More on Thinking Probabilistically

We typically use the plural noun “probabilities” only when speaking of events that are potentially repeatable, like throws of a pair of dice. But the notion of probability has another aspect, namely the degree of strength of belief warranted by evidence. This seems to apply, at least potentially, to the question of divine existence. But one may doubt whether the “God” about which some reason probabilistically can be identified with the God worshiped and served in any actual religion.

According to this page, these actually work

My previous entry addressed, but—characteristically, I confess—did not answer, the question “Is the existence of God a matter of probabilities?” I wish now that I had used the singular form of the noun “probability” rather than the plural, as the latter has associations that I don’t welcome. The plural form “probabilities” tends to suggest numerical values or measures of probability, which in turn (and this is the most unwelcome part) suggests the sort of case in which an event of a specific, repeatable type occurs under specific conditions—for instance, the event of a hand of five playing cards containing a pair, given that the five cards are dealt randomly from a deck of 52. Even if we are speaking, say, of the probability that candidate So and So will win the upcoming election, which is not a repeatable event-type but a single occurrence, we may consider that outcome as belonging to a type specifiable more or less broadly according to country, locale, time period, type of office, characteristics of the candidate, and so on; and we can then calculate the chances accordingly.

But what if we are speaking of the probability of a possible fact that is not an instance of a repeatable type? Discussions of the existence of God would be a case of this. The idea of assigning the existence of God to some type of repeatable event seems senseless. Perhaps some diligent analytic metaphysician somewhere has reckoned the probability of divine existence as the proportion of God-made possible worlds to Godless ones; but I don’t care to take account of all conceivable products of academic invention. If the concept of probability applies only to repeatable event-types, and if, as seems plain, the existence of God is not an event of a repeatable type, then the answer to the question “Is the existence of God a matter of probability?” is a flat and rather uninteresting “No.”

But the concept of probability is not restricted to such cases. When Bishop Butler remarked in the “Introduction” to his Analogy of Religion (1736) that “to us, probability is the very guide of life,” he was not referring to the calculus of chance, which was then in its infancy. He was speaking of probability in contrast with absolute certainty, and of the condition of finite intellects in contrast with that of an infinite one:

Probable evidence is essentially distinguished from demonstrative by this, that it admits of degrees; and all variety of them, from the highest moral certainty, to the very lowest presumption. . . .

Probable evidence, in its very nature, affords but an imperfect kind of information, and is to be considered as relative only to beings of limited capacities. For nothing which is the possible object of knowledge, whether past, present, or future, can be probable to an infinite Intelligence; since it cannot but be discerned absolutely, as it is in itself, certainly true, or certainly false. But, to us, probability is the very guide of life.

Probability is our guide in life because our knowledge of the world is, by our nature, limited. To follow probability in the pertinent sense is not to reckon odds but to weigh what Butler calls “presumptions,” or reasons for belief. There is more to probability than mere chance. As Ian Hacking remarks in his historical study The Emergence of Probability,

Probability has two aspects. It is connected with the degree of belief warranted by evidence, and it is connected with the tendency, displayed by some chance devices, to produce stable relative frequencies.

Hacking dubs the first aspect of probability the “epistemological” (from Greek epistēmē, “knowledge”) and the other the “aleatory” (from Latin ālea, “die” or, by derivation, “game of chance”). I think “epistemic” is a more widely used term for the former, although, since it is belief and not knowledge that is in question, “doxic” (from Greek doxa, “belief”) would be more apt. Whatever the terminology, and however we may try to understand the relation between these two aspects of probability, it is the doxic or epistemic aspect that is pertinent when the existence of God is treated probabilistically. The fundamental thought is not that we can calculate the chance that God exists as we can the chance of getting a certain result from throwing a pair of dice, say, but that some degree of strength of belief that God exists is warranted by the evidence available to us.

The question “Is the existence of God a matter of probability?” is a question about a question. It concerns how the question “Does God exist?” may be answered—what sort of thing one has to do, or may do, to answer it. Anyone who assumes that the question must be, or may be, answered by weighing what Butler terms “probable” evidence (meaning empirical evidence, as contrasted with the “demonstrative” evidence of proofs a priori) assumes that the answer to the first question is “Yes”—that the existence of God is a matter of probability.

Most writers who argue for atheism seem to make this assumption. They typically argue either that there is no evidence that God exists or that there is evidence that God does not exist. It seems to go without saying for them that to answer the question of God’s existence otherwise than by evaluating the available evidence would be incompatible with intellectual integrity. For instance, Richard Dawkins entitles one chapter of his book The God Delusion “The God Hypothesis” and another “Why There Almost Certainly Is No God.” For Dawkins, to treat belief in God as a “hypothesis” is what it means to take the proposition “God exists” seriously as a contender for truth. As for the probabilistic qualification “almost certainly,” it is not for him a sign of weakness but a point of strength, as it shows that he, like any good scientist and in contrast to the great majority of theistic believers, founds his opinion in the matter on where the preponderance of evidence lies. “What matters,” he says at one point, “is not whether God is disprovable (he isn’t) but whether his existence is probable”; which, of course, it isn’t, according to him.

I am inclined to agree, in a certain guarded fashion, with Dawkins that the existence of God is not probable—not, however, because it is improbable, as he thinks, but because it is not a matter of probability at all. I said in my previous entry that it is not easy to defend this claim. This evoked some interesting comments from Tommi Uschanov, who does not share my sense of difficulty on this point. The following two observations, which, he says, “have been presented often in Wittgensteinian philosophy of religion, by O. K. Bouwsma or D. Z. Phillips, for instance,” he finds “do the work so well that nothing more needs to be said”:

1) If someone has lived his life atheistically or otherwise irreligiously through a wrong assessment of probabilities, due to an innate lack of talent for mathematics and statistics, this would seem to mean that God condemns him to perdition through a failure to endow him with sufficient talent to make the required calculations. But this is obviously contrary to the moral teaching of the religion itself. And indeed to the whole official self-image of the religion.

2) The importation of the probabilistic way of speaking to properly religious language makes this language (not unintelligible, which would be the positivist critique, but) uproariously funny.

For instance, . . . Psalm 23 does not say: “The Lord is probably my shepherd; I probably shall not want. . . .” [Other examples follow.]

The first argument seems to me an effective objection to anyone who, like William Lane Craig, uses probabilistic arguments to defend the reasonableness of Christianity; but only because Christianity, at least in some of its varieties, holds the non-acceptance of Christian doctrine to be a sin subject to divine retribution. There are, of course, interpretations of Christianity that reject this belief, but it has been a part of Christian doctrine historically and is, so far as I know, not found in any other major religion. In any case, it is not a part of theistic belief per se. The objection, therefore, tells only against probabilistic defenses of some varieties Christianity and not to probabilistic approaches to the question of divine existence in general. Further, the objection seems to be just a variant of the ancient one that if God makes human beings sinful that he cannot justly punish them for their sins: so if he makes someone inept at forming beliefs, he cannot justly punish that person for failing to arrive at the right beliefs. In any case, the most that this objection can show is that it is imprudent for a Christian to try to make probabilistic arguments for the existence of God. It doesn’t show that there is anything inherently wrong with doing this in general or with treating the question of God’s existence probabilistically in the first place.

Uschanov’s second argument may seem even less effective, as it can be rebutted on several grounds. For one thing, to make a probabilistic argument means only that the premises from which one argues provide reasons to accept one’s conclusion without entailing it with logical necessity. It does not mean that the conclusion has to include a probabilistic qualifier. For instance, if I know that Smith fell into a piece of industrial machinery and was ground to bits, and I conclude on that basis that he is dead, I am reasoning probabilistically; that does not mean that I am obliged to say only, “Smith is probably dead.” In such a case, my premise warrants my conclusion with moral certainty, which is certainty beyond a reasonable doubt (though not beyond all logically conceivable doubt). For another thing, if someone tries to show that there is sufficient empirical evidence to conclude that God exists, it does not follow that she is bound to import probabilistic language into her religious practices, such as prayers, or to rephrase scriptural passages to include such language. Finally, to advance a probabilistic argument for belief in the existence of God does not commit one to holding that theistic believers should base their belief on such a justification. One might offer the argument purely for the purpose of refuting skeptical doubts of God’s existence and showing that theistic belief is rationally warranted. (As I said in my reply to Tommi’s comment, William Lane Craig seems to be trying to do something parallel to this, but specifically for certain Christian doctrines, not for bare theism.)

With all that said, I think that there is at least potentially more to Uschanov’s objection (or to the sources from which he draws it) than such replies recognize. The point of the objection, as I understand it, is not to argue, “To defend theism probabilistically commits you to saying things like these; these things are patently ridiculous; therefore, it is misconceived to defend theism probabilistically.” At least, I think that the objection is much more effective if it is taken differently, as an attempt to bring out something incoherent in the probabilistic approach to divine existence precisely by taking it seriously. It is as if one were to say: “You want to treat the existence of God as a matter of probability? Fine! Let’s do that consistently and see what happens!”

The suggestion, in other words—at least, this is the suggestion that I derive from the objection as stated—is that if you adopt a probabilistic approach to the question of God’s existence, the “God” that you reason about, no matter whether your conclusion is theistic or atheistic, will be a philosophical fetish or idol and not that which is worshiped and served in any of the world’s religions. Probabilistic reasoning and religious practice are not two different ways of relating oneself to the same entity; rather, one is a way of relating oneself to God, if God exists, and the other is a way of relating oneself to a figment of the intellect mistakenly called by the same name. To put the point another way, a possible object of religious devotion is not a possible object of probabilistic reasoning.

That, at any rate, is the idea that Uschanov’s comment suggests to me. I think it can also be taken as a development of the objection that Duncan Richter was making in the blog entry that I discussed in my previous entry here, when he said that a probabilistic approach to the question of divine existence “treats God as the same kind of thing as a fluke gust of wind, i.e. something whose odds we might calculate or at least estimate, i.e. as something natural, however super.” If the objection can be satisfactorily worked out, it should be applicable to polytheistic religions as well as to monotheisms—or rather, not to the religions, but to probabilistic treatments of the question of the existence of their gods. It may even be applicable to probabilistic would-be defenses of revealed religion, such as that offered by Craig, who incorporates scripture into his evidence base.

I find it an attractive idea, but I don’t entirely trust it, and I certainly don’t have a defense of it ready. So, once again, I close with unfinished business.

REFERENCES

Joseph Butler, Analogy of Religion, Natural and Revealed, to the Constitution and Course of Nature, ed. by G. R. Crooks (New York: Harper and Brothers, 1860), p. 84.

Richard Dawkins, The God Delusion, paperback ed. (Boston and New York: Houghton Mifflin, 2008), p. 77.

Ian Hacking, The Emergence of Probability, 2nd ed. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006), p. 1.

Is the Existence of God a Matter of Probabilities?

To treat the question whether God exists as a matter of probabilities seems to some people completely natural and to some utterly perverse. Believers and non-believers are found in both camps. I agree with Duncan Richter in finding such a way of thinking deeply wrongheaded, but I find his attempt to say what is wrong with it unsatisfactory.

I was delighted to find my previous two posts (1, 2) on ancient polytheism and the concept of evidence cited and discussed by Duncan Richter in his blog Language on Holiday. Richter’s discussion includes a parenthetical remark that approaches some lines of thought that I have pursued. He remarks that arguments for the existence of God that are founded on empirical observations, whether concerning religious experience, miracles, or design, all try to establish their conclusion as a matter of probability. (For the sake of simplicity, I shall in this entry equate questions of the existence of a divine being with the question of the existence of God, i.e., an inherently unique deity, leaving polytheism out of account.) He says of this way of thinking:

It is a logical and ethical mistake, an error in grammar and theology, to think of the existence of God as a question of probabilities. This might become clearer if one tried to calculate the odds, although I think people have done this and not achieved the clarity I have in mind. In case it isn’t clear, it’s a mistake because it treats God as the same kind of thing as a fluke gust of wind, i.e. something whose odds we might calculate or at least estimate, i.e. as something natural, however super. To think of God this way is to misunderstand what believers believe in a way that is both simply wrong (that isn’t what they believe) and insulting (it is to treat God as something less than what they believe). This is complicated by the fact that some believers (or “believers”) are idolaters in just this way, but that isn’t the kind of belief that interests me. There’s also the question whether non-believers like me should care about the alleged badness of insulting God, but we can at least respect the feelings of believers. And I think we can respect the concept of God, too, and want to do justice to it.

I suspect that the passage was written with some haste and impatience, for two reasons: first, it is rather long and contentious, not to say blustery, for a merely parenthetical remark; and second, saying exactly what is wrong with treating the existence of God as a matter of probability is no easy matter—or so, at any rate, say I. In this piece, I will give reasons for finding Richter’s presentation of the case unsatisfactory. I hope, though I dare not promise, to make a stronger case of my own in a subsequent entry to this blog.

Richter finds fault with probabilistic discourse about theism in two respects. One concerns the way in which it treats theistic believers. According to him, it insults them by treating God as “something less than what they believe [in].” He also implies that it fails to “respect their feelings.” Now it is possible that I am missing something here, but to me such claims seem simply irrelevant. If—and this is a large “if”—there is no fundamental conceptual error inherent in inquiring whether probability favors the existence or the non-existence of God, then I can see no compelling reason why those making such inquiries should care in the least whether they hurt the feelings of theistic believers or denigrate the object of their beliefs. At most, such considerations would be reasons to pursue such inquiries out of public hearing, so that they not offend the delicate ears of believers. But one could just as credibly argue that it is insulting to believers to assume that their sensibilities require this kind of protection. In any case, if they do, then it’s hard cheese for them and nothing more.

So it seems to me that Richter’s would-be ethical objection can be set aside. The entire weight of his objection must rest on its logical and grammatical part—“grammatical” here in Wittgenstein’s sense of concerning what one can intelligibly say and under what conditions. I believe that if this element of the objection could be satisfactorily articulated, the ethical aspect would emerge by itself. In fact, if I may mix the terms of the later Wittgenstein with the phrasing of the earlier, I would say that on this point grammar and ethics are one: if we could understand exactly what is so perverse about talking probabilistically about the existence of God, we would not distinguish a logical an ethical objections. Richter seems to me to move, or at least to face, in this direction when he describes theistic believers who take the question of divine existence to be a matter of probability as “idolaters,” a term that implies perversion of both intellect and will; but to make such a heavy charge stick would require an argument than I, for one, have not got at the ready.

What, then, is wrong with trying to assess the probability of divine existence? Richter holds that to do so “treats God as the same kind of thing as a fluke gust of wind, i.e. something whose odds we might calculate or at least estimate, i.e. as something natural, however super.” To take the first point first: what are the conditions under which we can calculate or at least estimate the odds of something? Richter may be assuming that we can do this only when we are talking about a type of event that occurs and recurs unpredictably under certain specifiable conditions, such a gust of wind of such and such a character that occurs a certain number of times in a certain location over a certain period of time. Given such specifications, we can observe a sample of cases and calculate the relative frequency of the event in question. The larger the sample that we have observed, the more confidently can we identify this relative frequency with the probability of a gust of wind occurring under the specified conditions.

Obviously, none of this is applicable to the existence of God, since that is not a repeatable event. So, if those who think of the existence of God probabilistically operate with a frequentist interpretation of probability, then they are hamstrung from the outset. But, of course, they do nothing of the sort; or at least, they need not do so. Here is the philosopher and Christian apologist—and, if Richter’s assessment is just, idolater—William Lane Craig on his website Reasonable Christianity answering a correspondent who is perplexed by the application of probabilistic terms to the question of the existence of God. Craig’s correspondent understands probability not in terms of relative frequency but according to what is known as the classical interpretation of probability, in which probability values are equated with the ratio of the number of cases in which a certain event occurs to the total number of possible cases. But Craig’s reply is equally applicable to the frequentist interpretation:

Probabilities are always relative to some background information. . . . Now the atheist says God’s existence is improbable. You should immediately ask, ‘Improbable relative to what?’ What is the background information? . . . The interesting question is whether God’s existence is probable relative to the full scope of the evidence.

Had you asked that question of your friend, it would have been evident that he is considering no background information at all! He seems to be talking about a sort of absolute probability of God’s existence Pr (G) in abstraction from any background information B and specific evidence E. That’s a pointless exercise. He seems to be imagining all the possible deities that could exist and asking, “What are the chances apriori that a certain one of these exists?” How silly! That’s like inquiring about the absolute probability that a certain person, for example, you, exists, given the infinite number of possible persons there could be. Nobody is interested in such absolute probabilities, if there even are such things. What we want to know, rather, is the probability of your existence or God’s existence relative to our background information and specific evidence: Pr (G|E & B).

Craig operates with a subjectivist or, as it is widely known, Bayesian interpretation of probability. On this interpretation, the values that are assigned to probabilities of events represent degrees of confidence in the occurrence of those events. Such assignments do not require that the events be repeated or repeatable at all: one can attribute a degree of probability to any event whatever, even the existence of God (or of a god of some specific description). (“Event” here is a technical term in probability theory for that to which a probability value is assigned and is not contrasted with “fact” or “state of affairs.”)

The competition among interpretations of probability is a vast and complicated issue, into which I don’t propose to enter any farther. My point here is simply that, if one holds there to be a confusion inherent in treating the existence of God as a matter of probability, one cannot support that claim by simply assuming an interpretation of probability that requires a repeated event or a countable set of possible outcomes, as there are interpretations of probability that don’t require those things. To Richter’s remark that to talk of the existence of God in probabilistic terms treats it as “something whose odds we might calculate or at least estimate,” Craig would reply, or anyway could reply, “Yes; so what?” So, for that matter, could Richard Dawkins.

I can imagine one of these probabilists saying to Richter (and, for that matter, to me): “I suspect that the reason why you dislike this talk of the probability of God’s existence is that it seems to kill all the existential drama and to make the business of believing or not believing in God out to be a matter purely of the intellect. But, look you, I am not touching at all on the question of what moves people to believe or disbelieve in God, or what difference their belief or lack of belief makes to their lives. I am just assuming that when we ask, ‘Does God exist?’, we are posing a genuine and well-formed question—one that has a correct answer. The correct answer is either ‘Yes, God exists’ or ‘No, God does not exist.’ To determine which is the correct answer, one has to determine where the preponderance of evidence lies. To do this is to assess the probability of the proposition ‘God exists.’”

I do not think that this argument is unanswerable, but I do think that to answer it is not easy. In any case, I leave the task for a later post.

Ancient Polytheism and the Concept of Evidence Reconsidered (More Briefly)

The issue of whether the ancient Greeks could have had good evidence of the existence of their gods comes down to the issue of whether a theistic explanation of their religious experiences can be a better explanation than any naturalistic one.

Image found at Ancient Greek Gods for Kids

My previous entry on this blog (“Ancient Polytheism and the Concept of Evidence,” August 2, 2013), written in response to a piece by Gary Gutting (“Did Zeus Exist?”, The New York Times on line, July 31, 2013), grew out of a couple of paragraphs that I had posted in a discussion of Gutting’s piece on Facebook. I thought at the time that I needed only to add some circumstantial explanation to what I had written to make an entry for this blog but instead I ended up writing a completely new piece twelve paragraphs long. It is bad enough to put so much time and so many words into commenting on someone else’s blog post; what makes matters worse is that by writing at such length I make it all the more unlikely that anyone, even among the small number of people who ever see this blog, will read what I wrote. Today I will try to make up for the verbosity of that entry by setting forth my main thoughts in this matter concisely and without much reference to the details of Gutting’s piece. I have on some points modified the position that I took in the earlier piece, as I have come to a more charitable assessment of what Gutting does with the concept of evidence, but I do not bother to indicate the modifications here.

(1) If some people, such as the ancient Greeks in Parker’s account, have experiences that they take to be theophanies (manifestations of a god or of gods), these experiences may be the basis of their belief in their gods. But that does not mean that they take these experiences to be evidence of the existence of those gods.

(2) In fact, no one who experiences what seem to him to be theophanies can coherently regard his experiences as evidence of the existence of gods, since the presumption of the existence of gods is inherent in the experiences themselves. An ancient Greek who claims to have experienced a theophany might say, e.g., “Zeus manifested himself to me.” To make such a statement is not to cite anything that can possibly count as evidence of the existence of Zeus, as the statement presupposes the existence of Zeus.

(3) For an ancient polytheist to be in a position to cite his religious experiences as evidence of the existence of his gods, he must renounce the naive conviction that originally characterized his experiences in favor of a skeptical attitude, and must redescribe his experiences in terms that are neutral with respect to the existence of gods. So he must say, e.g., not “Zeus manifested himself to me,” but rather, “It seemed to me as though Zeus manifested himself to me.”

(4) Note that such a person would have to do this across the board with regard to everyone’s putatively theophanic experiences. The issue is not the veracity of this or that person’s religious experience but rather the existence of the gods themselves. It would be no effective argument to say, e.g., “What I saw and felt during the ritual agrees with the accounts of others to whom Zeus has appeared; therefore, Zeus exists”; for the statement that Zeus has appeared to others presupposes that Zeus exists. To cite religious experiences as evidence of the existence of gods, one must describe all such experiences in terms that are neutral with respect to the existence of gods.

(5) For an ancient Greek apologist for polytheism to get from the premise “Such and such Greeks have had such and such experiences” (the experiences being described in terms that are neutral with respect to the existence of gods) to the conclusion “The gods exist,” he would have to supply some further premise or premises. Otherwise, the premise of his would-be argument provides no reason to accept its conclusion. That is to say, the cited experiences do not constitute evidence of the existence of the Greek gods unless a further premise or premises can be supplied that makes the argument cogent.

(6) What might this premise be? One possibility is: “So many pious Greeks can’t be wrong.” That, of course, invites the rebuttal: “Yes, they can.” The issue, as far as I can tell, comes down to the question of what sort of explanation of the Greeks’ religious experiences is most compelling: a theistic one, according to which the gods really did appear to the ancient Greeks, or a non-theistic one, such as one in terms of natural causes. If the polytheistic apologist can establish the claim that the best possible explanation of the data that he has cited is that the Greek gods really have appeared to him and to his fellow Greeks, then he has a cogent argument, and the religious experiences of ancient Greeks do indeed constitute evidence of the existence of the Greek gods. But can he establish such a claim?

(7) Gutting argues, in effect, that we have no rationally compelling basis for rejecting such a claim. The modern rejection of supernatural causes, he holds, is not a finding of science but an a priori presupposition of scientific procedure. Therefore, we have no rational basis for dismissing the possibility that the ancient Greeks had good evidence of the existence of their gods. Therefore, we have no rational basis for dismissing the possibility that their gods existed.

I have further thoughts on the last point, but rather than include them in this entry I will simply post this part by itself.

Added August 7, 2013:  Upon further consideration of Gutting’s piece, I have concluded that its arguments do not merit further close attention. We have abundant reason to prefer a naturalistic explanation of Greek or any other religious experiences to a theistic one. A naturalistic explanation can be thoroughly well-integrated with everything else that we know about how the natural world works, while a theistic one cannot be. A naturalistic explanation needs to posit no entities that act in contravention of the known laws of nature, while theistic explanation (at least as understood by Gutting) does so. The principles of a naturalistic explanation admit of the derivation of predictions that can be empirically tested and confirmed, while those of a theistic explanation do not. The theistic explanation may have an advantage in simplicity (though even that may be contested: see this piece at Philosophical Disquisitions for reasons why the notion of simplicity of explanation is not itself simple), but it is a clear non-starter in all other respects.

Gutting’s insistence that the Greeks may have had good evidence of the reality of their gods because we have not got decisive evidence that they did not have such evidence is as fatuous as the assertion that the Greeks may have had the technology to build nuclear reactors or that it may have been possible for human beings to fly by attaching wings made of wax to their bodies in those days, since we have no decisive evidence to the contrary (by the standard of decisiveness that Gutting’s reasoning seems to presuppose). In each case, the assertion of what “may have” been the case amounts to nothing more than the proposal of a fantasy in which there is no obvious logical incoherence. It provides not the slightest reason to take such fantasies seriously as real possibilities or to set them alongside the contrary assertions—viz., that the ancient Greeks had no nuclear technology, could not fly with waxen wings, and had no good evidence of the reality of their gods—and to say that there is no sufficient reason to choose between the two.

Agnosticism about the existence, past or present, of the Greek gods seems to me a defensible position; but Gutting’s argument for such agnosticism, founded as it is on the assertion of agnosticism about the former availability of now-unknown evidence for the existence of those gods, is itself indefensible.

More on That False Truism

How the saying “Everything happens for a reason” combines presumption with obtuseness.

Last week, I posted an entry examining and denigrating the saying “Everything happens for a reason” (“A False Truism,” March 13, 2011). I subsequently learned that, by a curious chance, an article appeared a few days later at Cracked.com under the title “Five Popular Phrases That Make You Look Like an Idiot,” in which the very same phrase appears at the head of the list (though at the end of the article). Reading another writer’s attempt to identify what makes this saying so irritating gives me occasion to reconsider my own analysis.

I was not surprised to find that the author, whose name is given as “Gladstone,” does not share my logical objections to the phrase. Perhaps no one without some years of study of philosophy will do so. Gladstone even gives the saying a pass as far as its literal meaning is concerned:

I suppose this cliché wouldn’t be intolerable if it were merely meant to be taken literally. Everything does happen for a reason. People die young because they get hit by trains or get cancer. People are maimed and disfigured in wars because of bombs. I mean, if that’s all this cliche were trying to convey then it would just be vaguely annoying. You’d assume the speaker were just some mental deficient who says things like “water is wet,” “ice cream is yummy,” or “Tosh is funny.”

I, of course, disagree. Gladstone in effect takes the phrase to be equivalent in literal meaning to the truism “For everything that happens, there is a reason why it happens.” But in my estimation he lets the phrase off too easily. Getting hit by a train or getting cancer may be the reason why someone dies young, but it is not a reason for which someone dies young. People do not die for a reason, as dying is not something that people do, or can do, intentionally. They can intentionally kill themselves or get themselves killed or let themselves die (i.e., refrain from taking action to prevent or delay their dying); but “dying” does not name a possible intentional action, nor even an action at all. Dying is something that befalls one; accordingly, it cannot intelligibly be said to be done “for a reason.” The same goes for any occurrence that is not an intentional action.

For the sake of simplicity, I will hereafter use the phrase “mere happening” for anything that happens that is not the intentional act of an agent. Thus, for instance, someone’s dying is a mere happening; someone’s killing himself is an action. 

I argued in my previous piece that the logical confusions in this saying contribute to its currency by allowing it to pass—in lazy, sloppy, or corrupt minds—for a truism. But even if that is so, perhaps logical confusion is not the most objectionable feature of the saying. It is happens to be the sort of feature that tends to attract my attention, because of my peculiar irritability toward logical confusion and the satisfaction that I find in exposing it. But the logical confusion is just the means by which the phrase conveys its pernicious half-hidden meaning. That meaning combines presumption and obtuseness, as Gladstone vividly points out:

But the annoying thing about this phrase is that the speaker believes he/she has some inside track to God or Fate or whatever mystic unseen hand controls the universe. As if there is a power and that power decided there was an actual reason to inflict a newborn baby with Trisomy 18 or have a woman get gang raped. And given the existence of this rational force—that operates only with justification and reason—who are you to question why someone ravaged your wife, or blew apart your son, or took your leg? This cliché insists that either happy endings always exist (“see, they never would have found that tumor, unless they were repairing that machete wound to your abdomen”) or if there is no happy ending for you then your suffering was part of some greater plan that benefited another (“don’t be sad that you were imprisoned for twenty years by a racist jury for a crime you didn’t commit, I mean, think about the valuable lesson you’ve taught us about bias in criminal juries!”)

To say “Everything happens for a reason” is in effect to deny that there are any of what I termed mere happenings, except perhaps by an arbitrary choice of phrasing. It is to hold that the occurrences that appear to us to be mere happenings, such as someone’s dying of cancer or the fall of a leaf, are actually made to happen by an agent—presumably an all-powerful one that works in ways beyond our powers of observation. That would be, in Gladstone’s words, “God or Fate or whatever mystic unseen hand controls the universe.”

This much is implied by the phrase; and by itself it is outrageous presumption enough. But, as Gladstone rightly observes, the person who says “Everything happens for a reason” typically claims even more than this. It would be compatible with this saying to believe that the universe is governed by a petty, jealous, unjust, vindictive, capricious bully of a deity—such as the YHWH of the Hebrew Bible, for instance (see the opening paragraph of chapter 2 of Richard Dawkins’s The God Illusion Delusion*). Even people who believe that collection of texts to be divinely revealed tend to have a more favorable conception of the invisible agent behind the world’s scenes. They tend to believe, in defiance of the text, that God is just, loving, forgiving, wise, and so forth. Certainly Scripture abounds with passages in which YHWH is described in just such terms; the fact remains that the deity’s record in other passages gives the lie to such white-washing. A father who brutally beats or kills his children for failing to honor him properly does not earn the epithets “just,” “loving,” etc., by behaving more generously on other occasions.

But Biblical exegesis is not the issue. The point is that those who say “Everything happens for a reason” mean more than that some intelligent power of unspecified character makes everything happen. They mean that this power does so only for ends that are of some earthly benefit, either to the victim of suffering or to others. That is why devotees of this saying are given to using it to offer consolation to the afflicted. But to do so merely crowns theological presumption with obtuseness toward human suffering. For whatever the human benefit might be for the sake of which God inflicts misfortune, in serious cases the victim would almost never accept the bargain if he or she had a choice in it. Moreover, if God, or whatever the great stage manager is supposed to be, makes everything happen for a reason, then it is difficult to forgive that party for effecting a good end by evil rather than by good means. If the invisible puppet master can, say, take away a couple’s child to teach them compassion (and if this does not seem a convincing example of this line of thought, some other equally puerile rubbish can be put in its place), surely he or she or it should be able to effect the same end without inflicting such tragedy upon people.

Gladstone concludes with these remarks:

I’m not saying all suffering is random and pointless, or that nothing good can ever come out of a bad situation, but the arrogance that comes from the belief that tragic events are always justified as part of a larger plan is just intolerable. I don’t know why bad things happen, but I do know that no one who throws this cliché around knows either. So to everyone keeping this miserable expression alive, please leave people to their misery and save your cliché for yourself the next time you’re walking in the woods and step into a bear trap after getting shot in the eye by a drunken hunter.

This paragraph might leave those who are given to saying “Everything happens for a reason” complacent in the opinion that they are doing no wrong as long as they refrain from offering that formula for the consolation of others. The declared subject of the article, after all, is “phrases that make you look [“look”? not “sound”?] like an idiot.” But the saying is to be despised on its own account, regardless of the social use to which it is put. It may be handy to have reasons for this summarized here.

(1) The saying is logically confused: it applies to mere happenings a form of expression that applies intelligibly only to intentional actions.

(2) By means of this logical confusion, it assumes the air of a truism, which it decidedly is not. To take it for a truism is foolish, and to offer it to others as a truism is chicanery.

(3) Its half-hidden meaning is that all mere happenings are effected by an inscrutable power for the sake of some benefit to those affected by those happenings. This is an extravagant presumption without foundation in any known facts. To assert it as fact is therefore a fatuous piece of self-conceit.

(4) It implies a theodicy according to which all suffering and misfortune is for the sake of a good that outweighs the evil. This trivializes all suffering and misfortune.

BIBLIOGRAPHICAL REFERENCE

*Richard Dawkins, The God Illusion Delusion (Boston and New York: Houghton Mifflin, 2008), p. 51. (Thanks to Sarra for pointing out my error.)

A False Truism

The common saying “Everything happens for a reason” is neither true nor a truism, but a swindle in which the preposterous is peddled in the guise of the obvious.

Logo of the True/False Film Festival

A truism is a statement that is self-evidently true. A false truism would be a statement taken for a truism that is in fact not one, either because it is true but not self-evidently so or because it is not true at all. In the latter case, it is doubly false: it is not a truism, and it is not true. The saying “Everything happens for a reason” is a false trusim of this double-dyed sort.

How does a falsehood get mistaken for a truism? Typically by a woolly-minded, or a devious, confusion with a truism. The saying “Everything happens for a reason” gets its hold on people’s minds, or at least their mouths, by a confusion of elements of two truths that are entirely distinct from it and from each other.

If you deny the saying “Everything happens for a reason,” people who are attached to it may react by saying, “So you think things can happen for no reason at all?” And now you may find yourself embarrassed; for an affirmative answer seems to imply that you think that things can happen without any cause. Thus, the saying in question gains some appearance of cogency from its suggestion of the entirely distinct thought that for everything that happens, there is a reason why it happens. The latter thought is, if not a truism, at least a truth, apart from such arcane reaches as quantum mechanics and cosmogony. It means merely that everything that happens is a consequence of some cause or causes.

Why, for example, does the sun go higher in the sky in summer than in winter? Because the earth’s axis is tilted relative to its orbit, and summer is the time of year when the polar tilt in a given hemisphere is toward the sun, winter the time when it is away from the sun. Why has my car’s fuel mileage suddenly gotten worse? I don’t know why, but I will take it to a repair shop so that a mechanic can find the reason. And so on. These are examples of the use of the concept of a reason why something happens.

The phrase “for a reason” has an entirely different meaning and a different range of application. We can ask for what reason someone does this or that, but it makes no sense to ask about the reason for an occurrence that is not the act of an intelligent agent. For instance, say a creaking sound comes through the ceiling. We might ask: “Why does that happen?” The answer might be: “Someone is walking around in the apartment upstairs.” That is the reason, or a reason, why the creaking happens. We might then ask further: “Why is the person upstairs walking around?” The answer might be: “She has things to do around her apartment (and why shouldn’t she walk around up there, anyway?).” That is the reason—or, again, a reason—for her walking around, or her reason for walking around.

Now consider the question: “For what reason does the ceiling creak?” This is a conflation of two different forms of expression. The ceiling does not creak for a reason; the ceiling does not have a reason for creaking. There is a reason why the ceiling creaks, but that is another matter entirely. It is senseless to attribute reasons to the ceiling because the ceiling is not an intelligent agent. If the person asking this ill-formed question meant exactly what he or she says, then he or she would have to think that the ceiling is an agent and that creaking is something that it does intentionally; for only then would it be intelligible to ask for what reason it does so. More likely, though, the question is just an affected or confused way of asking, “What causes the ceiling to creak?” (or more simply, “Why is the ceiling creaking?”).

So it is fair to say, “For everything that happens, there is a reason why it happens,” or to say, “Everything that is done intentionally is done for a reason.” The former is a truth, arguably a truism, and the latter certainly a truism, as it merely explicates the meaning of the expressions “intentional” and “(to do something) for a reason.” But when people say “Everything happens for a reason,” they do not mean either one of these things, though their utterance gains its appearance of plausibility from its suggestion of both. What do they mean? It is not easy to answer this question, as the utterance gains its hold on people’s minds precisely by its confusion and obscurity.

One cannot translate nonsense into sense, but one can sometimes identify a coherent thought that is half-expressed, half-concealed in an incoherent utterance. In the case of the saying “Everything happens for a reason,” the half-expressed, half-concealed thought is that everything that happens does so because some intelligent agent, whether human or superhuman, makes it happen for some reason. But the saying can only appear truistic by omitting all mention of agency. It incoherently combines the expression “for a reason,” which implies an agent, with “things happen,” which implies no agent (as I noted in my previous entry in this blog with reference to a recent utterance by Newt Gingrich).

Once the implicit thought is made explicit, it loses all appearance of truism, and indeed of plausibility. If someone said, “Everything that happens is intentionally made to happen by some agent or other,” the utterance, if it were not simply dismissed with a snort, would provoke such questions as “How do you know that? What agent or agents do you have in mind? What basis can you possibly have for such an extravagant claim? Do you seriously mean to imply that when I sneeze, there is a sneeze-spirit of some kind that makes me sneeze? Or that God pushes the molecules around to tickle my nose?” And so on. Few people would be willing to commit themselves to such a fatuous claim. Yet millions of speakers are unashamed to utter and to accept a saying in which this very thought is conveyed by subterfuge.

The saying is not just confused, preposterous, and dishonest: it is also insulting to victims of serious misfortune. Those who say to such persons, “Everything happens for a reason,” are almost certainly playing either Polyannas or Job’s comforters. The Polyannas mean that your misfortune serves some good end beyond itself. The Job’s comforters mean that you had it coming to you. Both meanings are obnoxious, as they trivialize the victim’s suffering and even put the victim in the wrong for feeling it. I include the qualification “almost certainly” in my statement because it is just possible that such people intend a different meaning: they could (though I doubt that many do) mean that God, or whatever spirit caused your misfortune, did so for a reason that has nothing to do with justice or goodness. The point is not to console the sufferers but to remind them that we are all helplessly in the shit together. This, to my mind, is the primary thought of the Book of Job, as I have argued in a previous entry, contra Rabbi Harold Kushner; though most people, Rabbi Kushner among them, prefer to impose a more conciliatory meaning upon that terrible tale.