note that we all agree that the world could have been nonarbitrarily improved if one of us had intervened to prevent E.

Indeed, we note that we all agree that, other circumstances permitting, we would have a moral obligation to intervene: if we could, without risk to ourselves and others, and without extravagant use of resources, prevent E, then that is what we are required to do. (No doubt, our moral obligation runs further than this; however, all we need is the uncontroversial claim that our obligations run at least this far.) The awfulness of E is enough to establish that a perfect being has at least a pro tanto reason to prevent it.

The inference from (4) to (5) is uncontroversial. The inference from (2) and (3) to (4) also looks solid: if there are not even pro tanto reasons why the world would not be non-arbitrarily improved if a perfect being prevented E, and there are pro tanto reasons why the world would be non-arbitrarily improved if a perfect being prevented E, then it surely follows that there is all-things-considered reason why the world would be nonarbitrarily improved if a perfect being prevented E.

That leaves the inference from (1) to (2); and here there are many philosophers who will wantÐand have wantedÐto raise objections. In what follows, we shall consider some of the objections that have been made to the inference from (1) to (2).

II

The inference from (1) to (2) moves from It is not the case that we have found reasons of such-and-such a kind' to There are no reasons of such-and-such a kind'.9 Plainly, this is not in general a good deductive inference: it is perfectly possible for claims of the former kind to be true while the corresponding claims of the latter kind are false. However, it does not follow from this claim alone that the inference from (1) to (2) is not a good inference; it may be that there is some other kind of evidential or probabilistic support which (1) lends to (2). Moreover, it seems naturalÐat least initiallyÐto suppose that this is the case: surely (1) does lend some kind of evidential or probabilistic support to (2). That I have failed to ®nd reasons of such-and-such kind may well be evidence for the claimÐmay well make it more likely that there are no reasons of such-and-such kind

We need to distinguish at least two different possible claims here. One claim is that (1) provides strong evidential support for (2): given (1), we have substantial reasonÐ perhaps even more reason than notÐto believe (2). A weaker claim is that (1) provides weak evidential support for (2): given (1), we have more reason to believe (2) than we had before we took (1) into account. We shall ®rst brie¯y consider views that dispute even the weaker claim, before turning to consideration of arguments against the stronger claim.

A clear example of someone who disputes even the weaker claim is Wykstra [1984]. In his view: `Cognisance of suffering . . .should not in the least reduce our con®dence that [perfect being theism] is true. When cognizance of suffering does have this effect, it is perhaps because we had not understood [what perfect being theism] proposes for belief in the ®rst place' [Wykstra 1984: 91, our italics]. Of course, this kind of position is very strong. If cognizance of suffering should not in the least reduce our con®dence that perfect being theism is true, then it seems that observations of evils in the world must be completely irrelevant for the question of the assessment of the truth of the claim that there is a perfect god

Suppose, for example, that we were to discover that there are a billion other inhabited planets in our galaxy, and that the trillions of intelligent inhabitants of all those other planets live lives of unrelieved misery. Suppose that we extend our search, and ®nd the same ®gures reproduced for the millions of other galaxies. Suppose, ®nally, that we are utterly unable to think of any way in which all of this misery could subserve some greater good. The view in question entails that none of this would provide any evidence at all against perfect being theism. It is very tempting to suppose that this is a reductio of the view in question.

A basic distinction is that between #aggregative_groups (for instance, a collection of all red-haired women) VS those that have a structure and a decision-making process – what I shall call #corporate_groups. It is the latter type of group that will be my focus. The paradigm case of a corporate group is a corporation, but governments, educational institutions in so far as they have a structure and a decision-making process.

It will be helpful here to distinguish the issue of #group_agency from another related issue – #shared_agency. Shared agency refers to the ability of individuals to engage in #joint_actions such as moving a table together, painting a house together, or playing a game of chess. Many philosophers working on this issue believe that, in order to understand #joint_actions, we need to understand the ways in which individual agents share intentions

Objection: Now one might object to this investigation at the outset on the grounds that groups do not exist. This objection is often motivated by a commitment to #ontological_individualism:

According to the ontological individualist, groups are composed of individual human beings and do not exist as entities “over and above” these individuals. Most theorists agree with ontological individualism, and I am no exception. Groups are composed of individuals and they act via the actions of individuals. But this doesn't support the idea that groups don't exist. Human beings are composed of cells and are nothing “over and above” their physical make-up, but this doesn't mean they don't exist. Rodin's The Thinker is composed of bronze, but we don't thereby say that it doesn't exist. Likewise, just because groups are composed of individuals and do not exist “over and above” their members does not mean they do not exist.

#Methodological_individualism is the view that groups and their actions can be explained solely in terms of the psychological states and processes of group members and the relations between them. Unlike its ontological sister, methodological individualism is hotly contested.

#Methodological_collectivism argues that there are irreducible group-level properties and processes which need to play a role in the explanation of group phenomena

This book weighs in on the side of methodological individualism

According to many theorists, joint action requires for its explanation shared intentions or “we-intentions.” Whatever intentions are had or shared are in the heads of individuals. This is particularly clear in the work of Michael Bratman and John Searle.

an ambiguity in the literature: Some philosophers are interested in explaining the ways that individuals can share intentional states such as belief and intention. These accounts, then, serve as a foundation for a theory of shared agency (Bratman, 2014). Other philosophers are interested in group agency, the ability of a group itself to engage in purposeful action.... there is more to #group_agency than #shared_agency. When two people take a walk together they are engaged in a form of shared agency, but in doing so they do not form a unified agent to which we attribute beliefs, goals, and intentions. The connection between group agency and shared agency is not always clear in the literature. It is one of my aims here to introduce some clarity. Research on distributed cognition suggests that models of human cognition can be applied to groups and that doing so is explanatorily powerful.

This approach allows us to make sure that our theory of intentional agency is grounded in practice. Our practice reveals that mental states such as belief and intention are not internal states of a system or agent, as the functionalist would have it, but are states of whole systems

Aim of the book: I argue that, if we view mental states as dispositional states of systems rather than internal states of systems, we can make sense of how groups can have mental states. Further, if we embed this dispositionalism within an explanatory theory called interpretivism, we get a more powerful explanation of our practice of making sense of others, both groups and individuals, than that offered by the functionalist approaches.

If certain groups can be intentional agents, the natural question to ask is whether groups can be moral agents. But that certain groups exhibit features of intentional agency is not enough to establish that they can be held morally responsible

whether groups have beliefs The accounts on offer are attempts to identify what is going on “inside” the group, or among and between individuals in the group, in order for our ascriptions of belief to the group to be true. Some of these views, such as the view that beliefs are brain states, seem to preclude the idea that groups can be believers. There are, however, some general things we can say here that are accepted by philosophers regardless of their views about the nature of belief.

Beliefs in general:

1- Beliefs are #propositional_attitudes Consider: *Anya fears that “Hamburgers are served for dinner every Friday night *Finn believes that hamburgers are served for dinner every Friday night

#propositional_attitudes involve a subject, a content (or proposition), and an attitude (belief, intention, fear, hope). In the examples above, the subjects were Finn, Anya, and me. The content of the attitudes that Finn, Anya, and I have are captured by propositions such as “Hamburgers are served for dinner every Friday night.” The attitudes are those of belief, intention, or fear.

2- Beliefs have truth conditions above sentences can be true or false

intentions in general:

Intentions, on the other hand, have success conditions Although it may be true that I have the #intention of serving hamburgers for Finn's birthday, my intention in itself is neither true nor false; rather, it is satisfied or unsatisfied depending on whether I succeed in serving hamburgers on Finn's birthday.

#Belief is thought to be a unique attitude in that it conforms to the world, or tries to conform to the world. When we believe something truly, our mind conforms to the world. Our belief matches the state of affairs out in the world. Intentions, aim at getting the world to fit with our mind: My intention to make hamburgers for Finn's birthday is satisfied or fulfilled only when the world (with me in it) conforms to that intention. Intentions have what John Searle calls a #world-to-mind direction of fit, whereas beliefs have a #mind-to-world direction of fit (Searle, 1983).This is where the consensus on the nature of belief ends.

For example: Some philosophers argue, for instance, that beliefs are brain states, others that beliefs are functional states to be defined in terms of the role they play and that these roles could be realized by other things besides brains (computers, for instance), and yet others that beliefs are best thought of as social statuses which make sense only against the backdrop of various social practices. Finally, there are debates about the content of propositional attitudes. Some philosophers think that the content is determined by factors internal to the subject, and others that the content is determined by factors external to the subject.

Philosophers writing on group belief haven't really concerned themselves with these debates in the philosophy of mind. This is partly because many have adopted #methodological_individualism and think that group belief ascriptions can be explained in terms of individuals' beliefs (or some other attitude), and they have left the nature of individual belief to philosophers of mind. In what follows, we will consider three accounts of the nature of group belief – the #summative_account, the #acceptance_account, and the #commitment_account.

We use value talk all the time. Most of the time, we don’t need to mention the word ‘value’ or similar terms like ‘worth’ or ‘merit’. More commonly we use evaluative expressions like ‘good’, ‘bad’, ‘better’, ‘the best’, ‘great’, ‘fine’, ‘excellent’, ‘poor’, ‘terrible’ and so on. To utter such evaluative words of course is not always to evaluate something positively or negatively.

The exclamation ‘Good heavens!’ normally doesn’t say anything about the value of the heavens. Also, we can use ‘good!’ or ‘that’s good’ simply to express or report our satisfaction with something, regardless of whether we think it worthy of our satisfaction. At other times still, evaluative words are used to register other people’s evaluations, without joining in ourselves: if I know nothing about row-crop tractors, except the ranking that an expert commission gave of models produced in 2013, I might call one 2013 model better than another simply to report the commission’s ranking.

given its primary evaluative association, such a judgement might be misleading, since you might well infer that I do believe one model to be better than another (and thus, perhaps, that I am advising you to get that), whereas all I mean is really that the commission decided so.

It is also important to keep in mind that evaluation need not be articulated via value terms, or indeed be verbally articulated at all. Often we can tell a person’s values and commitments from her behaviour and emotional reactions much more than from what she says (to others or even to herself). We can understand a given community’s unspoken and unwritten values or norms, or at least some of them, by interpreting their social practices, rituals, internal conflicts, and so on.

However, in this book I will explore conceptual questions about value, rather than about evaluation as a social and psychological phenomenon. . Therefore evaluations which are verbally expressed or at least expressible in value terms are the starting point.

First, I draw a distinction between different evaluations, in order to focus on the value concepts that will be discussed. Then I define and explain the project of value theory, as I pursue it here.

In section 1.4 I lay out the central assumption or guiding thread: value is normative. two views intended to articulate this notion:

1. the #fitting_attitude_account
2. the #buck-passing_account

1.2 Which evaluations?

Evaluation comes in so many linguistic forms and spans so many different categories. But there is a conceptual distinction that can help to isolate the sort of evaluations that will keep us occupied in what follows.

1. #thin_evaluation #think_concept: Some evaluations are #pure, or purer than others, i.e. they carry minimal or no descriptive or informative content about the thing evaluated. Following Bernard Williams (1985), these can be called thin evaluations. When a certain concept is used in such an evaluation, it is a thin evaluative concept.

2. #thick_evaluation #thck_evaluation: which do carry more than minimal information about Value and Normativity.

not easy to find this theoretical distinctions simply linguistically, but few remarks may help to grasp the point:

• thin evaluation can be seen in unqualified uses of words such as ‘good’ and ‘bad’ and their comparatives . These can be applied to concrete objects or states of affairs: ‘this movie is bad’, ‘following her advice was good’. In philosophy, thin general evaluative statements are often made about abstract objects: ‘pleasure is good’, ‘knowledge is generally better than ignorance’. But one can also use abstract nouns like ‘value’ (or ‘good’ as a noun): ‘friendship is/has the greatest value’,

• Now, these terms can be qualified by adverbs or adverbial phrases like ‘intrinsically’, ‘in itself’, ‘instrumentally’, or by the respective adjectives. Depending on the adverb, the resulting evaluation will be more or less thick , that is, will carry more or less descriptive or informative content about the thing evaluated. Sometimes it won’t carry any additional descriptive content, but simply stress the importance of a value: ‘helping others in need has incalculable value’. In other cases it will carry some minimal content: to say that knowledge is instrumentally good hints at the effects or consequences of knowledge, albeit not saying what these are, except that they are good.

• **in other cases, qualifications can carry quite a lot of informative content : ‘This photograph has personal value (for me)’, ‘Wedding rings have sentimental value (for many people)’, ‘This song has no artistic value’, These qualifications assign the thing evaluated to some category or other of value, and so imply some substantial information about them, or about their relations to other things or people. Such information need not be very detailed, of course. To speak of personal or sentimental value implies something about the historical or affective connection of an object to people.

**- To speak of artistic or scientific value turns one’s attention to the sort of features which justify the inclusion of an object in either category. In these cases, we are making thicker evaluations.

evaluative words can be used predicatively, as in the sentences used so far, which have the general form:

• x is good.

But very commonly they are used attributively, i.e. they accompany a noun: ‘Sarah is a great dancer’. In general:

• x is a good F Often, these attributive evaluations are quite thick

it is not at all obvious what information is carried by the statement that WWII was the worst war ever, because it is not at all obvious what a war has to be like, as a war, to be worse than another. All we definitely know, of course, is that WWII was a war, and so that there was fighting and the like (for another grey-area example: ‘Valerie is a very good child’). Attributive evaluations then are not guaranteed, just in virtue of their form, to be particularly thick ones.

There are two sorts of concepts which are often said to belong by their own nature to the thicker end of the thin-thick continuum:

1. #value-maker_concepts
2. #-able_concepts

Example of (1):concepts like courageous, honest, cowardly, corrupt, elegant, tacky, melodious, insightful and so on. Employing these concepts, at least normally, means both evaluating and describing the thing or person one way or another. For a woman to be courageous, she has to meet certain descriptive conditions, like being able to overcome fear in certain kinds of situations.1 While it is controversial how to best understand these terms, this much can be said: they bear an intimate relation to some relevant thin evaluative concept.

• A courageous woman has something good about her, i.e. merits a positive evaluation of some sort.

not only do they serve to evaluate, but, unlike thin concepts, and unlike other thick evaluations, they normally also present a reason for the evaluation: by saying the she is courageous, we are also saying that she is good (if she is) because she is courageous. Being courageous makes her good.

However, as before, some of these terms need not be very thick: for instance, ‘virtuous’ (as in ‘possessing virtue’, rather than ‘chaste’) does convey the idea that the person is morally good because of certain personal qualities, but nothing more than that, partly because what makes a person virtuous is a much more contested issue than what makes her courageous or cruel.

Example of (2) : #-able_concepts such as valuable, desirable, admirable, enviable, contemptible, etc. These concepts wear on their sleeves, so to speak, the idea that the thing so evaluated merits or is worth a certain attitude or response: valuing, desiring, admiring, etc. Obviously the ‘-able’ suffix need not appear: the concepts fearsome, trustworthy, amusing, shameful have exactly this same structure. (**they are response worthy)

The thickness of these concepts lies not in any particular descriptive condition the thing so evaluated has to meet, but rather in the fact that they describe a specific response as merited. By contrast, ‘good’, ‘bad’ and the like by themselves tell us nothing about merited responses – or at least, nothing as specific. The idea of merited, fitting, or appropriate response, as I explain in a moment, plays a central role in what follows.

Evaluations on the thinner end of the spectrum provide the background for most of the subject matter of this book

value as such: how is the value of something related to what we ought or have reason to do (in a broad sense)? How does value ‘depend’ on non-evaluative features? How do we work out the value of complex states of affairs? Must there be a common measure to compare different values?

thicker evaluation will be of more direct concern: Chapter 3, where I consider (and reject) arguments to the effect that thin predicative evaluation (‘x is good, period’) is based on a mistake, and Chapter 4, where I take some steps towards understanding what surely is a thicker type of evaluation, namely that involving what is ‘good for me’

1.3 The idea of value theory

The name ‘value theory’ doesn’t refer univocally. There are at least three different sorts of philosophical inquiries moral philosophy, political philosophy, aesthetics, and possibly epistemology, regarded as a normative discipline. In this sense, it contrasts with all other ‘theoretical’ branches of philosophy, like metaphysics or philosophy of language.

A second, much more restricted use, stands for all substantive views about what is fundamentally good and bad, and the debate among them. For instance, hedonism is a value theory, holding that pleasure is the one fundamental positive value. As such, it is opposed to other theories, e.g. perfectionism, holding that the excellent development of certain abilities is the fundamental positive value, or to some pluralist theory, holding that there is more than one fundamental value, for example pleasure, knowledge, and moral virtue.

despite the names, normative theory and value theory are both normative inquiries, in the broad sense that to adopt a certain normative or value theory is to come to believe that one ought or at least has reason to behave (act, desire, feel, judge, etc.) in certain ways for certain fundamental reasons. (For example if hedonism is true, then in principle one should take pleasure, one’s own or others’, as the fundamental goal.) While certain meta-ethical views may ultimately have normative implications for conduct, the guiding aim of meta-ethics is not evaluative, prescriptive, or directive, but rather explanatory, reconstructive, or descriptive.

I will not engage in axiology (value theory in the second sense), since I will not argue for or presuppose any particular view about what is fundamentally valuable. Only for the sake of argument will I assume in some places that a certain axiological view (e.g. hedonism) or a certain evaluative intuition (e.g. about the value of punishment) is correct.

Value theory, in this third sense, purports to explore a host of structural questions about value, in the hope of understanding at least some salient properties that things have in virtue of being good, bad, and so on

When we speak loosely of ‘value(s)’ as a countable term, we may refer to three different things:

**(i) the object or state of affairs that has value,

**(ii) the features that make an object or state of affairs valuable,

**(iii) the fact that an object or state of affairs has value (is good, bad, etc.).

An axiological theory (a ‘value theory’ in the second sense above) is typically a theory about the features that ultimately make anything valuable, that is, about (ii). As a result of the ‘value-making job’, we can then speak of values in senses (i) and (iii): there will be objects and states of affairs that are made valuable, or are bearers or carriers of value, and there will be facts or truths about such things being good or bad. In other words, the idea or fact of value-making is logically prior to the existence of valuable objects and of evaluative truths. But since here I am not doing value theory in the sense of providing an axiology, when I loosely speak about e.g. the value of friendship or of a wedding ring, I mean to refer to (iii): the fact or truth that friendship or the wedding ring is valuable, rather than friendship as a value-making feature, or friendship as a bearer of value (although it will of course be true that friendship is a bearer of value).

1.4 Value and normativity

Evaluative concepts in a very broad sense include not only good, bad, etc., but also ought, right, wrong, duty, obligation, practical or epistemic rationality, and good reasons for actions, attitudes, or beliefs. in this book : the sense at issue when we judge things to be good, bad, and the like, with or without qualifications.

‘Normative’, however, should not be thought to refer to anything as norm- or rule-based as a quasi-legal normative system. In this broad sense, commonly used in philosophy, normative truths can bear the form of a rule as well as that of particular statements about what you should do here and now. Nor are actions the only normatively relevant objects: intentions, desires, emotions, beliefs are all just as relevant, insofar as it makes sense to hold that there is or there could be good reasons for and against them. T. M. Scanlon labels all these responses as ‘judgement-sensitive attitudes’, in the sense that ‘an ideally rational person would come to have [them] whenever that person judged there to be sufficient reasons for them and [they] would, in an ideally rational person, ‘extinguish’ when that person judged them not to be supported by reasons of the appropriate kind’ (1998: 20).5 Distinct as they may be, still the evaluative and the normative bear an intimate relation: value is normative. This can be said to be one of value’s fundamental properties.

**truths about value, at least, regularly entail normative truths of some sort about actions or attitudes. Here are some examples: that a certain hotel is overall better than another seems to entail that you should prefer it to the other; that a certain conduct was morally good seems to entail that there is some reason to admire it; that a movie is terrible seems to entail reasons to avoid going to see it, and so on. What is relevant is that the connection between value and reasons is entirely general: it applies to values or value claims and reasons as such. It is not because of what better hotels are like that they should be preferred, but simply because of what it is for something to be better than something else. Of course, the specific attitude or action that is appropriate to take will depend on the valuable object at stake: for instance, a great painting should be appreciated in a certain aesthetic way, and a poor one aesthetically censured, while morally outstanding conduct is to be praised, and evil conduct blamed or condemned. But what remains constant across these diverse cases is that a positive value is to be responded with a positive attitude, and a negative value with a negative attitude of some sort.

The most straightforward way to articulate the idea that value is normative is to say that what it is for something to be good is nothing else than for there to be reasons, in principle for anyone, to respond favourably to it, and likewise for what it is to be bad, better, etc. Goodness, or being good, simply consists in the existence of such reasons.

Evaluative truths are really normative truths in a shortened form. In the philosophical literature, there are two existing accounts of this form: #fitting_attitude_account

• FA: x is good = it is fitting to respond favourably to (‘favour’) x. starting with the German philosopher Franz Brentano.6 The crucial term is of course ‘fitting’. This is meant to be a fully normative term, expressing the idea of a normative or ideal match between the object x and the favourable response. But other terms have been used in this connection: appropriate, suitable, correct, worthy, deserved, merited, required, ought (x is good = x ought to be favoured). While these terms have different connotations, they are all supposed to be general normative terms. In particular, they should not be assumed to have a moral meaning.

#buck-passing_account (called by Scanlon)

• Buck-passing Account 1: x is good = x has the property of having other properties that provide reasons to favour x.

This differs from FA in two respects:

1. it uses the normative concept of a reason to favour.
2. makes clear a certain structural claim about value: x’s being good (and other value properties on the thinner end of the spectrum7 ) is not itself a reason to favour x, but rather is the fact that x has other features, i.e. other than goodness, which provide reasons to favour x.

2 means that: To talk of x’s goodness thus is not already to indicate one reason to favour x, but rather to announce that there are reasons to favour x. In this sense goodness ‘passes the normative buck’, i.e. the ability to provide reasons for attitudes, down to the features which make x good, rather than keeping the normative buck, i.e. providing a reason itself

x has certain properties (e.g. is pleasant) → (there are reasons to favour x = x is good)

• The arrow → signifies that being pleasant provides or grounds a reason to favour x, and correspondingly grounds x’s goodness.

[T]he reason why it is proper to admire anything must be constituted by the qualities which make the object of admiration good … The ground [for an attitude] lies not in some other ethical concept, goodness, but in the concrete, factual characteristics of what we pronounce good. Certain characteristics are such that the fitting response to what possesses them is a pro attitude, and that is all there is to it

FA articulates the normativity of goodness and other thin concepts (and obviously of what I called ‘-able’ evaluative concepts). But is it applicable to what I called thick ‘value-maker concepts’? For example, courage makes a person good or admirable, but the property of being courageous may not be the property of having other properties which give reason to admire the courageous person. Courage doesn’t have to pass the buck to courage-making features: it is itself a perfectly good reason to admire somebody. The normativity of these thick evaluative concepts seems to lie in their immediate reason-providing (or good-making) ability, not in their being analysable in FA terms.

Both FA and the buck-passing account then make two central claims:

1 Reduction Claim: value properties such as goodness are reduced to normative relations of fittingness of, or of there being a reason for, attitudes;

2 Normative Redundancy Claim: value properties such as goodness do not themselves provide reasons for attitudes (make attitudes fitting) over and above the good-making features which already provide reasons for attitudes (make attitudes fitting).

The two claims are related.

• If the Reduction Claim is true, then for x to be good is for x to have properties that provide reasons to favour x. Consequently, if x’s goodness were a reason to favour x, such reason would consist in the fact that x has properties that provide reasons to favour x.... but:

‘Why should I favour x?’ The answer ‘because x has properties that provide reasons to favour x’ is very unsatisfying. What we want to know is what reasons there are for favouring x, and all we are told is ‘the fact that there are reasons’. In a reason-giving exchange, at least, mentioning goodness is little or no use. Second, the complex fact about reasons in which goodness consists obviously depends on other properties already providing reasons to favour x: for instance, that x is pleasant. To hold that goodness provides a reason of its own over and above these other features, or on the same standing as them, is to ignore this fundamental dependence.

Imagine again a reason-giving exchange: ‘Why should I favour x?’ ‘Because x is pleasant, and x is good.’ X’s goodness would not add any normative weight to the case for favouring x. The case for favouring x has already been made in order for x to be good. In this sense, if goodness is reduced to a fact about reasons (or about fitting attitudes), goodness would be redundant as a provider of reasons.

On the FA/buck-passing picture, then, value is normative because it just is a normative relation, and not because it is a provider of good reasons or something that itself makes an attitude fitting.

Is there any significant difference between the concepts of fittingness and reasons? Should one choose FA or the buck-passing account? Arguments can be made on either side.

in favor of FA

**first

-to have a reason to do something, one must be able to do it (reason, like ought, implies can), whereas this doesn’t hold for fittingness, since it expresses a more ideal sort of normativity.

we can clearly imagine things being good or bad in a world where there are no agents capable of responding as they have reason to: e.g. the plight of dinosaurs’ extinction was arguably something bad, if non-human pain is bad at all, but nobody could do anything about it, and therefore nobody had reason to do anything about it. This doesn’t change the fact that the plight of dinosaurs merited, even back then, a negative response.

However, it is still true that, in such situations, if there were agents capable of responding, they would have reason to do something about it. So one might simply qualify Scanlon’s account accordingly: Buck-passing 2: x is good = x has the property of having other properties that provide reasons to favour x, or would provide such reasons to suitably situated agents

**second

Another possible reason in favour of fittingness comes from what is known as the wrong kind of reasons problem (WKR).

There can be all sorts of reasons for positive attitudes towards things, people, and situations, which are not good. A commonly used example asks us to imagine that a demon will torture us or the whole humankind if we fail to admire him. It seems that, based on this threat, we have abundant reasons to admire him. If the buckpassing account is true, then it follows that the demon is good. But clearly the demon is evil rather than good, in part precisely because of the threat. His threat is a wrong kind of reason to admire him, because it doesn’t make him good or admirable. Such a reason to admire him does nothing to show the demon’s positive value. So, one reaction to this example might be that, whatever contingent reasons there might be to admire the demon, that doesn’t change the fact that it is unfitting to admire him: a being like the demon simply doesn’t deserve admiration. Fittingness truths might seem to have the sort of fixedness that goes well with truths about value. But buck-passers can again modify their formulation, so as to pick out the right sort of reasons as those that stem from fittingness:

**Buck-passing 3: x is good = x has the property of having other properties that provide reasons of fittingness to favour x, or would provide such reasons to suitably situated agents.

Response to FA : On the other hand, advocates of a buck-passing account might complain that the notion of fittingness really belongs to the evaluative rather than the normative realm. This might be for two reasons:

First, the idea of an ideal match applies also outside of the domain of human responses: a key fits a keyhole, a chord fits a certain melody, a certain trait makes a species fitter for a certain environment, etc. These statements express evaluations of a functional, aesthetical, or biological kind, without directly addressing what anyone should do. Second, there is a similarity between reasons and fittingness that is worth bringing out: certain features of x provide reasons for an attitude towards x or an action, just like an attitude towards x or an action fits certain features of x. In other words, both notions relate objects and their properties with responses. But reasons seem to essentially relate to the agent or the subject of those responses in a way that fittingness need not. Reasons are always reasons for someone to do something, or they are not reasons at all, while a certain attitude might be called fitting prior to being fitting for someone to take. Of course, when appropriate, we can always add some ‘for A’ qualification, but so can we add like qualifications to claims about value: e.g. it is (would be) good of you to act generously. But intuitively we don’t think that goodness requires mention of an agent, even when it is the goodness of an action. So, since normativity has to do with claims addressed to agents, and reasons, but not fittingness, essentially apply to agents, reasons may seem better equipped to express the normativity of value.

However, these remarks are insufficient to make a case in favour of reasons over fittingness. First, the fact that the word ‘fitting’ and related words have other, non-normative uses shouldn’t give us pause, because the same applies to the word ‘reason’. Moreover, the same concept can be expressed by other words like ‘deserved’ or ‘merited’, whose meanings are unmistakeably normative.

Regarding the second remark, there can indeed be an intuitive difference between reason (essentially ‘agential’, belonging to agents) and fittingness. But, for one, it shouldn’t be overstated. The ‘agent’ argument in a reason-predicate often has to be left unfulfilled – whose are the counterfactual reasons to prevent the plight of dinosaurs’ extinction? Do we learn anything normatively significant by assigning those reasons to potential agents? Secondly, the fact, if it is such, that fittingness, like goodness, is not essentially agential might cut both ways. If reasons are relations to agents, and value is not, then a definition of value in terms of reasons looks less promising than one in terms of fittingness, because it would metaphysically require ‘more’ from value than we might have thought: the presence, albeit possibly only counterfactual, of agents. Perhaps we can accept that there is a level of normativity where the specification of an agent or a subject is an inherent possibility (after all, fitting responses will be someone’s responses), but no agent need feature as a separate term of the normative relationship.

I will mostly talk in terms of the fitting attitude account of value, or more precisely, I will speak as if FA provides the true account of the normativity of value. The question whether it is the right account will be directly addressed in the final chapter, where I will consider some objections against FA and possible alternatives to it

Assumptions?

doesn’t FA assume that (1) value judgement is cognitive rather than non-cognitive – a belief about an evaluative matter of fact, rather than a desire or emotion; (2) there 18 VALUE THEORY are evaluative truths; (3) value properties are non-natural properties, since fittingness and the like are non-natural just as goodness and the like? Let’s consider these seeming assumptions in turn.

1- FA does not assume cognitivism, for two reasons. First, FA can be put forward as a general conceptual thesis about the content of value judgements: when we judge that something is good, we also judge (or are committed to judging) that it is fitting to favour it. Scanlon himself sometimes speaks in these terms, and it is notable that Allan Gibbard, a prominent non-cognitivist, accepts accounting for notions such as goodness or wrongness in terms of the rationality (or their being warranted) of certain feelings and attitudes, like approval, admiration, remorse, indignation, etc. (Gibbard 1990). It is then a further question whether these judgements of rationality (or fittingness) are to be understood in non-cognitive terms, e.g. as expressing a non-cognitive state of acceptance of a system of norms that permit certain actions and attitudes (as in Gibbard’s analysis), or as expressing beliefs about matters of fact concerning fitting attitudes (as on a cognitivist approach).

The second reason why FA does not assume cognitivism is that, even if FA were an account of value properties, and thus in turn implicitly suggested a cognitive account of evaluative judgements as beliefs purporting to represent those properties, still non-cognitivism has over the years developed into what Simon Blackburn calls quasi-realism (Blackburn 1984). Quasi-realism is the project of reconstructing (or ‘earning the right to’) such notions as normative truth, properties, belief, and knowledge, working with the scant materials of a non-cognitivist approach and a generally empiricist worldview. Accepting a fitting attitude account of value properties doesn’t seem to make such project any harder than accepting a different account of value. If value is normative, a quasi-realist analysis will deploy whatever resources it already has to reconstruct such a basic feature of value

2- John Mackie’s error theory holds that affirmative propositions about value, when understood as implying objective and categorical demands or reasons, are all false. To speak of objective value, or alternatively of attitudes that are fitting regardless of what anyone’s actual attitudes are like, is to commit oneself to a metaphysically and epistemologically queer view (Mackie 1977). However, FA doesn’t assume the truth of any evaluative proposition. It only means to articulate what evaluative properties would have to be like, if there were any, and so, if any proposition about them were true. 3. Another remark worth making in connection with Mackie relates to the third question about the natural/non-natural distinction. Mackie takes common sense to be committed to the existence of value or fittingness conceived as entities constituting non-natural facts: facts which lie outside the world described by the natural sciences, including psychology, and which therefore require some non-empirical (and, for Mackie, queer) means of accessing and knowing about them. But in fact FA does not presuppose any of all this. FA says nothing about whether value, and therefore the fittingness of attitudes (or reasons for attitudes, as in the buck-passing account) can be understood in naturalistic terms, for instance as depending somehow on an agent’s actual or potential attitudes. The massive mistake imputed by Mackie to common-sense evaluative thinking lies not in FA, but in a certain meta-ethical (ontological and epistemological) understanding of the concepts and properties mentioned in the account.

FA can be taken on board by naturalists, error theorists, and non-cognitivists, not as the ultimate meta-ethical truth about value, but as a general truism about value which one’s theory will aim to explain or otherwise come to terms with. To the extent that FA, or something close enough, is a guiding assumption of this book, there is no reason for all such philosophers to decline their interest in the value-theoretic questions explored here.

1.7 Value theory: The questions

If x is valuable implies that it is fitting to favour x, then we can ask a number of questions:

IT IS FITTING TO FAVOUR X

FOR THE SAKE OF WHAT, OR WHOM? Final/Non-final Value (ch.2) Personal/Impersonal Value (chs 4, 7)

WHY? Intrinsic/Extrinsic Value (ch.2) Organic Unities (ch.5

AS WHAT? Absolute/Relative Value (ch.3)

HOW AND HOW MUCH? Respect, Promote, Prefer … (ch.7)

BY WHOM? Agent-neutral/Agentrelative Value (ch.4)

MORE/LESS THAN Y? Value Relations, Comparability (ch.6)

To the extent that we justify actions and attitudes in terms of some value they produce or express, we do not normally need to reach for fundamental, basic, or ultimate values. But certainly there are plenty of contexts where our attention focuses on a deeper dimension of value. For instance, many of us would take a critical attitude towards a businessman intent on accumulating money exclusively for the sake of it, quite regardless of how money impacts on other aspects of his life. The feeling is that money, however important it may be, is the sort of thing to be valued not for its own sake, but for the sake of something else; at any rate, it cannot be the only thing to be valued for its own sake.

Conversely, someone who appears to treat their own children exclusively as potential workforce for the family would be the target of blame: whether or not people can have some #instrumental_value, few of us believe that one’s own children can be regarded exclusively as potential workforce. In these and similar examples, our criticism is based on an intuitive distinction between what is valuable for its own sake (one’s own children) and what is instrumentally valuable (money).

The aim of this chapter is to make distinctions between value concepts which are often not distinguished, either within philosophy or in ordinary value talk: final value, exclusively final value, unconditional value, intrinsic value, necessary/essential value. The idea is to alert the reader to the importance of keeping these concepts separate.

I provide some defence for the idea that something can be valuable for its own sake (i.e. finally valuable, the sense in which one’s children are valuable and money arguably is not), and yet doesn’t have to be unconditionally valuable, nor must it owe its value to its intrinsic properties. This idea is worth exploring, since it has been assumed by most philosophers that what is valuable for its own sake can only be valuable in itself, that is, in isolation from other things, and not conditionally on other values.

#Final_value, according to this tradition, must be the stopping place of our evaluations, or is not really ‘final’. I will argue that this tradition, which has a distinguished history and has recently been revived, considerably restricts the ways in which it is appropriate to value things, and depends on a questionable assumption on what it means to be ‘final’.

I also explain why we should distinguish merely instrumental extrinsic value from other forms of extrinsic value.

2.2 Final and unconditional value: Some philosophical examples

How are we sure that Aristotle, Kant, Bentham, and Mill are talking about the same thing? First, despite different terminologies, eudaimonia, pleasure, good will, or happiness are all contrasted with things that are ‘good for the sake of something else’, that is to say, things that are good because they stand in a certain (typically but not necessarily) instrumental relation to the former items. For example, from a hedonist point of view, health is good insofar as it produces, facilitates, or simply contains experiences of pleasure, or prevents painful experiences. Devoid of such relationships to pain and pleasure, health would be neither good nor bad. Second, they all mean to pick out what can be described as final values.

Something is #finally_valuable when it is valuable for its own sake, that is, as suggested in Chapter 1, when we have reason or it is fitting to favour or value it for its own sake. The idea is fully normative: something that is finally valuable deserves, as such, a certain kind of treatment.

One is the concept of something that is not only finally valuable, but #exclusively_finally_valuable**: all the value it has or could ever have is final value. This is what after all for Aristotle sets eudaimonia apart from things like reason and virtue, which are finally valuable but not exclusively finally valuable, since they are valuable also for contributing to other things, such as happiness. and Kant agrees with this.

And the same goes for hedonists: of course a particular experience of pleasure could give us further future pleasures, and to that extent be instrumentally as well as finally good, but there is no non-pleasure-related state which might make an experience of pleasure additionally valuable in this way. **So, alongside contrasting final to non-final values, these philosophers meant to pick out exclusively vs. non-exclusively final values.

It is important to note, however, that the search for exclusively final value is not inevitable. Those who hold a pluralist axiology, whereby at least two things are finally valuable – e.g. pleasure and virtue – would have no problem admitting that virtue is both finally valuable, and also valuable when and because it produces pleasure, and vice versa for pleasure. One such example is W. D. Ross’s axiology, which includes innocent pleasure, knowledge, and virtue as final values (2002 [1930]).

Exclusively final value thus is a notion that only monist axiologies require: if there is no other final value than V, then there is nothing else for the sake of which V could be valuable. Of course, if you are a pluralist, you might still believe that each of your chosen two (or more) final values is exclusively finally good: e.g. that the value of virtue cannot be enhanced by pleasure or vice versa. But the monist needs to believe in a value that is exclusively final.

A second notion implicit in the quotations above is that those final values are also unconditional values, in the sense that their value does not presuppose the value of anything else. Again, if you are monist, e.g. you think that pleasure is the only final value around, then it follows that the value of pleasure cannot depend on the value of anything else. For an example of a conditional value, Kant famously mentions happiness: someone’s happiness is valuable only if they are worthy of it (due to their good will). In this sense, Kant denies that happiness as such is valuable for its own sake. It is a problematic question whether Kant thereby counts as a monist, since in some interpretations it appears that now two things are finally valuable: good will (unconditionally), and deserved happiness (conditionally on the value of good will)

For a different example, consider a valuable relationship such as friendship. Friends are usually disposed to help each other out, and they take pleasure or derive happiness from their relationship. Plausibly, if their happiness and altruistic dispositions had no value, their friendship would have no value either. In this sense, the value of friendship is not unconditional. But this does not mean that we are to value friendship simply for the sake of these other things (happiness, altruistic action)

Similarly, the value of altruistic action itself can plausibly be said to presuppose the goodness of happiness and the badness of suffering: if suffering were not bad, there would be no merit in alleviating others’ suffering. But this, again, does not mean that altruism is to be admired and encouraged simply for the sake of minimizing suffering. In sum, goods like friendship, altruism, or happiness (in Kant’s view) can be finally valuable and yet (unlike Aristotle’s eudaimonia or Kant’s good will) not unconditionally so.

But this is a dependence on factual, rather than evaluative, conditions: enabling conditions of this sort do not refer to the value of being mentally sophisticated or the value of there being people around. In this sense, an unconditional final value can and normally does depend on factual conditions:

nobody can have a good will if they are not sufficiently mentally sophisticated creatures. Being a mentally sophisticated creature is a necessary condition for someone to have a good will, and therefore for the value of the good will to be instantiated. Moreover, plausibly nobody can be a mentally sophisticated creature in isolation from others (say, their parents): there being other people around is another necessary condition for the value of good will. But this is a dependence on factual, rather than evaluative, conditions.

Any experience we may have depends on us being alive: dead people have no experiences. Therefore also the value of our experiences (e.g. our pleasures) depends on us being alive. But it does not follow that experiences are valuable for the sake of being alive. Rather, being alive appears valuable, if at all, for the sake of the experiences it makes possible. The value of being alive (as an enabling condition) is therefore non-final.

2.3 Intrinsic value and final value

The phrases ‘for its own sake’ and ‘in itself’ naturally suggest a further consideration: what makes these things finally valuable must somehow be found ‘in’ the valuable thing, rather than in something totally or partially ‘outside’ it. This is why such values have historically been called intrinsic, and therefore contrasted with extrinsic ones. G. E. Moore so defines intrinsic value: ‘To say that a kind of value is ‘intrinsic’ means merely that the question whether a thing possesses it, and in what degree it possesses it, depends solely on the intrinsic nature of the thing in question’ (1993 [1922]: 286). And in order to determine what has intrinsic value, he devised the so-called isolation test: ‘it is necessary to consider what things are such that, if they existed by themselves, in absolute isolation, we should yet judge their existence to be good’ (1993 [1903]: 236). Now, certain things just cannot exist in absolute isolation: e.g. a state of pleasure necessarily has a subject and (at least for some sorts of pleasures) an object (what it is pleasure at). So the test seems unserviceable as it stands: we cannot coherently imagine a world containing states of pleasures but no subject and no object of those pleasures. However, in the light of Moore’s definition of intrinsic value, we can propose an amended isolation test: in order to determine the intrinsic value of x, we have to focus on x’s intrinsic nature alone, and on that basis see if we judge x to be good – presumably, this is something we can do with pleasures and other states.

But is all final value intrinsic value? So did Moore assume. And until not long ago, such a question might have sounded otiose. If something is to be valued for its own sake, then it seemed obvious that what makes it worth valuing in such a way must be found in the intrinsic nature of the object. And if what makes something worth valuing is to be found partly ‘outside’ the object itself, then it seems that the value of the object cannot be final.

Equating final with intrinsic is not necessary

final/non-final refers to the correct or appropriate way of valuing something, while intrinsic/extrinsic refers to the metaphysical location of the good-making properties of something. So a Moorean view which equates final and intrinsic value need not be obviously true.

In particular, many believe that final values can be extrinsic: objects which are valuable for their own sake partly thanks to their relations to other objects.

1. For a more concrete example: a particular fur coat might be regarded as valuable for its own sake, as an outstanding piece of handicraft, yet so only assuming an appropriate evaluative background. If fur coats were not in general instrumentally valuable for protection against the cold they provide, this particular coat could not have any value, let alone any final value. (. In other words, intrinsic value need not be metaphysically mind-independent value 1983 as Korsgaard mentions)

2. Another case is where final value might be enhanced by an object’s relational properties: a fine work of art, beautiful and thus already valuable on account of its intrinsic features, might have its value increased by its being a unique or rare piece (a kind of relational property, since it implies the absence of other things, or many other things, like it). And such uniqueness or rarity need not make the object additionally valuable simply in instrumental terms, say because it increases its economic value, or because it provides particular pleasure to viewers or owners.

3. Yet another case is where the final value of an object does not just counterfactually depend on the value of something else, but results from or is exhaustively grounded on some relation to other objects. Uniqueness or rarity can give an otherwise unremarkable item (say, a stamp) a new final value. A certain type of car might have the ability to race at unusually high speed: this relational, indeed causal, feature may conceivably make the car valuable (e.g. worth maintaining) for its own sake. Were it not for this feature, the car would simply have the instrumental, non-final value that most other cars have. So in these cases, final value is extrinsic in two ways: first, it is grounded in relational properties of the object, and second, such relational properties make the object finally valuable only on the condition of something else than the object itself being valuable.

If these examples are persuasive, then final value can be extrinsic. It also follows that we cannot always apply Moore’s isolation test to discover what has final value. Remember that we had to imagine the object in isolation from any other thing. Then we would miss the final value of Napoleon’s hat, since we would ignore who the hat belonged to, and likewise the final value of a rare stamp, since we would ignore how many other stamps like it are around. We would miss the additional value of a unique artwork, since we wouldn’t know that there are no other exemplars of that. We would miss the final value of the fur coat, since we would have to ignore the point of producing and wearing fur coats. And we would possibly mistake the final value of any given friendship, since we wouldn’t know if it is actually good for the friends – we would ignore an external condition for its final value.

2.4 The reduction to facts

Given the plethora of examples available, it seems that the burden of proof lies on those who take final value to be always intrinsic value, i.e. value which depends only on an object’s intrinsic features. How could one hope to show that?

One strategy starts from the question: what are the real bearers of value, i.e. what sorts of entities really have value? Most of the examples assume that individual objects (coats, hats, stamps …) are the sort of entities that can have final value. The strategy invites us to reconsider this assumption.

It seems that we could, in principle, always understand or translate the putative extrinsic final value of an individual object in terms of the final value of a fact, or a state of affairs, which includes the object together with the relevant relational properties. For example, the final value of Napoleon’s hat can be seen as really the final value of the fact that (F1) there is a hat which belonged to Napoleon. Alternatively, it could be seen as the final value of the fact that (F2) this hat belonged to Napoleon. Either F1 or F2 would be both worth valuing for its own sake, and in virtue of their intrinsic or internal properties: that the hat belonged to Napoleon is indeed what these facts are all about, be it F1 or F2. So this translation strategy, or move from objects to facts, would give the result that a Moorean needs: a picture where final value is always intrinsic. Similar moves can be made, in principle, with other putative cases of extrinsic final value

It is interesting to note that the F2-style translation, which avoids the existential commitment, is perhaps preferable to F1 for two reasons. First, it is not obvious that to value something for its own sake always means to value its existence. This might work for artefacts which are worth preserving (and thus keeping into existence), but what about wishing a painless death to our sick dog as a way of valuing him for his own sake? Second, precisely this point shows that in general we value the existence of x only if we value x in the first place. F1-style translation instead sees valuing x’s existence as a prior condition on valuing x, so it seems to get things the wrong way around.

Why can’t we be happy with final values that are extrinsic? One immediate reason might be simplicity. Extrinsic final values give us a less unified picture of how value comes into existence. And, as we have seen, we wouldn’t be able to use Moore’s isolation test, which might have given us a handy procedure to look for the things to care about for their own sake. A more theoretical reason, suggested by Michael Zimmerman (2005: 194), is that if there are long stories to be told about, e.g. why Napoleon’s hat is a valuable thing, i.e. stories that must refer to values other than the value of the hat itself, then what we have is at most a derivative value. But final values, in principle, should rather play the role of ‘endpoint values’: once we reach them, no helpful explanation of them can be given, except saying that they are good ‘as such’ – i.e. ‘for their own sake’. That’s why extrinsic values of the sort indicated above cannot be final values for Zimmerman: explanation (or rather justification) does not stop at them. Only values that are intrinsic can play such an endpoint role, because there’s no looking beyond them to explain why they are valuable. And it seems that only facts, and not individual objects, can be guaranteed to play this double role of carrying final, i.e. non-derivative, and intrinsic value.

We obviously do not only evaluate objects or persons, but also facts or situations: we say that it is good that this and that happened, or that it would be better if that did not happen, and so on. And it also matches with the idea that many of our fitting responses to value are what are generally called propositional attitudes, such as desire or preference, e.g. desiring that the war end.

If, as claimed in Chapter 1, values must be the sort of things towards which fitting responses can be directed, then it is easy to see why values at least could consist in proposition-like entities, such as facts or states of affairs.

However, the reduction manoeuvre is not easily accomplished. I will mention two challenges.

First, since the strategy has to be carried out for the whole spectrum of final values, its proponents are committed to the claim that only propositional attitudes are fitting responses to final value. If final values are all facts such as F2, then it seems that attitudes, such as respect, preservation, or certain forms of love, which are thing- or person-oriented, rather than fact-oriented, cannot be appropriate responses to final values. We respect and love individual people (or animals), and this is a different attitude than loving that such people have this or that characteristic. We want to preserve Napoleon’s hat, rather than the fact that it belonged to Napoleon – indeed, preserving the latter seems to make almost no sense. According to the reduction manoeuvre, thing- or person-oriented attitudes might still be in some sense fitting to their objects, but they won’t match with final value: final value will rather belong to the sorts of states which we can value by a relevant propositional attitude. So the fittingness of preserving Napoleon’s hat will reduce, it seems, to the fittingness of valuing or cherishing F2, the fact that the hat belonged to Napoleon. While this latter example may give some plausibility to the strategy (after all preserving the hat is a way of valuing F2), it is not equally clear that, e.g. respect and love for individual persons can always be seen as fitting because of the fittingness of a kind of respect and love towards some fact about these persons. In a sentence, the reduction of finally valuable things to finally valuable facts commits one to a reduction of fitting responses (to final value) to fact-oriented attitudes, and the latter reduction might be hard to sustain, given the variety in the kind of responses that we normally identify as ‘valuing for its own sake’. Perhaps then bearers of final value are just as various as our responses: ‘We value many different kinds of things, including at least the following: objects and their properties (such as beauty), persons, skills and talents, states of character, actions, accomplishments, activities and pursuits, relationships, and ideals’ (Scanlon 1998: 95)

Second, the theoretical justification suggested by Zimmerman for regarding all final value as intrinsic is weak. There is no initial reason to think that final values, understood as things worth valuing for their own sake, also need to play the role of non-derivative or endpoint values, in the sense that no explanation of their value can be given, except pointing to their own intrinsic nature. Conceptually, we are again dealing with different notions: final value, which refers to the appropriate way of responding to something, and non-derivative value, a structural-metaphysical notion. Consider again friendship. The value of friendship, and thus the respect a particular friendship deserves from third parties, can be partly explained by reference to other values: the mutual desire for happiness that friends typically have is good; the happiness thus achieved is also good; and, at least on some views, friends must make each other happy by and large in morally permissible ways. The value of friendship then is not an ‘endpoint’ value, because appreciating the value of any given friendship is not independent of appreciating the value of other things (happiness, morality). But valuing, e.g. respecting, a particular friendship on the condition that it doesn’t involve immoral conduct, obviously does not mean valuing it for the sake of something else, namely moral permissibility. One can recognize a value as conditional on other values, and in this sense ‘derivative’, and still fittingly care about it for its own sake. What does seem to be true is that, if a final value is derivative or conditional on other values, then this reflects on the appropriateness of responses. If I care about Napoleon’s hat for its own sake, but show otherwise utter indifference towards Napoleon’s sword, or indeed to objects belonging to comparable historical figures (say, Sitting Bull’s war bonnet), then my valuing is not of the fitting kind, precisely because it is insensitive to the structure of the final value towards which it is directed (assuming, of course, that the hat is only valuable for its historical connection). But such interrelation among fitting attitudes does not subtract anything from the final value of the object – it is not as if its value gets ‘thinned out’ in the network of attitudes required towards similar objects.

essential values, i.e. values which depend on the essential properties of the valuable object. It is an essential property of F2 that it concerns Napoleon’s hat and its having belonged to Napoleon: a different hat or a different owner would make up a different fact. In general, a fact like ‘that x is P’ has the essential property of concerning x, or ascribing P to x. If a fact is valuable because of such intrinsic property, then it is also essentially valuable. In this sense, final values turn out to be incorruptible, that is, they remain constant for as long as their bearer remains what it is. It is a good question, to say the least, whether it is a defensible consequence of such a view that only unconditional and essential values are really worth valuing for their own sake, whereas values that are had conditionally or contingently do not deserve that same kind of response.

2.5 Intrinsic and conditional value

Having defended the possibility of final extrinsic values, we can now also clarify the relations between intrinsic/extrinsic and unconditional/conditional value.

Unconditionally good things do not depend on the value of anything else. Therefore whatever it is that makes them good must be looked for among their intrinsic properties: in their intrinsic nature. As said, even unconditional values might depend on factual enabling conditions: the unconditional value of pleasure depends on the subject being alive. Now, such enabling conditions can be intrinsic or extrinsic properties of the valuable object. i.e there being other people around might be a factual extrinsic condition for the value of a good friend.

But this doesn’t mean that therefore the good will has an unconditional extrinsic value. This is because Moore’s definition of intrinsic value and the amended isolation test for it presuppose that whatever necessary conditions for x to exist. and be intelligible as such, be they intrinsic or extrinsic properties of x, have already been counted in. So, for instance, it would make no sense to apply Moore’s test to the good will, and conclude that the good will has no intrinsic value because one instance of the good will in a world without other agents would strike us as valueless. Rather, when we apply the test, we should imagine a world where necessary conditions for a good will to exist and be intelligible as such are taken for granted (such as the existence of other people besides the agent). Factual dependence on external conditions doesn’t make a value extrinsic.

What about conditional value? Here a certain object x is dependent for its value on the value ‘of something else’. Now, this ‘something else’ can be intrinsically or extrinsically related to x. Earlier I considered the value of a friendship, and suggested that it may depend not only on whether it produces happiness for both friends, but on whether such happiness is indeed good for them or more generally valuable. Happiness, and its value, are in this way extrinsically related to any given friendship: when we apply Moore’s test on friendship, its producing valuable happiness or not is one of those facts we should abstract from, because it is not a necessary condition for any friendship to exist – friendship can produce misery as well as happiness. So the value of friendship appears to be conditional and extrinsic (but not for these reasons non-final, as argued above).

On the other hand, if the ‘something else’ is intrinsically related to x, then x has conditional but intrinsic value. A good example is offered by Thomas Hurka’s theory of virtues, in which virtues are attitudes of this form: ‘loving (desiring, etc.) the good for its own sake’ and ‘hating (avoiding, etc.) the bad for its own sake’ (Hurka 2001). Virtues are therefore second-order final values. Their structure makes their value at once conditional, because it presupposes the first-order value of the objects of love and hate, but also intrinsic, since it is an intrinsic feature of a virtue that it involves an attitude towards the good or the bad.

The crucial point from this discussion is that intrinsic value can be conditional value. This is significant, since it is easy to confuse the two notions: it is natural to wonder, how can something’s value be intrinsic, belong to ‘the thing itself’, if it depends on the value of something else? But just like we shouldn’t assume final value to be necessarily intrinsic, so should we not assume that intrinsic value is always unconditional.

2.6 Elimination of extrinsic value?

There is a lingering concern with extrinsic values. If x owes its value to the value of something else y, then the worry is that x really has no value at all. Some philosophers are tempted to draw this conclusion when considering extrinsic value of the instrumental sort. Thus Ross on the value of acts: ‘Whatever value [an act] has independently of its motive is instrumental value, i.e. not goodness at all, but the property of producing something that is good’ (2002 [1930]: 133, my emphasis). There is a sense in which the act does not contribute any value to the world. In computing how much value the world contains, we are not going to add instrumental value on top of whatever value the act has caused. A world where the same valuable states of affairs occur through other means would contain the same amount of value (other things being equal). Hence the act is good-causing, but not literally good.

But could we draw eliminativist conclusions for all extrinsic value? For instance, some philosophers speak of ‘signatory value’: an X-ray is signatorily good if it indicates something else that is good (e.g. that the tumour has gone). (X-rays of course are in general also instrumentally good, as aids to medical knowledge.) Or there can be ‘contributory value’: a certain motif in a painting is good in this sense if it contributes to the (aesthetic) value of the painting as a whole. It is good ‘as a part’. It would be tedious to recount all forms of extrinsic value, because it would require drawing a list of all relevant relations: causing, being a sign of, being a part of a whole, being historically connected to (as in Napoleon’s hat), etc. But the question now is: if we grant that one sort of relation (instrumental) to value means that an object (an act, say) really is valueless, why not generalize and conclude that the concept of extrinsic value is, at best, a handy way of talking about value, but does not capture a genuine evaluative reality? And if extrinsic value doesn’t capture a genuine evaluative reality, then a fortiori all final value must be intrinsic.

not all extrinsic value can be eliminated like that. The argument for elimination assumes that what has instrumental value does not contribute any value over and above the value of its causal consequences. However, this does not seem to apply to the cases of extrinsic final values considered above. First, it is true that Napoleon’s hat has no value apart from its historical connection. But Napoleon’s hat contributes value precisely in being an exemplar of a supposedly valuable category of things – objects (maybe of a certain kind) that belonged to important historical figures. Destroy the hat, and you have directly reduced the amount of value contributed by this category. On the other hand, once you imagine away acts and in general things that only have instrumental value – while keeping constant the amount of valuable states of affairs they would otherwise produce – you will not have diminished in the slightest the amount of value in that world.

Second, regarding values such as friendship which are conditional on external factors, the elimination argument would work if it were true that the fact of friendship would contribute no value, over and above the value contributed by other facts which are conditions for friendship’s value (e.g. mutual happiness produced within a friendship). But it is hard to see how to show this much. While it might be held that a given friendship loses in positive value if it makes one or both friends worse off, what loses in value is the complex of expectations, mutual feelings, shared history, etc., which define friendship for what it is, and which – prior to philosophical arguments to the contrary – constitute its final value and its specific valuable contribution ‘to the amount of value in the world’. Of course some philosophers (e.g. hedonists) would be ready to make the substantive claim that friendship is only instrumentally valuable, e.g. insofar as it promotes the general happiness. But this move would not be acceptable, since here we were looking at possible reasons why extrinsic values are eliminable (and a fortiori non-final) qua extrinsic. It seems that no general argument for elimination can be found.

In this chapter I have distinguished several pairs of value concepts:

• final vs. non-final value: what is fitting to favour for its own sake vs. what is fitting to favour for the sake of something else;
• exclusively final vs. non-exclusively final value: what is fitting to favour only for its own sake vs. what is fitting to favour for its own sake and for the sake of something else;
• unconditional vs. conditional value: what is fitting to favour (for its own sake) independently of whether it is fitting to favour something else vs. what is fitting to favour (for its own sake or not) not independently of whether it is fitting to favour something else;
• intrinsic vs. extrinsic value: what is fitting to favour because of its intrinsic properties vs. what is fitting to favour (for its own sake or not) partly because of its extrinsic properties;
• essential/necessary vs. contingent value: what is fitting to favour in all possible worlds where it occurs vs. what is fitting to favour in some but not all possible worlds where it occurs.

In particular, I have suggested that final value need not be unconditional value, and criticized a strategy to equate intrinsic and final value based on the idea that only facts or states of affairs are bearers of final value. Since the resulting view is that there can be final extrinsic values, then I had to defuse a worry that the very category of extrinsic value could be dispensed with.

[[01- Preface Creationism]] [[1-Creation and Evolution of a Controversy]] [[2- The Evidence for Evolution]]

Representative Tom DeLay, House leader and one of the most powerful people in Congress, has asserted, ‘‘Only Christianity offers a way to live in response to the realities we find in this world—only Christianity.’’ As Krugman goes on to note: ‘‘After the Columbine school shootings, Mr. DeLay suggested that the tragedy had occurred, INTRODUCTION 5 ‘because our school systems teach our children that they are nothing but glorified apes who have evolutionized [sic] out of some primordial mud.’ Guns don’t kill people, Charles Darwin kills people’’ (New York Times, December 17, 2002). Thus we see that the current assaults on science education in the United States are really the tip of a much larger religious fundamentalist iceberg, an iceberg capable of sinking rather more than school curricula

*The result has been termed stealth creationism—the less God is mentioned explicitly, the more likely it is that intelligent design theory will eventually fly under secular legal radar and bomb an increasingly fragile system of public education.

Kent Hovind, for example, who runs Creation Science Ministries in Florida and promulgates theories favored by the antigovernment groups, maintains, ‘‘Democracy is evil and contrary to God’s law’’ (Intelligence Report, Southern Poverty Law Center, Summer 2001, Issue 102

**- *while *virtually all creation scientists are united in their opposition to secular evolutionary biology (and many are equally repelled by theistic versions of evolution, such as those versions of evolutionary thought that see in evolutionary phenomena the unfolding of God’s plan), they disagree among themselves on a wide array of other matters. *

In fact, by seeing the biblical chronology and the events and peoples depicted in the Bible as true and accurate depictions of history, these creationists must also reject many well-established archaeological facts about human history (Davies 1992, 1998; Finkelstein and Silberman 2001; Thompson 1999).

While young Earth creationists take the biblical chronology very literally, they are forced to go to fanciful lengths to accommodate modern scientific discoveries. For example, the story of Noah’s Ark looms large in many of these religious fantasies, where it is often presented as a genuine zoological rescue mission. In some versions, even the dinosaurs entered the ark two by two. We are told that humans and dinosaurs lived together and that the Grand Canyon was scooped out by a tidal wave during the Great Flood. Mount Ararat, the resting place for Noah’s Ark (the Holy Grail sought by numerous creationist expeditions to modern Turkey)

Henry Morris of ICR has said of evolution that ‘‘the entire monstrous complex was revealed to Nimrod at Babel and perhaps by Satan himself.... Satan is the originator of the concept of evolution’’ (1974, 74–75).

the Turkish experience can be seen as a warning of the dangers that accompany efforts by religious extremists who are bent on the destruction of a secular government.

Turkish scholars U ¨mit Sayin and Aykut Kence have noted of the BAV (the Turkish counterpart of the ICR) that: BAV has a long history of contact with American creationists, including receiving assistance from ICR. Duane Gish and Henry Morris visited Turkey in 1992, just after the establishment of BAV, and participated in a creationist conference in Istanbul. Morris, the former head of ICR, became well acquainted with Turkish fundamentalists and Islamic sects during his numerous trips to Turkey in search of Noah’s Ark. BAV’s creationist conferences in April and June 1998 in Istanbul and Ankara, which included many US creationists, developed after Harun Yahya started to publish his anti-evolution books, which were delivered to the public free of charge or given away by daily fundamentalist newspapers. (1999, 25). According to Arthur Shapiro (1999), the links between the ICR and Islamic extremists in Turkey were forged as part of a strategy by extremists in Turkey to undermine the nation’s secular government. Shapiro has shown that ICR materials have been adapted to Islamic ends as part of a concerted attack on secular science in particular and secular belief in general.

For this reason, if some people commit terrorism using the concepts and symbols of Islam, Christianity and Judaism in the name of those religions, you can be sure that those people are not Muslims, Christians or Jews. They are real Social Darwinists. They hide under the cloak of religion, but they are not genuine believers....That is because they are ruthlessly committing a crime that religion forbids, and in such a way as to blacken religion in peoples’ eyes. For this reason the root of terrorism that plagues our planet is not any of the divine religions, but is in atheism, and the expression of atheism in our times: ‘‘Darwinism’’ and ‘‘materialism.’’ (2001, 19–20) Muzaffar Iqbal, president of the Center for Islam and Science, has recently endorsed work by intelligent design theorist William Dembski.

I will argue that there are two fundamental kinds of design argument. One concerns complex, adapted structures and processes in biology; the other concerns the universe as a whole. Both arguments involve topics about which there are gaps in our current scientific knowledge. I will show how the argument from design, far from being undercut by the rise of modern science, was in fact bolstered by it. I will also discuss some early critical reactions to the argument due, among others, to David Hume and Immanuel Kant.

Intelligent design theorists make much of naturalism and its deficiencies. But it is unclear whether the natural sciences, as opposed to particular natural scientists with extrascientific agendas, are actually committed to naturalist philosophy. Scientists do tend to focus on the search for natural causes for effects of interest, but perhaps this involves less of a prior commitment to a naturalistic philosophy (most scientists in my experience— exceptions duly noted—couldn’t give a hoot for philosophy anyway) and is more a reflection of the collective experience of scientists of all stripes over the last 300 years of modern science. We simply have not seen convincing evidence for conclusions supporting the operation of supernatural causes in nature. On this view, while scientists do not categorically reject the possibility of supernatural causation, they do not take it seriously at present either, primarily because of a complete lack of convincing evidence. On this view, the naturalism of the natural sciences may be methodological, reflecting long experience sifting evidence to support causal explanations, rather than philosophical or metaphysical,

In chapter 5, I will present some recent and influential biochemical arguments that have been put forward, by Michael Behe and others, to justify the conclusion of intelligent design. Since biochemistry was essentially an unborn fetus in the body of science in Darwin’s day, it is certainly possible that these new arguments are not simply old wine in new bottles but represent a substantial challenge to evolutionary biology. The issue here will hinge on the concept of irreducible complexity, a special type of biological complexity that has been alleged to resist an explanation in evolutionary terms. The biochemical design arguments, as well as their broader implications, will be subject to critical scrutiny. In the course of this analysis, it will be shown how irreducible complexity could have evolved, and some relevant evidence will be discussed.

Its central proponents are often academics with credentials from, and positions at, reputable universities. They are most assuredly not the cranks and buffoons of the church hall debating circuit of yesteryear who led the early assaults on science and science education. But the ultimate aim is the same.

The proponents of intelligent design are openly pursuing what they call a wedge strategy. First, get intelligent design taught alongside the natural sciences. Once the wedge has found this crack and gained respectability, it can be driven ever deeper to transform the end of the educational enterprise itself into a system more open with respect to its aim of religious instruction. As the wedge is driven still deeper, it is hoped that the consequent cracks will spread to other institutions, such as our legal and political institutions. At the fat end of the wedge lurks the specter of a fundamentalist Christian theocracy. This book, however, is about the thin end of the wedge: supernatural science. Ultimately, it is about two basic questions: Is intelligent design theory a scientific theory? Is there any credible evidence to support its claims?

The debate in the legislature made Tennessee an international laughingstock. My debate took place about ninety miles from Dayton, Tennessee, where the infamous Scopes trial occurred, thereby showing that even those who know history are condemned to repeat it—again and again!

This is a challenge that needs to be taken seriously and not dismissed. Accordingly, my colleague Karl Joplin and I have been engaged in a series of academic exchanges in various journals with biochemist Michael Behe, the author of Darwin’s Black Box: The Biochemical Challenge to Evolution (see Behe 2000, 2001a; Shanks and Joplin 1999, 2000, 2001a, 2001b). I have also had an exchange with academic lawyer Phillip Johnson in the pages of the journal Metascience (Johnson 2000b; Shanks 2000). Johnson and Behe are the leading lights of the modern intelligent design movement in the United States (they are both senior members of the Discovery Institute)

Darwinian natural selection, which, contrary to a deplorably widespread misconception, is the very antithesis of a chance process, is the only known mechanism that is ultimately capable of generating improbable complexity out of simplicity.

‘‘Irreducible complexity’’ is nothing more than the familiar ‘‘What is the use of half an eye?’’ argument, even if it is now applied at the biochemical or the cellular level. And ‘‘specified complexity’’ just takes care of the point that any old haphazard pattern is as improbable as any other, with hindsight. A heap of detached watch parts tossed in a box is, with hindsight, as improbable as a fully functioning, genuinely complicated watch. As I put it in The Blind Watchmaker, ‘‘complicated things have some quality, specifiable in advance, that is highly unlikely to have been acquired by random chance alone. In the case of living things, the quality that is specified in advance is, in some sense, ‘proficiency’; either proficiency in a particular ability such as flying, as an aero-engineer might admire it; or proficiency in something more general, such as the ability to stave off death....’

It is obviously futile to try to explain it simply by specifying even greater complexity. Darwinism really does explain it in terms of something simpler—which in turn is explained in terms of something simpler still and so on back to primeval simplicity. Design may be the temporarily correct explanation for some particular manifestation of specified complexity such as a car or a washing machine (prior probability)

So all those calculations with which creationists love to browbeat their naı ¨ve audiences—the mega-astronomical odds against an entity spontaneously coming into existence by chance—are actually exercises in eloquently shooting themselves in the foot. It leaps straight from the difficulty—‘‘I can’t see any solution to the problem’’—to the cop-out—‘‘Therefore a Higher Power must have done it.’’

Though not always strictly Fundamentalist, creationists typically hold a literal reading of the Bible. They believe that there is only one correct interpretation of scripture—their own—and only one true stairway leading up the Tower to God. In public debates creationists often reject any explicit discussion of religion, insisting that they present only an alternative scientific position; but in their own literature, they make it clear that they are engaged in a religious battle for the hearts and minds of those who have fallen away from God and who would lead their children away from the true path to salvation.

Secular humanists and a few atheistic scientists are the most easily identified among the enemy because they wear their non Christian colors openly. But creationists also believe that the tower to heaven is put at risk by people who may think of themselves as Christian but who have compromised the integrity of their faith by accepting the scientific, evolutionary history of life, in opposition to the record of creation revealed in Genesis. The question of "origins," as creationists term the issue, lies at the very center of their theology.

Bible says but rather have been produced by evolutionary processes, then Scripture loses its authority as revealed truth and with it crumbles the ground of religion, morality, and the possibility of salvation after death through Jesus Christ. On their view, the teachings of Christianity and the theory of evolution are strictly incompatible. What this means is that those who accept evolution are either deceived or are not "true" Christians. The creationism controversy is not just about the status of Darwinian evolution—it is about a clash of religious and philosophical worldviews.

One reason that creationism is gaining adherents despite its fringe theology is that creationists have positioned themselves as part of the socalled Religious Right and so typically promote a conservative political agenda, especially on social issues. However, political terms like "liberal" and "conservative" do not adequately differentiate the camps because although creationists certainly would reject liberal Christianity, they also would reject the theological views of many politically conservative Christians. Some creationists now try to portray themselves as advocating only a tolerant ecumenical notion of "mere creation," echoing C. S. Lewis's notion of ''mere Christianity"—but scratch this surface and one finds a strict orthodoxy.

Creationists disagree vehemently among themselves about the theological details of what counts as a proper interpretation of Scripture, and since biblical interpretation drives their physical picture of the universe, we find a fascinating array of conflicting views. Chapter 1 takes a look inside the Tower and describes some of these internal struggles, showing how they are transforming creationism.

Chapter 2 provides an introduction to the elements of evolutionary theory and reviews some of the evidence upon which the theory is based, beginning with Darwin's own studies that led him to reject his earlier creationist views. It also begins to consider some of the major arguments that creationists give against evolution—that it supposedly violates the second law of thermodynamics, and that chance processes could not produce the world's complex and useful biological structures.

I take a new tack. Rather than discussing the evolution of organisms I talk about the evolution of languages. Linguistic evolution has strong theoretical parallels with biological evolution both in content and in the sort of evidence scientists use to draw conclusions about it; but it is also pointedly relevant to creationism, in that Genesis tells us that languages did not evolve but were specially created by God in the great confusion of tongues at the Tower of Babel

After I started teaching, I was interested in creationism only as a pedagogically useful case study—until a series of events stimulated me to begin to take the subject more seriously

The first event was a creationist talk sponsored by a campus Christian group at the University of Texas at Austin. As I recall, I attended because I was teaching my course on the relationship of science and religion, "God and the Scientist," which included a section on creationism, and I wanted to hear if any of the standard arguments had changed. Indeed they had. What I heard was the argument of one Phillip Johnson, a professor from the University of California at Berkeley, who rehearsed just a few variations of the standard complaints but then launched into an indirect attack upon evolution by way of an attack on philosophical naturalism. The edifice of evolutionary theory had no supporting evidence, he claimed, but was merely scientific dogma propped up by a speculative philosophy

I also attended a symposium held at Southern Methodist University (S.M.U.) in March 1992 which featured a "debate" between Johnson and Michael Ruse, a renowned philosopher of biology who had played a key role as an expert witness in the important 1982 Arkansas trial that had overturned legislation mandating "balanced treatment" of creationism and evolution in the state's public schools. The daylong symposium was titled "Darwinism: Scientific Inference or Philosophical Preference?" and here I encountered for the first time a group of creationists—Michael Behe, William Dembski, Stephen Meyer and others—who followed Johnson's lead in attacking evolution as flimsy naturalistic philosophy and in advocating a new creationism, euphemistically termed #intelligent_design theory.''

My research that summer led to an article criticizing Johnson's view in his book Darwin on Trial. In 1994 my article, "Naturalism, Creationism and Evidence: The Case of Phillip Johnson," 1 was accepted for publication in Biology and Philosophy and material from it forms the core of chapter 4, which discusses the new creationists' attack on scientific naturalism, and Johnson's attempt to resuscitate purely negative argumentation. In it I dismiss Johnson's claim that evolution rests on a dogmatic metaphysical naturalism, and I show that science only makes use of naturalism methodologically.

I was invited to give a talk at Ohio State University, sponsored by the biology department. There I mentioned the forthcoming paper. Within two days Johnson had called Michael Ruse, who edits Biology and Philosophy, to say he had heard about my paper from someone in that audience and wanted to write a rebuttal. In his response Johnson criticized me for not having read his second book, Reason in the Balance. (Since that had only appeared in 1995 I felt I could not have been expected to have had the foresight—literally!—to read it two years in advance of its publication.) When I did read it for my reply 2 I realized that Johnson's project was not just to attack evolution, but to take arms against what he called the "modernist naturalist worldview" in general for what he saw as its inherent immorality. Like the creationists at ICR, though in a less cartoonish manner, he was arguing that evolutionary naturalist thinking gives rise to ethical relativism, and was causing the breakdown of traditional male and female roles, the acceptance of homosexuality, and what he took to be other forms of cultural and moral decay.

This led me to write a follow up article, "Naturalism, Creationism and the Meaning of Life: The Case of Phillip Johnson Revisited," 3 material of which forms the core of chapter 7, which discusses what creationists take to be at stake in the battle. The relationship between factual and moral issues in the controversy over creationism and evolution—the points of contact between philosophy of science and ethics—is one of the most interesting aspects of the issue that has drawn me into the debate.

The new creationists, including Johnson and philosophers such as Alvin Plantinga, reject these constraints and share the view that supernatural explanations should be admitted into science. My article on this issue, "The Prospects for a Theistic Science," which appeared in Perspectives on Science and Christian Faith, 5 is incorporated here as a section of chapter 6.

Creationists are also becoming financially well supported; the Center for Renewal of Science and Culture, which funds intelligent design creationists, was established in 1996 as a branch of Seattle's Discovery Institute upon receipt of a million dollars in grants. Intelligent design creationists are beginning to catch up in influence to the venerable ICR, which itself continues to draw wide support. I attended a three day Back to Genesis seminar led by the ICR at a Baptist church in Austin, and estimated an attendance of close to a thousand people

Let me say, however, that although I will argue against creationism as a science and do what I can to counter its divisive rhetoric, I do not mean to attack the sincerity or intentions of creationist believers. Also, none of what I write should be taken as an attack upon religion in general or Christianity in particular.

creationist program actually poses a real danger to that freedom. I will argue that "creation science" (or "intelligent design theory," or however it is euphemistically termed) is antithetical to science and certainly does not belong in science classrooms. Fundamentalist and evangelical Christians are not the only creationists who want their religious views to take precedence over science. We will also meet Native American tribes, Hindus, and others who have their own Creation stories that conflict with evolution, as well as a religious group that rejects evolution because its members believe that life on Earth was created by aliens who arrived in UFOs

The only trustworthy guide to what was true was the Bible, she said, claiming that not a single statement in it had ever been shown to be false. Evolution, on the other hand, was just an assumption. One finds this sort of claim made regularly in creationist literature. In some cases the claim is even stronger, that there could be no proof for evolution. Narrating the videotape of the museum, John Morris says evolution and Creation are both "simply ideas about the past" and that "neither one can ever be proved or disproved." 4 He goes on to say "We don't even try to prove the Bible. We believe it."

in the old days, creationist is characterized by beliefs close to the following: God dictated the Bible word for word and so we must take it as literally true. From the Book of Genesis we know He miraculously created the world and all life, including our original ancestors, Adam and Eve, during a six day work week just six thousand years ago. He subsequently destroyed the world in a global flood, allowing only Noah and his family to survive in a huge Ark into which they had herded pairs of every kind of animal. All current people and animals are descendants of those on the Ark. And, oh yes, evolution did not happen, and we definitely are not related to monkeys. Today, however, one may find self proclaimed creationists who modify or reject almost every element of this cluster. Moreover, there are other aspects of creationism that to date have received little attention.

For most of us, our knowledge of the history of the creationism controversy begins with the trial of John Scopes, a substitute biology teacher in the little town of Dayton, Tennessee, in 1925, who had been charged with violating a state law against the teaching of evolution.

A Brief History of Creationism

The Scopes trial had actually been provoked by the American Civil Liberties Union to challenge the Tennessee law as unconstitutional. As in many legal battles, the particular case that gets used to test a law is less important than the larger issues that it exemplifies, and in this instance even the major constitutional issue wound up taking a back seat to larger cultural issues. The "Monkey Trial" was widely seen as a clash between science and religion, with the largerthanlife attorneys—Clarence Darrow and William Jennings Bryan.

Scopes lost the case; the Scopes trial was the first case that was really fought in the media. The national and international press covered the trial in great detail and the public followed the proceedings with the same fascination that it more recently followed the O. J. Simpson trial. Bryan was a wellknown politician who had run for President, and saw the trial in part as an opportunity to raise awareness about the immorality that he thought was bringing American society to ruin— moral decay that he blamed on scientific materialism in general and evolution in particular for making people question biblical authority. Bryan himself took the stand to defend the Genesis account, though he came to regret this hubris.

Having heard the evidence itself, the public mostly ignored the court's ruling and concluded on its own that evolution had triumphed. Though Fundamentalists were able to pass three more antievolution bills in other states in the four years following the Scopes trial, for the most part they abandoned their legislative efforts against the teaching of evolution. On the other hand, with the statute officially upheld, most textbook publishers chose to avoid potential problems by simply deleting mention of evolution or Darwin in new and revised editions of their science texts until nearly the end of the 1950s, so in fact the teaching of evolution in science classes lost further ground.

The Tennessee statute under which Scopes was convicted remained in force until 1967, when another science teacher, Gary Scott, who had been fired from his job for violating it, successfully challenged the law. By this time, largely because of the push to upgrade American science education that had begun following the Soviet Union's launch of Sputnik in 1957, evolution had finally begun to become integrated into the science curriculum, at least in the biology textbooks put together by the Biological Sciences Curriculum Study. In 1973, however, the Tennessee legislature passed a new law that required that any textbook that discussed the origins of man and the world had to give equal emphasis to the Genesis account. The explicit reference to Genesis made it a straightforward matter for the U.S. Court of Appeals to overrule the new law in 1975 as unconstitutionally giving preferential treatment to the biblical view of creation. But creationists were working to win back lost territory and, in the wake of the latest Tennessee defeat, they adopted a new strategy of introducing legislation (in some twenty states) that promoted creationism without making any explicit reference to the Bible. This led to a series of important cases that made their way in the 1980s through the U.S. courts, the most significant of which was the 1982 Rev. Bill McLean et al. v.

Arkansas Board of Education case. Creationist activists had gotten the State of Arkansas to pass Act 590, legislation that required public schools to give "balanced treatment" to what they called "creationscience" and "evolutionscience," and it was the constitutionality of this Act that was at issue in the case. The idea of creationscience had arisen at about the same time as the Sputnik launch, and can be dated from the publication in 1961 of The Genesis Flood, by John C. Whitcomb Jr., a Protestant theologian, and Henry M. Morris, who held a doctorate in engineering from the University of Minnesota and who subsequently went on to found the Institute for Creation Research (ICR), which remains the largest and most influential creationist organization. It is no exaggeration to credit this book as the impetus for the revival of the movement and the contemporary image of the wildtype creationist. We will see more of the details of the position shortly, but the basic thrust of creationscience was (and is) that creationism qualified as an alternative model to evolution and that it is verifiable—and indeed verified—scientifically. Act 590 legislated that the public schools incorporate creationscience into the biology curriculum alongside evolution and treat the two models on a par. The McLean case challenged that law.

The plaintiffs called upon scientific luminaries such as Francisco Ayala and Stephen Jay Gould as expert witnesses on evolution and the fossil record, Harold Morowitz on the second law of thermodynamics, and G. Brent Dalrymple on radiometric and other methods of geological dating. Their combined testimony devastated the pseudoscientific arguments of creationscience. Reading the posttrial writeup in the journal Science, 3 one gets the impression that the case was won solely on the basis of the scientific testimony, but this assessment misunderstands a key feature of the case. It would not have been enough to show that creationscience was bad science, because the suit sought to overturn Act 590 on the grounds that creationscience was not a science but, rather, represented a disguised religious view of origins and thus still violated the Establishment Clause of the Constitution that "Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion." To establish this conclusion, the more important testimony was that given by the witnesses whose expertise dealt with religion and philosophy of science. Among these were the Reverend Kenneth W. Hicks, Methodist bishop of Arkansas; Father Bruce Vawter, a De Paul University biblical scholar; George Marsden, a professor of American Religious History at Calvin College; Langdon Gilkey, professor of theology at University of Chicago Divinity School (who also was a consultant for the IRS, helping them determine whether particular groups qualified for religious tax exemptions); and Michael Ruse, philosopher of science from Guelph University

Judge William R. Overton's final opinion on the case makes little reference to the detailed scientific arguments refuting creationscience's claims but focuses more on the testimony that dealt with its status as religious or scientific.

"essential characteristics'' of science that he culled from Ruse's testimony, namely: 1.It is guided by natural law; 2.It has to be explanatory by reference to natural law; 3.It is testable against the empirical world; 4.Its conclusions are tentative, i.e., are not necessarily the final word; and 5.It is falsifiable. Judge Overton concluded that creationscience "fails to meet these essential characteristics" and thus "is not science." 4 Furthermore, based on the theological testimony, he concluded that creationscience was religious and thus that Act 590 did indeed violate the Establishment Clause

Cases that followed McLean v. Arkansas in the 1980s dealt with creationists' subsequent attempts to find a crack in its ruling to push creationism through. Louisiana's Act for Balanced Treatment of CreationScience and Evolution, for example, did not require teaching creationscience, but simply prohibited the teaching of evolution in public schools except when it was accompanied by instruction in creationscience. The U.S. Supreme Court ruled that Act unconstitutional in the 1987 Edwards v. Aguillard case, on the grounds that the Act impermissibly promoted religion by advancing the view that a supernatural being created humankind, and that comprehensive science education would be undermined if schools were forbidden to teach evolution.

the new creationists

Entering the last decade of the millennium, a new generation of creationists began to reevaluate the old approach and to recast themselves in order to try new avenues of attack upon evolution. The textbook Of Pandas and People, 6 for example, looks as though it was handtailored to try to slip between the lines of the law as drawn in the cases mentioned above. Also, at this time, some creationists began to avoid using the term "creationscience" altogether in favor of one or another euphemism, such as "abrupt appearance theory" or "initial complexity theory." The Pandas textbook was put together by the most significant group of new creationists, and the term that they use is "intelligentdesign theory," or sometimes "theistic science.''

Henry Morris turned over the reins to his son John Morris in the mid1990s and stepped back to concentrate on writing. The present is a critical period for the ICR's leaders: Although they continue to expand their operations and seem more successful than ever, they find that new creationist groups with different theological commitments are challenging their leadership of the movement. There is a struggle going on in the Creationist Tower, and this is what has sparked the interest of creationism watchers.

struggles over interpretation and which version of creationism is true

Factions within the Tower

serious theological differences among themselves that outsiders may find inconsequential or even indistinguishable. As far I can, I will try to describe people's views using the terms as they themselves

lical inerrancy." YoungEarth Creationism

Current literalist creationists usually retain the 6,000 year figure but accept that there may be a margin of error in this interpretation of the Genesis chronology, and so they concede that the universe could perhaps be up to 10,000 years old

The Answers in Genesis (AIG) organization with headquarters in Florence, Kentucky, was founded by Ken Ham and Dr. Gary Parker. Describing itself as "a nonprofit, nondenominational evangelical organization dedicated to the urgent task of spreading the creation message," AIG holds seminars and publishes the Creation Technical Journal which includes papers by "leading creation scientists" and Creation ex nihilo

Ohio is the Creation Research Society (CRS) that publishes the journal Creation Research Society Quarterly, and was founded to give a "complete reevaluation of science from the theistic viewpoint.'' The United States is the home to by far the largest number of creationist groups and creationism for the most part remains a distinctly American phenomenon. However, one does find a growing number of creationists in other countries, including Australia and New Zealand, as the Fundamentalist movement continues to spread beyond its historic roots in the rural American Bible Belt. One of the most wellestablished overseas groups is the Biblical Creation Society (BCS) in Great Britain. It used to publish the journal Biblical Creation, but in 1987, beginning a trend, BCS changed the name of its periodical to the less obviously religioussounding Origins.

The Center for Scientific Creation (CSC), located in Phoenix, Arizona, was founded by Air Force colonel Dr. Walt Brown, upon his retirement from the service.

For YECs like Davis and Frair the brief chronology that they believe is divinely revealed in the Bible takes precedence over the wealth of geological evidence supporting continental drift and the standard geologic timescale.

OldEarth Creationism

Heeren supports the scientific Big Bang theory and the view that the universe is around fifteen billion years old. Heeren explains that he used to be a YEC until he looked at the evidence for the Big Bang and saw that it proved that there was a beginning to the universe, and that the finetuning of the laws of the universe was a good argument for God. One of the main points of commonality among creationists is a shared desire that science be seen as providing scientific evidence of the Creator as depicted in the Bible. Youngearth creationscientists do this by arguing that science supports the revealed claims of plain Scripture, and thereby proves that the Bible had it exactly right all along.

Each "day" is like an age on a human scale, and each may have been millions or even billions of years long. For theological justification this "dayage interpretation"

On this reading we need not think that the six "days" of Creation would be short or even that they be the same length as each other. Perhaps they could even overlap one another.

these days can be cycles of cosmos, millions of years each and so on

According to this reading of the "gappists," there is a timegap of indeterminate length between Genesis 1:1 and 1:2. All of geological history including the ages of the dinosaurs may be fit into these "preEdenic" times.

Until the rise to dominance of the youngearth creationists beginning in the 1960s, the dayage and gap interpretations represented the standard creationist understanding of Genesis

Another recently promoted view holds that the days of Genesis 1 are actual days, but that they are not consecutive. Rather, they are days, separated perhaps by millions of years, on which God proclaimed the next phase of creative activity. This "days of proclamation interpretation" is defended by Glenn Morton in his Foundation, Fall and Flood. 20 Morton is a geologist who had been a youngearth creationist until the overwhelming evidence for an old earth he encountered in his work in petroleum geology forced him to reject that view and to make an agonizing reassessment of his Christian faith. He reports that this new interpretation has allowed many other YECs to become open to the scientific view.

The Battle between YECs and OECs

When different factions do confront one another, each side quotes its favored biblical passages and marshals its exegetical forces to show that its view is the correct Christian position, and attacks the opposing side as being ignorant, misguided or damaging to the Faith.

Hugh Ross old earth creationism

Mark Van Bebber and Paul Taylor, who are both directors of the youngearth creationist company Films for Christ, have written a book with the same main title as Ross's book, Creation and Time, that attacks Ross's brand of oldearth creationism point for point. They say they believe that Ross is a saved Christian, and they praise his opposition to evolution, and his desire to evangelize, as well as "his ability to remain relatively cool and selfcontrolled under pressure." 26 Nevertheless, they believe that his oldearth teachings "are leading people down a wrong and dangerous path—a trail trod by many in the past that has repeatedly led ultimately to even more serious theological problems and loss of faith in God's word."

The first lesson to be learned is that creationism is not a single conceptual species but has significant distinguishable varieties and subvarieties.

Progressive Creation vs. Theistic Evolutionism

Progressive creationism accepts much of the scientific picture of the development of the universe, assuming that for the most part it developed according to natural laws. However, especially with regard to life on earth, PCs hold that God intervened supernaturally at strategic points along the way. On their view, Creation was not a single sixday event but occurred in stages over millions of years.

The PC view tends to overlap with other views, particularly with oldearth creationism. Hugh Ross is a progressive creationist and is attacked by YECs for that view as much as for his view regarding the age of the earth.

Because theistic evolutionists do not reject evolutionary theory, they may not enter the Tower itself, and even though they believe in God they regularly find themselves under attack by creationists. It is in the debates between creationists and evangelical TEs that the arguments become most vitriolic. Creationists accuse TEs of collaborating with the enemy, and TEs accuse creationists of giving Christianity a bad name; though both sides may begin with charitable intentions the debates often degenerate into a verbal slugfest

members of every faction regularly charge advocates of others with being "deceitful," "naïve," or "unchristian.'' , hiding something not saying the full story, or anything else

Intelligent Design Creationism

The OECs' battle against the YECs and the other factional disputes are important developments, but such infighting is only one aspect of the evolution of the new creationism. Now we come to what may be the most significant recent development in the conceptual evolution of creationism.

clear whom to list among its leaders. Walter Bradley, Jon Buell, William Lane Craig, Percival Davis, Michael Denton, Mark Hartwig, J. P. Moreland, Hugh Ross, and Charles B. Thaxton are important figures. Another is John Angus Campbell, a University of Memphis rhetorician, and he mentions Nancy Pearcey, Del Ratzsch, Tom Woodward, John Mark Reynolds, Walter ReMine, and Robert Koons (who is a colleague of mine in the philosophy department at The University of Texas at Austin), as being among the "key players" of "our movement." 37 Among the more wellknown names to sign on to the crusade are Michael Behe (Lehigh University) and Dean Kenyon (San Francisco State University) on the scientific side, and Alvin Plantinga and Peter van Inwagen (both of Notre Dame) on the philosophical side. Perhaps more significant, however, are the younger members of the group—William Dembski, Paul Nelson, Stephen C. Meyer, and Jonathan Wells. These "four horsemen" have dedicated their lives to the creationist cause and have been collecting multiple graduate degrees (Dembski in mathematics, philosophy and theology; Meyer and Nelson in philosophy; and Wells in religious studies and molecular and cellular biology)

The most influential new creationist and unofficial general of this elite force is Phillip Johnson, of the University of California at Berkeley. Johnson is neither a scientist nor a philosopher nor a theologian, but is a professor of criminal law at Berkeley Law School

Princeton Apologetics Seminar, William Dembski drew the line clearly in the sand: Design theorists are no friends of theistic evolution. As far as design theorists are concerned, theistic evolution is American evangelicalism's illconceived accommodation to Darwinism. 42 Emphasis in original

New Fields of Battle

In 1997, I attended a public hearing held by the Texas State Board of Education on their proposed curriculum standards for the state schools, and I listened in amazement as creationists stood in turn to testify against inclusion of evolutionary terminology in the science curriculum. They claimed that biologists were abandoning the theory and that, in any case, it was "not that important in biology" and so students should not waste their time on it. If evolution had to be included, then at least teachers should be instructed to present the scientific evidence against it as well. Religious conservatives on the Board spoke in strong support of these proposals and urged that evolutionary concepts be omitted or put in "neutral language." Another proposal they recommended was to include discussion of "alternative theories" such as "design." This same scenario is played out in public hearings around the country and, with too few scientists taking creationism seriously enough to pay close attention, state boards of education have often compromised or given in to creationists' demands. In Alabama, the proposed curriculum was amended to water down statements on evolution. For example, a science requirement to "Explain how fossils provide evidence that life has changed over time'' was changed to "Examine fossil evidence for change." Other states have included evolution "disclaimers." In Clayton County, Georgia, the school board directed science teachers to paste into biology textbooks a disclaimer that began as follows: This textbook may discuss evolution, a controversial theory some scientists present as a scientific explanation for the origin of living things, such as plants, animals and humans.... No human was present when life first appeared on earth. Therefore, any statement about life's origins should be considered as theory, not fact. 48

The Iowa Republican Party included a plank in their 1996 platform that stated: We believe the theory of Creation Science should be taught in public schools along with other theories ... [and] support the stocking of Creationist produced resources in all taxfunded public and school libraries. [Emphasis in original] A study of twentytwo party platforms by People for the American Way found these as well as similar procreationist planks in Kansas, Missouri, Oklahoma, and Texas. Creationism even appeared as an issue at the national political level when presidential candidate Pat Buchanan included it prominently in his campaign. He put his position this way: Look, my view is, I believe that God created Heaven and earth.... I think this: What ought to be taught as fact is what is known as fact. I don't believe it is demonstrably true that we have descended from apes. I don't believe it. I do not believe all that.

The Nature of the Controversy

Although there is no scientific controversy about creationism within biology, there is certainly a conflict in the sense that biology must deal with the regular attacks from without. In this sense, however, the scientific "controversy" goes well beyond evolutionary biology. As we will see, creationism calls into question not only the conclusions of biology, but also of many other specific sciences. More significant still, especially from my point of view as a philosopher of science, is that the new creationism also calls into question scientific methodology itself. Going beyond the classic "creation science" that simply proposed that the content of evolutionary science was wrong, the new creationists' call for a "theistic science" is far more radical in that it would replace not only the content but also the methodological foundations of science.

A Religious Controversy?

Because almost all of the conflict that reaches the level of public debate involves creationists attacking evolution and scientists defending the same, most people have the erroneous, though understandable, view that this is just a battle between Fundamentalist Evangelicals and scientists, and do not recognize that many mainstream Christian theologians are equally involved in opposing creationism.

Many mainline religions and Christian denominations have explicitly declared that they find no conflict with evolution. In Voices for Evolution (1995), Molleen Matsumura compiled statements supporting evolution from a wide range of religious groups

A Philosophical Controversy?

The Bible is either inerrant or worthless Christianity or Atheism Certainty or Skepticism Absolute Morality or Subjectivism (Relativism) Readers will have to decide for themselves whether they agree that the conceptual choices are really so stark as creationists portray them. This allornothingatall view is overly simplistic, and I will try to point out intermediate positions that are available

A Political Controversy?

But even when the controversy is considered in this "external" political mode there is still an important sense in which events will be determined by ideas. This takes us back to the original battle scene and the analogy of evolution in the intellectual landscape. The new creationists may or may not succeed in taking over the Tower, and in their struggle a speciation event may or may not take place. Whatever happens within the Tower, however, we can be sure that the new creationists will continue to press the war upon evolution.

[[1- Introduction to Groups]]

[[1-2 Some Recent Accounts of Group Belief]] [[2- Groups Intention]]

#Epistemology #Groups #Tollefsen