Can we know what the world is like?
Considering epistemic realism.
Re-Assembling Reality #17b, by Mike Brownnutt and David A. Palmer
What are the causal connections between my brain and the universe? And in which direction does that causality flow? Ontological realism (discussed in Re-Assembling Reality #17a) decoupled the universe from my brain, in as much as it claimed that me believing something to be true is causally unrelated to that thing being true. I cannot say “I am ten feet tall because I believe I am ten feet tall.”
But what about causality in the other direction?
Is my brain coupled to the universe, in as much as something being true is causally connected to me believing something is true? Is it reasonable to say “I believe I am ten feet tall because I am ten feet tall?”
Such a connection brings us to epistemic realism.
Epistemic realism
Epistemic realism is committed to theoretical claims constituting knowledge of the world. [1]
When Descartes made his now famous claim that “I think therefore I am”, he was making an epistemically realist claim. There was something, called “I”, that was thinking. He could directly observe it thinking. And that direct observation gave him knowledge of the world. Specifically, it allowed him to know that the world contained something that he called “I”. He existed.
What else can we know about the world? Different schools of thought extend our knowledge to include different things.
Some people might be epistemically realist about noumena. Objects have a continuous existence, regardless of whether I can see them. My boss does not cease to exist when he leaves the room. This is a theoretical claim. An epistemic realist would say that this theoretical claim (my boss does not wink out of existence when he is leaves my office) provides knowledge about the world (my boss is in the corridor outside my office, and I know that to be the case).
Against this position, a skeptic may take an anti-realist position: my theory of object permanence makes sense of what I see, but that does not mean it is true. It may seem strange that things would stop existing when I cannot see them, but I have no proof that the world is not strange. My boss being outside is a good working theory, but I do not know that it is true.
While this skeptical position may seem obtuse, it is very similar to the position that we developed already regarding noumena (in Re-Assembling Reality #13).
Alice has a theory that air comprises atoms which are hard spheres. If her theory were true, she would expect a wing to experience lift. And a wing does experience lift.
Bob has a theory that air comprises a continuous fluid. If his theory were true, he would expect a wing to experience lift. And a wing does experience lift.
Both Alice and Bob have theories which allow them to get a handle on what they observe. But neither of them necessarily think that their theories provide knowledge of the world. Alice does not know that air is made of hard spheres, and Bob does not know that air is a continuous fluid. All they know is that their theories are useful for them to understand lift.
For my part, I have a theory that my boss does not blink out of existence every time he leaves my office. If my theory were true, I would expect to hear the sound of footsteps down the corridor after the door closed. I do hear the sound of footsteps down the corridor after the door closed. And yet… do I know that my boss is in the corridor? Or do I just know (like Alice and Bob) that my theory is useful for getting a handle on events?
We might notice that in this discussion we are setting a high bar for knowledge. We can then note a distinction between knowledge and belief.
I might be strictly epistemically anti-realist about my theory of object permanence: On the one hand I have the fact that my theory of object permanence makes sense of everything I see in the world around me. And on the other hand I have the claim that world really contains objects that I cannot see, just like my theory says it does. And I recognise that I cannot logically get to the second statement from the first. As such, I admit that, strictly, I do not know that the world contains objects I cannot see.
This does not stop me from believing that the world contains objects I cannot see. I believe that my boss is walking down the corridor outside my office, even though I do not know it. I align my actions with my belief, and I am unconcerned by my (lack of) knowledge.
I would like to think that this pragmatic disregard for the vast holes on my knowledge does not make me crazy. Rather, I suspect it is one of the things which makes me capable of getting out of bed each morning and passing as a more-or-less well adjusted member of society.
We will return to the implications of this in a subsequent Essays on knowledge. For now, let us more on to consideration of religion.
Epistemic realism in Christianity
The book of Exodus recounts that the Israelites coming out of Egypt saw numerous phenomena. They saw a plague of frogs. They saw the parting of the Red Sea. They saw a pillar of fire.
What they did not see was the noumenon which caused these phenomena.
When God said to Moses on Mount Sinai, “I am the LORD your God who brought you out of Egypt,” (Deut. 5:6) He was making a theoretical claim. He was telling Moses that He, the LORD, was the noumenological cause of the frogs, the parting waters, and the pillar of fire.
Once God had told him this, Moses knew it. Generally speaking, both Jews and Christians are committed to the theoretical claims which Moses heard from God constituting knowledge of the world.
Epistemic anti-realism in Christianity
Many outsiders looking in on the Abrahamic faiths take an epistemically anti-realistic position with respect to such theoretical claims as “I am the Lord your God who brought you out of Egypt.” A sociologist may note that having a deity was a significant aspect of nation building. Having a god who would fight your battles (or at least, believing you had a god who would fight your battles, or at absolute very least, saying you had a god who would fight your battles) was critical to the social survival of this group of former slaves now living in a desert.
Just as a scientist may view a theory about hard spherical atoms as a helpful fiction that allows people to get a handle on the world, so an anthropologist may view a theory about being saved by a supernatural being as a helpful fiction that allows people to get a handle on the world.
The parallel between a scientist and a sociologist here is not quite perfect, though. We introduced the sociologist as an “outsider”: someone who studies people with strange beliefs, but who does not themselves live nomadically in a desert, or hold those beliefs. The sociologist sees the fiction as useful, but useful to someone else.
By contrast the scientist is an insider. Scientists do not study people with strange beliefs; they are people with strange beliefs. They study atoms. They build computer models based on hard spherical atoms which they know are not real. As insiders, the scientist sees the fiction as useful, and useful to themselves.
Can we find a better parallel? If the outsiders are sociologists of science and sociologists or religion, and the insiders are scientists and religionists, can we find Christians who are epistemically anti-realist about revelation?
Yes we can.
There are Christians who hold that the theoretical claim, “I am the Lord your God” is not a claim about the way the world really is — i.e. a claim that there is a being (God) who brought the Israelites out of Egypt, and it should not be understood as such. [2]
The poet William Wordsworth may or may not have actually seen “a crowd, a host of golden daffodils,” yet he recounts how,
“when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.” [3]
When I, too, lie pensive on my couch, my heart, too, can be filled with pleasure at the thought of daffodils. I may never have seen a host of golden daffodils, and it makes no difference to my imaginings whether Wordsworth ever really saw them. It even makes no difference if there never existed, any where, at any time, daffodils which “stretched in never-ending line.”
Under this view, when I read in my bible that God told Moses that He brought them out of Egypt, I can contemplate this, as I contemplate daffodils. Such contemplation of God (or daffodils) can make me a better person. What Moses actually heard (or what Wordsworth actually saw) is irrelevant.
Contemplation of one daffodil gives my heart some pleasure. Contemplation of ten thousand daffodils gives my heart much pleasure. Contemplation of an all-loving creator of the universe… surely that would change my life completely.
More epistemic anti-realism in Christianity
The insider’s epistemically anti-realist view of God’s revelation on Mount Sinai is often viewed as being a later ret-con of Christianity. It is likely not how the bible’s author’s viewed the event. There are other statements, however, about which traditional Christians have been epistemically anti-realist.
Sin corrupts human nature and this corruption extends to our reason, understanding, and knowledge. Consequently, there are some aspects of the world where the truth is staring people in the face, and they are not able to see it.
According to Christianity, it is obvious to any right-thinking person that God exists, that he is almighty, that he is good, and that we are utterly dependent on him. We do not instantly see and accept this, though, because humans are not right-thinking: our thinking has been corrupted, and we cannot see what should be obvious.
A non-Christian may make theoretical claims like “There is no God”, or “I can get by just fine without God.” They may even construct elaborate proofs and demonstrations for such claims. Within the Christian worldview, however, the results of sin do not simply mean that humans have only a shaky ability to do what is right. They also have only a shaky ability to know what is true. The atheists’ theoretical constructions do not constitute knowledge of the world.
This is not to say that this world-view draws Christians as being any better. Christianity also states that Christians have a shaky ability to do what is right, and a shaky ability to know what is true.
A Christian can, with a sincere heart and a totally straight face, say, “I am humble. And generous. And patient.” Nonetheless, one may not need fifteen minutes in a room with them to realise that their theoretical claims do not constitute knowledge of the world! Their inability to see their own sin is a direct effect of their own sin.
This apparently self referential limit on human knowledge is not limited to Christianity, and not even to religion. It can arise with equal force in secular discourse.
When counseling someone for addiction, one of the key indicators that a person has a problem is that they do not know they have a problem; indeed they may insist that they know that they do not have a problem:
“I’m fine. I’m not an addict. I don’t have a problem with it. I’m in control of my actions. I could stop whenever I wanted.”
These claims fly in the face of what people around them can see: this person’s marriage is falling apart, their kids have disowned them, they have lost their job, they have spent all their money, they are living on the streets. They do have a problem. And they cannot stop whenever they want. They are so far gone that even the brutal reality of their every day life cannot put a dent in their denial.
A key aspect of their addiction is that they do not know they have an addiction. The counselor has heard it a hundred times: “That’s ridiculous! How does me saying ‘I’m not an addict,’ constitute evidence that I am an addict?”
One major task of the counselor is to help the addict realise that their theoretical claims (“I’m not an addict. I could stop whenever I wanted”) do not constitute knowledge of the world.
The Christian evangelist sees their task as helping the non-Christian realise that their theoretical claims (“I am fine without God”) do not constitute knowledge of the world.
And, of course, the Atheist evangelist sees their task of helping the Christian to realise that their theoretical claims (“I am not fine without God”) do not constitute knowledge of the world.
Epistemic (anti)realism in Buddhism
Having unpacked the various discussions back and forth in the context of Christianity, we note that combinations of epistemic realist and anti-realist thinking occur in other religions as well.
In Buddhism, a fully enlightened being should be epistemically realist about their thoughts. What they know or believe about the world accurately reflects what the world is like.
Most people, however, do not manage to attain enlightenment. Worldly desires and passions distract and rob the person of the ability to see the world as it truly is. As such, most people are ignorant of the true nature of things, and the claims they make of the world do not constitute knowledge of what the world is truly like.
The process of spiritual growth is about overcoming these passions. Some people train hard, but don’t advance significantly. Some people don’t train much at all but simply have an innate capacity. In either event, by becoming free of desires and passions, one can better attain knowledge of the world.
Morality and the bounds of epistemic realism in science
Within Christianity, we have seen that sin — rebellion against God — has implications for the connection between our thinking and the way the world really is. Moral issues place bounds on the reasonableness of an epistemically realist position.
Within Buddhism we have seen that desire — craving that which can never be satisfied — has implications for the connection between our thinking and the way the world really is. Moral issues place bounds on the reasonableness of an epistemically realist position.
What of science?
Some aspects of epistemic anti-realism in science seem independent of a person’s morality. The problems we discussed in reliably appraising the nature of noumena (in Re-Assembling Reality #13) flowed from logical arguments apparently independent of morality. Alice’s inability to know whether air is made of hard spheres is not due to a moral failing.
But such issues are not the only limitation on how reliably our thinking about the world maps onto the world around us. Regardless of our stance on noumena, there are things which make even our appraisal of phenomena unreliable. Consider:
— A researcher does not take the time to double check their calculation.
— A professor refuses to give consideration to a young colleague’s criticism of their method.
— A post-doc only makes measurements during office hours, and failed to notice effects that arise at night.
— The entire academic community concentrates on areas of inquiry for which one can win Nobel prizes and other accolades, while neglecting less applauded topics.
What would an addiction counselor do if they heard a scientist insist, “I don’t need to check my results! There is no way they can be wrong”? They would sigh, gently shake their head, and say “And that tells me that you need to check your results one more time.”
Each of the examples above, in addition to being detrimental to the production of scientific knowledge, show vices at work. Specifically, in turn, impatience, arrogance, sloth, and avarice.
A research group that wants to do better science; that wants to ensure that its thinking about the world more reliably reflects the way the world is; that want to be a little more justified in epistemic realism, even if only about phenomena: that group should weed out such vices from its members. It may do well to replace them by fostering the associated virtues of patience, humility, diligence, and contentment.
Scientists who are wedded either to the necessary antipathy or necessary separation of science and religion are welcome to re-invent the wheel at this point. Scientists who are less dogmatic may find a rich and helpful body of literature regarding virtue in the “religion” section of their nearest library.
[1] Chakravartty, Anjan (2017). “Scientific Realism”, The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy, Edward N. Zalta (ed.).
[2] There are some people who look at this approach and wonder if it can really count as “Christians”. This is quite irrelevant to the present discussion.
Consider two physicists: one is an adherent of the Copenhagen interpretation and one is an adherent of pilot-wave theory. The first thinks that the second is wrong, and even a fool. Still, they grudgingly accept that they may both be counted as physicists, and are comfortable with the idea that they are both engaged in something that looks like science.
Now consider to Christians: one who is broadly realist and one who is a fictionalist. The first thinks that the second is wrong, and even a fool. Still they grudgingly accepts that they may both be counted as Christians, and are comfortable with the idea that they are both engaged in something that looks like religion.
The analogy is not perfect, but it will at least get us through this section. We leave further discussions as to whether one can or should be descriptive or prescriptive, realist or anti-realist, about the remit of the category Christian as an exercise for the reader. If you have been following these blogs, you should be able to work out at least a reasonable shape for the answer.
[3] Wordsworth, William. “I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud.” Poetry Foundation.
This essay and the Re-Assembling Reality Medium series are brought to you by the University of Hong Kong’s Common Core Curriculum Course CCHU9061 Science and Religion: Questioning Truth, Knowledge and Life, with the support of the Faith and Science Collaborative Research Forumand the Asian Religious Connections research cluster of the Hong Kong Institute for the Humanities and Social Sciences.
