Control and violence
Science’s dirty secret.
Re-Assembling Reality #28f, by Mike Brownnutt and David A. Palmer
The stories that we tell ourselves about ourselves are powerful. Evolution can be co-opted to be involved in various stories but, having got evolutionary theory involved, we suddenly think that we are arguing about how many toes protohippus had, and we forget we are really arguing about who we are, and what our place is in the universe.
In Essay #28b we looked at the stories we tell ourselves regarding the brotherhood (or otherwise) of mankind. Modern science (if it takes its cue from evolution) and Christianity (if it takes its cue from a more-or-less literal interpretation of the bible) are on the same side.
In Essay 28c we looked at the stories we tell ourselves regarding our freedom to choose our own measure of what makes people valuable. Modern science (if it takes its cue from naturalism) and Christianity (if it takes its cue from a more-or-less literal interpretation of the bible) are now on opposite sides.
So we see that evolution is involved in a narrative. If it is to be of any interest at all it must be involved in a narrative. But that narrative is not rigidly determined by the empirical facts of evolution, nor is it rigidly pre-determined to be in broad alignment or broad opposition to any particular religious view.
Moving away from evolution, this essay looks at a general story that science tells, even though this story is not rigidly determined by the empirical facts of science. There are other stories that science could tell. Moreover, there are alternative narratives that religion can inspire, which provide rich and fruitful narratives which science can adopt.
Technology: control and violence
We live in a technological age. This tells us — almost necessarily — who we are, and what our place is in the universe:
We are masters of the universe, and our place is on top.
Consider the following technologies:
— fire,
— the internal combustion engine,
— carbon capture.
On the face of it, they seem disparate: fire is old, carbon capture is new. The internal combustion engine is a mature technology that imperils the planet, and carbon capture is a nascent technology that might help save it.
What do they all have in common?
A million years ago, humanity was based in Africa. There was lots of space in the rest of the world, but the further north you go, the colder it gets. This is not a problem, of course, if you have fire. Why constrain ourselves to live only where the climate is warm? Fire lets us live where we want, when we want.
A hundred years ago humanity was based in local communities. There was lots of space out of town, but it is all a long way from the people you know and the places you want to go. This is not a problem, of course, if you have a car. Why constrain ourselves to stay near the people we love? The internal combustion engine lets us travel to where we want, when we want.
Today, humanity is based in an economy that burns things. We can always have more things, and in doing so we set ourselves up for extinction via run-away global warming. This would not be a problem, of course, if we could perfect carbon capture. Why constrain ourselves to not rapaciously consume without end? Carbon capture allows us to burn as much as we want, for as long as we want.
Whatever technologies we use, whether we use them to help or to harm, the underlying logic is always the same: we want control. We want to do what we want, how we want, when we want, for as long as we want; unconstrained by the world in which we find ourselves.
Try this as an exercise yourself: think of a technology, and see if it doesn’t fit the basic framework of control. Contact lenses, online banking, microwave meals, electric lighting, contraceptives, IVF… All tell a story of humanity’s desire to be unconstrained by the limitations of the world in which we find ourselves.
Science: control and violence
We know that “science and technology” go hand in hand, just like “arts and crafts” or “law and order”. They are of a piece.
But, even if technology is about control, surely science is neutral. Technology seeks to control nature. Science, in wanting to learn about the world, must content itself to observe what nature does, and submit to what nature reveals.
Except it doesn’t.
Nature never does what I want, when I want it, how I want it. If I want to know what a rat’s intestine looks like, I cannot wait for nature to give me a clear view of a rat’s intestine. I have to create a clear view of a rat’s intestine. I learn about the world, not by submitting myself to nature’s will, but by submitting nature to my will.
Experimental science is, of necessity, an intervention in the world: to make the world show me what I want, when I want, how I want.
If I want to study an atom, I can’t wait for the world to show me an atom. I have to create a vacuum harder than the vacuum of interstellar space. I have to cool it down to a temperature colder than interstellar space. I have to trap the atom where I want it, and hit it with laser pulses of exactly the wavelength I want, for exactly the duration I want, in exactly the sequence I want. Vacuum systems and cryostats and lasers do not exist in nature. There is nothing natural about so-called “natural science”. It is all about control.
The words we use
Control is one thing. But (dead rats notwithstanding) is science in general actually violent?
If the language of science is anything to go by, we certainly think that science is violent.
In experiments we may wish to observe the dominant effects, and so we work to suppress any competing effects. We use control variables, and avoid confounding variables. We speak of dominant and recessive genes, master and slave processors… Our language is antagonistic.
Theoreticians are no gentler.
They have a dominant theory, and competing theories. They knock their data into shape, which is good. If they gently massage their data, this is very bad. They consider how best to attack a problem. They pursue their solutions, track them down, hunt for answers. And just think how visceral it is to have your theory violated.
The abstract nature of thought does not save us from the physicality of our violent metaphors.
We master an idea, and wrestle with a concept. We really want to get to grips with it, get a hold of it, pin it down. A set of thoughts together is called an argument. And arguments can be attacked, dissected, taken apart, torn apart, destroyed, shredded. Weak arguments are beaten by strong ones. Misconceptions are exploded. Opposing ideas are shot down.
Whatever happens, arguments (like war) are there to be won or lost.
But surely not all science is like this. What about fields that are explicitly compassionate? What about healthcare, for example?
We fight disease. We wage war on cancer. A person wins (or loses) the battle with sickness. All of this with the ultimate aim to conquer death.
War and death and disease and conquest. How can healthcare speak so little of health or care?
The answer is simple: underneath all the science we do is a metaphysic telling us who we are and what our place is: We are masters of the universe and our place is on top. Our task is to control, most likely by force.
Can science be different?
As we saw in Essay #28b, the metaphysic we use to make meaning and sense of the world is not empirically based. And so there is nothing in the world at large that forces one particular metaphysic on us. It is possible to do science differently.
As we look for a different way of seeing the world, a different story to tell, maybe religion provide science with an alternative narrative; an antidote to the metaphysic of violence.
Environmental care
Environmental science would seem like the kind of place that would eschew violence. If caring for the environment doesn’t involve healing deep fractures in our relationships with the world around us, then our violent vision of science is pervasive indeed.
In caring for the environment we look after the world around us; the world in which we live. How could that be divisive? How could that be grounded in conflict?
Environmental care sets up the category of “the environment”. The environment is everything around me. That is a pretty expansive, inclusive concept. It includes
— the natural environment: plants, animals;
— the built environment: tower blocks, roads;
— the social environment: friends, colleagues.
What could possibly be divisive here? What is excluded from the fullness and totality of the world in which I live?
And the answer is simple: me.
The frame of “environment” splits the world into two parts: me, and everything else. There is a distinction drawn between me and a tree: the tree is part of my environment, and I am not. The same holds for my house and my friends: they are the “other” in the great me / environment divide. Caring for the environment means caring about everything that is not me.
There may be more expansive views that provide me with company, but they still set up the environment as the “other”. “Our community’s environment” is everything that is not our community. “Humanity’s environment” is everything that is not humanity.
If you hear that there is an environmental problem, it may be located in many places: the air, the water, the fish. But it cannot be a problem with you. Because you are not part of the environment.
Creation care
There are other ways of framing the situation. The Abrahamic religions talk about “creation” and, particularly of late, Christians speak of “creation care.”
Creation care, like environmental care, sets up two distinct categories. But, however similar they may seem at first glance, creation care does not simply rename and reuse the same categories as environmental care. Instead, it slices things entirely differently.
Creation is all that has been created: Trees, rocks, my hamster, me. I am, in a very real sense, a “creature” — a thing created. If the environment is the totality of the world around me, creation is the totality of the world of which I am part.
While environmental care puts everything into the two categories of “me and everything else”, creation care puts everything into the two categories of “God and everything else.” Given the two stories we encountered in Essay #28c, in which naturalism puts me at the centre, and Abrahamic religions put God at the centre, this different framing should not be surprising.
Still, even with such an explicitly theological shift, this change can provide fruitful avenues for science.
As a created being I am part of creation. This removes the dislocation between me and a tree, or between me and my neighbours. While caring for the environment is caring for something of which I am not part, caring for creation is caring for something of which I am an integral part.
If you hear that there is a problem with creation, it may be located in many places: the air, the water, the fish. But it may also be located with you. You, as part of creation, may be part of the problem; and you may be part of the solution.
This shift in perspective might seem subtle, but it is huge.
Animist reciprocity
While both the Christian frame of creation care and the prevailing frame in science of environmental care, set up pairs of categories, there are still other ways of framing the situation. Let us consider the example of animism, which treats the world as a single society of persons.
Humans and non-humans are tied in complicated relations with each other — they are not separated from the “environment”. For animists, not only do humans depend on each other, but all living beings do — all persons, human and otherwise. And this interdependence is not some abstract idea, like the naturalist notion of ecological balance. We are interdependent and have relationships with specific metapersons in the forest, who have their own feelings. If we don’t respect them, then we will have problems.
In an animist society, humans and animals don’t love each other in some cute, cuddly, furry intimacy. In an animist cosmology, living beings in the forest are often selfish, jealous, or angry. But, just like for humans, even selfish persons need to negotiate and respect each other. A person always needs to consider that what they do might offend or upset someone or something around them.
When I walk down the streets of Hong Kong, which are so crowded, at the very least I try not to step on people’s feet, because I know people will get upset if I step on their feet. I have to be careful. If I do step on people’s feet or crush someone’s shopping bag, I have to apologise or make amends. In an animist cosmology, I’m constantly “stepping on the feet” of trees, plants, rocks, and everything else. Thus I always have to think of how to make amends. Reciprocity is the rule. Metapersons, in the animist worldview, like humans, are not necessarily friendly. They might get rather nasty, if you don’t treat them with respect. Just like you need to work on your relationships with your sister, your father, the family next door, and the people in the next village, you need to work on your relationships with the river, the big tree at the edge of the village, the snakes, the yam roots, and the sun. It’s always a work in progress, with ups and downs. And the state of your relationships might be different from those of your neighbour, or of the next village. There is no boundary here between humans and the environment. We’re all trying to manage our relationships of reciprocity with human and metahuman persons.
We started this section with the suggestion that if caring for the environment doesn’t involve healing deep fractures in our relationships with the world around us, then our violent vision of science is pervasive indeed.
We now see that “environmental care” takes me out of the world. It sets me up in opposition to the world, even in competition with it. It re-enforces a deep brokenness in our relationship with the world. In contrast, both “creation care” and “reciprocity” — by providing stories of who we are and our place in the universe — may offer paths to healing some of the brokenness: I am part of the creation for which I need to care; or I am part of the web of relations with different types of beings that makes up the world as a single society.
As with discussions in earlier essays about the stories we tell ourselves, neither the “environment” story, nor the “creation” story, nor the “reciprocity” story clash in any way with empirical data. They each provide a structure in which science can operate; in which the science can have meaning. None of the stories are obviously unscientific, per se, much less anti-scientific. So let us close by asking: are the stories part of science? And if they are part of science, entirely non-empirical as they are, can they be called “scientific”?
Thin science and thick science
Scientists need stories. They are human beings who are helpless to stop themselves from thinking in stories. Our brains are story-telling organs. Any statement a scientist makes is embedded within a vast network of stories we tell. Yes, all scientific statements: from “Most anatomically modern humans have some neanderthal DNA,” to “The wave function collapsed when I made a measurement,” to “2+2=4.”
It bears repeating: all scientific statements exist within stories. They are influenced by the stories we tell, they are understood and interpreted within those stories, and they influence the stories we tell.
If science needs stories, we are faced with two options:
Thin science
Within this view, science proper consists of the explicit statements of science. “Most anatomically modern humans have some neanderthal DNA,” is a scientific statement. It is based in empirical data. The non-empirical stories we tell are not part of science. All of the implicit statements, half-formed ideas, intuitions, and prejudices that swirl around any given explicit scientific statement are not part of science.
Africans — not having neanderthal DNA — are more properly modern humans than Europeans. The interbreeding of different lineages — like neanderthals and homo sapiens — provides an important complexity that benefits modern humans and Africans miss out. I wonder what it was like to have sex with a neanderthal. Wouldn’t it be weird to have sex with chimpanzees. Lucy is a nice name. My opinions matter. I can make meaningful statements. Modern humans are better than their evolutionary forebears. Humanity will keep evolving to be better still. I bet I would have lost a fight with a neanderthal. DNA is an important part of what makes us human. Interbreeding between species proves there is no God. Humanity’s ancient lineage makes us significant. Humanity’s ancient lineage makes my life now insignificant. A million years in a 14-billion-year-old universe is nothing.
On a thin view of science, none of these statements, ideas, or musings are properly part of science.
We have just seen, however, that we cannot think — much less say, much less demonstrate — a scientific statement like “Most anatomically modern humans have some neanderthal DNA,” without also thinking a wide range of non-scientific statements. These unscientific statements may materially alter the way we think about the science (as the shift from “environment” to “creation” did). Or they may be incidental. Either way, it may be difficult to tell what influence they have, if any.
Adopting a thin view of science has a number of implications.
On the one hand you can (with a reasonably straight face) say that science is all about explicitly expressible, neutral facts. Science does not involve personal judgements, or opinions, or prejudices. Anything that does involve judgement, opinion, or prejudice is not part of science.
On the other hand, you must also admit that science is strongly incomplete. It cannot function on its own. Science necessarily exists and functions within an unscientific maelstrom of broadly unexpressed and unexpressible, broadly unrecognized and unrecognizable, broadly unjustified and unjustifiable thoughts, ideas, hopes, wishes, beliefs, judgements, and prejudices.
It is these unscientific things which buttress, motivate, propel, and give meaning to what you would then call “science proper.”
If you are OK with that, a thin understanding of science is for you.
Thick science
Within this view, science proper consists of all the elements that are necessary for making scientific statements. Such scientific statements themselves, like “Most anatomically modern humans have some neanderthal DNA,” are therefore part of science.
But, of course, that statement cannot be made — much less thought, much less demonstrated —outside a maelstrom of broadly unexpressed and unexpressible, broadly unrecognized and unrecognizable, broadly unjustified and unjustifiable thoughts, ideas, hopes, wishes, beliefs, judgements, and prejudices.
If science consists of all the elements that are necessary for making scientific statements, this maelstrom must be considered part of science proper.
Adopting a thick view of science has a number of implications.
On the one hand you can (with a reasonably straight face) say that science is complete in and of itself. It can function autonomously. It has within itself sufficient resources to motivate itself and give meaning to its claims, without any appeal to anything beyond science.
On the other hand, you must also admit that science is an utter mess. It includes things which are inexpressible, unjustifiable, contradictory, factually inaccurate, value-laden, racist, and immoral — and yet which are to be appropriately considered as part of science proper.
If you are OK with that, a thick understanding of science is for you.
Any other options?
You can classify the fuzzy story-telling as unscientific, provided you are willing to accept that science can only function by appealing to things which are unscientific.
You can say that science does not need to appeal to anything beyond itself, provided you are willing to count the fuzzy story-telling as scientific.
Can we somehow pick out the best of each option? Some “have our cake and eat it” scenario? No.
Science’s dirty secret
Consideration of control and violence led us to the recognition of a secret that many people would rather not talk about.
No, the secret is not that science is inherently violent. Science as it is practiced is often predicated on a violent metaphysic. And many people would rather not talk about that. But the violence is not unavoidable. There are ways to practice non-violent science.
Rather, the secret that we uncovered was that science cannot function without stories. Nasty, untidy, unjustified stories. Stories we tell about the world, ourselves, and our place in the world. Essentially, religious stories.
We can carefully demarcate science to say that such stories are not scientific. But we cannot say that science is able to operate without such stories.
Footnotes
[1] The scientific study of early humans has been intimately intertwined with Tolkein’s Middle Earth, as well as other literary envisionings, for a long time. This history is traced by John Holmes in his Lit & Phil lecture, The Hobbits of Flores or…How J. R. R. Tolkien Is Helping Us Reimagine Human Evolution.
