Hume doesn't, of course, discuss the Miracle of the Sun, since the events at Fatima occurred long after his time. But he does discuss another famous modern miracle event, that of the Holy Thorn, in a footnote added to the essay on miracles in 1750.
On March 24, 1656, a ten-year-old girl named Marguerite Périer, who was living at Port-Royal-des-Champs, who was suffering from a lachrymal fistula was given the privilege of having a relic, supposedly a thorn from Christ's crown of thorns, touched to her sore. Within a day the problem, thought to have been incurable, was gone. On April 14, several surgeons and physicians signed a certificate attesting that the cure was beyond natural means and ecclesiastical inquiry began.
The event was a breath of life for the Jansenists, Port-Royal being the center of their movement. The Jesuits had been denouncing their position very harshly and had been increasingly winning an audience, the royal court had begun to press them heavily, and Antoine Arnauld, their primary representative and defender, had been censured. With the Miracle of the Holy Thorn, however, all this changed; the Jesuits continued to denounce, but the miracle became very popular and raised the Jansensists in the estimation of the people. The royal court pulled back from its pressure, at least for a while. And the uncle of Marguerite Périer, who had already been pro-Jansenist and had published an anti-Jesuit work just six months before, was motivated by the event to even more intense efforts on behalf of the Jansenists; his name was Blaise Pascal. It was taken by the Jansenists as a sign of divine favor, and was the first in a long line of Holy Thorn and other miracles to which the Jansenists would point.
It was also probably the beginning of the destruction of Jansenism; it led the Jansenists to look for miracles, and the miracles claimed by the Jansenists became more and more extreme and disruptive until eventually the full force of Church and State were brought against them. The nuns at Port-Royal themselves, from the beginning, had wisely taken a very cautious stance to all the purported miracles; but outside Port-Royal, things built up slowly to the point of people undergoing convulsions at the tomb of the Abbé Paris from 1727-1732. Once the Jansenists claimed the Miracle of the Thorn as a sign of divine favor, they had also escalated the pitch of their argument with the Jesuits to its highest possible point: the Jesuits had no alternatives save to concede or to work to bring the full force of condemnation against the Jansenists. And the Jesuits were not exactly the conceding type.
Hume, who had spent time at the Jesuit center of La Flèche while writing the Treatise, no doubt read up on the whole situation with interest, and probably took a rather ironic delight in it all: some of the more extreme Jesuits at one point had begun to argue, on grounds startling like those of Protestants rejecting miracles of the saints, that after the miracles of the Gospels there was simply no need for any miracles anymore. Neither Hume's Calvinist readers nor most Catholics of Hume's day would have accepted the Jansenist miracles, which had begun to be labeled with that ultimate insult of the eighteenth century, enthusiasm. But the Jansenist miracles have a number of features that would make them fare better than most other attestations to miracles would: many, many witnesses, fairly recent, occurring in a civilized country, etc. Thus the Miracle of the Holy Thorn, precisely because of the quality of its attestation, becomes part of Hume's argument that we can never believe a religious miracle on testimony.
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Incalculably Diffusive Processes
A nice bit by Simon Blackburn:
Incalculably diffusive processes are real enough. Education is one of them. Sending a book or an idea into the marketplace may be the datable beginning of a diffusive process, but then there may be no datable end product. William Shakespeare's works diffuse after more than four centuries; Hume's after three. Their works are tributaries into the vast stream of thoughts and ideas and writings and political changes that made the modern world. But nobody can calculate the effect that just one work had, any more than they can calculate just how much of the growth of a flower, or how much of its beauty, was the result of any one raindrop falling on any one day. Yet nobody doubts that rain makes the garden grow. It is an incalculably diffusive process.
Hume and the Miracle of the Sun
Paul Warwick has an essay in Philosophy Now on Hume's argument against believing religious miracles on testimony, which is fairly nice, and which I found interesting because I just finished teaching the essay yesterday. Two thoughts.
(1) Warwick summarizes Hume's essay in this way:
However, this is not really quite right. First, Hume explicitly allows that testimony in favor of a miracle can outweigh the evidence against it, although he doesn't think it has actually happened. He proposes an example of eight days of darkness, witnessed by many reputable historians independently writing from many parts of the world, as such a case; in part because while the eight days of darkness are not the sort of thing we find in our experience, they are fairly analogous to things we do find in our experience, and in part because it's hard to see how there could be interfering passions biasing the reporters, especially given that we have concurrence that can't be conspiratorial. Hume explicitly qualifies his claims by saying that he only has religious miracles in view.
Further, I don't think it's actually true that Hume thinks hearsay is necessarily weak; for Hume testimony is evaluated insofar as it is an effect that can give evidence for its causes, and thus is not really different from any other sort of causal evidence (and massive amounts of our evidence for anything is causal). Again, it is only religious testimony that is problematized in Hume's argument. Why? Because it is part of a family of testimony that deals with issues that guarantee intense emotional involvement that can bias witnesses, shape testimony, and motivate lying.
(2) Warwick applies the Humean reasoning the Miracle of the Sun at Fatima, and this is entirely a good idea. Since it is a religious miracle, and since Warwick assumes it to be an astronomical phenomenon, his application of Hume's reasoning is sound: it would have to be rejected because it is contrary to uniform experience, in which the sun does not dance around, and if it did, it would wreak havoc. But this does raise a question. For it is not uncommon for proponents of the Miracle of the Sun to take it to be a meteorological phenomenon, caused by a cloud of dust or ice. Interpreting the original event in this way, it suddenly conforms much more closely to uniform experience: perihelia, anthelia, and the like are not uncommon. This at least makes it closer to the eight days of darkness scenario (as far as the issue of experience goes; the religious context would still worry Hume). More than that, it raises the question of whether the event was a preternatural miracle -- preternatural miracles are rare events entirely explicable in terms of natural laws that get their significance from associated events (in this case, the visions of Fatima). If it were a preternatural miracle, it wouldn't merely be like an ordinary meteorological phenomenon, it would simply be one (albeit perhaps still of a rare sort). Preternatural miracles do not fall under Hume's definition of miracle, although they are widely recognized (it's a standard category of miracle for Catholics, and Campbell in his response to Hume gives a Calvinist version using a somewhat different terminology).
What the application of Hume's reasoning to the Miracle of the Sun really brings out, then, is the fact that a great deal actually rests on how you interpret the purported event. Consider another hypothetical scenario Hume uses: suppose several reputable historians claim that Elizabeth I died in the presence of witnesses, then a little while after appeared again and finished out her reign. Hume says nothing in this would really induce him to believe that Elizabeth I actually died and came back to life, no matter how reputable the historians. Even granted that, however, it would still be at least reasonable to suggest that something happened that seemed to contemporaries as if Elizabeth died and came back to life -- a very cleverly done impostorship, for instance. Testimony can genuinely witness to the fact of an event, but do so under an inaccurate interpretation; and, indeed, this is quite common. Thus we always have to keep this possibility in mind, even if we are purely Humean in our approach to this sort of question.
(1) Warwick summarizes Hume's essay in this way:
In Hume’s ‘Of Miracles’ in Section X of his An Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding, he sets out what he considers a decisive case to show that we are not justified in believing in miracles. Beginning with the proposition that we should proportion our belief in accordance with the strength of the available evidence, Hume observes that the sole evidence most of us ever have for any miracle is usually that of the testimony of others. But hearsay is not particularily strong evidence. He goes on to conclude that the testimony in favour of a miracle can never balance, let alone outweigh, the evidence against it, especially when it contravenes accepted natural law.
However, this is not really quite right. First, Hume explicitly allows that testimony in favor of a miracle can outweigh the evidence against it, although he doesn't think it has actually happened. He proposes an example of eight days of darkness, witnessed by many reputable historians independently writing from many parts of the world, as such a case; in part because while the eight days of darkness are not the sort of thing we find in our experience, they are fairly analogous to things we do find in our experience, and in part because it's hard to see how there could be interfering passions biasing the reporters, especially given that we have concurrence that can't be conspiratorial. Hume explicitly qualifies his claims by saying that he only has religious miracles in view.
Further, I don't think it's actually true that Hume thinks hearsay is necessarily weak; for Hume testimony is evaluated insofar as it is an effect that can give evidence for its causes, and thus is not really different from any other sort of causal evidence (and massive amounts of our evidence for anything is causal). Again, it is only religious testimony that is problematized in Hume's argument. Why? Because it is part of a family of testimony that deals with issues that guarantee intense emotional involvement that can bias witnesses, shape testimony, and motivate lying.
(2) Warwick applies the Humean reasoning the Miracle of the Sun at Fatima, and this is entirely a good idea. Since it is a religious miracle, and since Warwick assumes it to be an astronomical phenomenon, his application of Hume's reasoning is sound: it would have to be rejected because it is contrary to uniform experience, in which the sun does not dance around, and if it did, it would wreak havoc. But this does raise a question. For it is not uncommon for proponents of the Miracle of the Sun to take it to be a meteorological phenomenon, caused by a cloud of dust or ice. Interpreting the original event in this way, it suddenly conforms much more closely to uniform experience: perihelia, anthelia, and the like are not uncommon. This at least makes it closer to the eight days of darkness scenario (as far as the issue of experience goes; the religious context would still worry Hume). More than that, it raises the question of whether the event was a preternatural miracle -- preternatural miracles are rare events entirely explicable in terms of natural laws that get their significance from associated events (in this case, the visions of Fatima). If it were a preternatural miracle, it wouldn't merely be like an ordinary meteorological phenomenon, it would simply be one (albeit perhaps still of a rare sort). Preternatural miracles do not fall under Hume's definition of miracle, although they are widely recognized (it's a standard category of miracle for Catholics, and Campbell in his response to Hume gives a Calvinist version using a somewhat different terminology).
What the application of Hume's reasoning to the Miracle of the Sun really brings out, then, is the fact that a great deal actually rests on how you interpret the purported event. Consider another hypothetical scenario Hume uses: suppose several reputable historians claim that Elizabeth I died in the presence of witnesses, then a little while after appeared again and finished out her reign. Hume says nothing in this would really induce him to believe that Elizabeth I actually died and came back to life, no matter how reputable the historians. Even granted that, however, it would still be at least reasonable to suggest that something happened that seemed to contemporaries as if Elizabeth died and came back to life -- a very cleverly done impostorship, for instance. Testimony can genuinely witness to the fact of an event, but do so under an inaccurate interpretation; and, indeed, this is quite common. Thus we always have to keep this possibility in mind, even if we are purely Humean in our approach to this sort of question.
Monday, April 25, 2011
Reference to One
I recently came across an objection to Aquinas's basic account of analogy that is interesting, in the sense that answering it clarifies some things about the account that people often find confusing. The objection is essentially this. Analogy is supposed to be something intermediate between univocity and equivocity: if a term is predicated analogically, it is predicated neither univocally nor equivocally. But this means that its meaning in the two instances considered has to be partly the same and partly the different. But pretty much every sort of equivocation is a case in which the terms involved are in some way partly the same. 'Bank' in the sense of a financial institution and 'bank' in the sense of a part of a river would be equivocal -- they are merely homonyms. But you still can find things that a financial institution and a part of a river have in common. For instance, they are both places where something might be located. So it seems that the doctrine of analogy has a problem.
As you might have guessed, I don't think so. When Aquinas says that the definition of the term is partly the same and partly different, he isn't talking about any old way in which they could be the same. What he means specifically is that either (1) one definition includes a reference to the other or (2) both definitions include a reference to the same thing. One reason why Aquinas uses the 'healthy' example so much (it is not the only example he uses) is that it nicely exhibits both of these. 'Healthy' can be applied to diets, to bodies, and to urine samples. Obviously it doesn't mean exactly the same thing in each case. But the healthiness of diets and the healthiness of bodies are obviously not completely different, either; and the reason is that you can't explain the healthiness of a diet without reference to the healthiness of bodies. That is, what makes 'healthy' in 'This diet is healthy' and 'This body is healthy' analogical is that the former use of 'healthy' logically depends on the latter use. Likewise, 'healthy diet' and 'healthy urine sample' aren't using 'healthy' in a univocal way. But they both are partly the same in the sense that an adequate account of both requires reference to healthiness in bodies -- healthy diets are healthy in the sense that they contribute to bodies being healthy, and healthy urine samples are healthy in the sense that they are signs of bodies being healthy. In general this reference to one is by cause, or by effect, or due to mental understanding (e.g., when 'God' is used of what someone thinks of as God and of God); I can't recall Aquinas giving another way in which the reference to one could exist, although conceivably there is some somewhere.
The point that is relevant to the objection, in any case, is that the partial sameness of analogy is in fact a relatively precise thing; it does not mean similarity but actual sameness, and it doesn't even many any sort of sameness, but sameness due to proportion between terms -- reference to one thing.
As you might have guessed, I don't think so. When Aquinas says that the definition of the term is partly the same and partly different, he isn't talking about any old way in which they could be the same. What he means specifically is that either (1) one definition includes a reference to the other or (2) both definitions include a reference to the same thing. One reason why Aquinas uses the 'healthy' example so much (it is not the only example he uses) is that it nicely exhibits both of these. 'Healthy' can be applied to diets, to bodies, and to urine samples. Obviously it doesn't mean exactly the same thing in each case. But the healthiness of diets and the healthiness of bodies are obviously not completely different, either; and the reason is that you can't explain the healthiness of a diet without reference to the healthiness of bodies. That is, what makes 'healthy' in 'This diet is healthy' and 'This body is healthy' analogical is that the former use of 'healthy' logically depends on the latter use. Likewise, 'healthy diet' and 'healthy urine sample' aren't using 'healthy' in a univocal way. But they both are partly the same in the sense that an adequate account of both requires reference to healthiness in bodies -- healthy diets are healthy in the sense that they contribute to bodies being healthy, and healthy urine samples are healthy in the sense that they are signs of bodies being healthy. In general this reference to one is by cause, or by effect, or due to mental understanding (e.g., when 'God' is used of what someone thinks of as God and of God); I can't recall Aquinas giving another way in which the reference to one could exist, although conceivably there is some somewhere.
The point that is relevant to the objection, in any case, is that the partial sameness of analogy is in fact a relatively precise thing; it does not mean similarity but actual sameness, and it doesn't even many any sort of sameness, but sameness due to proportion between terms -- reference to one thing.
Sunday, April 24, 2011
The Good and Ontological Argument
Anselm's argument in the Proslogion didn't spring out of nothing; it has predecessors, although it shows much originality, as well. What is interesting about the predecessors is that they are discussions of the Good. For instance, where do we find a reasonable precursor for Anselm's description of God as "that than which no greater can be conceived"? It seems to be a refinement of Augustine. For instance, here is Augustine in On Christian Doctrine (DDC 1.7, emphasis added):
Note the emphasis on excellence here. We get a similar precursor in Boethius (Consolation of Philosophy, Book III, Prose X, emphasis added):
Anselm himself ties his famous "ontological argument" to the Good both before and after the argument itself. In the prayer of Proslogion 1, he repeatedly refers to man's good as contemplation of God, without which nothing can be happy, and reflects on how man has lost this good. And then, more explicitly, we have a more explicit tie-in at Proslogion 5:
Interestingly, one finds this connection between the Good, or happiness as possession of the Good, in conjunction with very different kinds of arguments that still receive the label "ontological argument". Spinoza's is perhaps the best known example, since the "ontological argument" in Book of the Ethics is Spinoza's first step in the attempt to prove that there is a happiness that is utterly unshakeable and certain (which is why I sometimes tell people that in a sense you have to read the Ethics backwards to understand its point properly). And Iris Murdoch's not-quite-acceptance, not-quite-rejection of an "ontological argument" in her excellent Metaphysics as a Guide to Morals is intimately and explicitly linked with her attempt to explore the idea of the Good. This is a link that I think needs to be studied more.
For when the one supreme God of gods is thought of, even by those who believe that there are other gods, and who call them by that name, and worship them as gods, their thought takes the form of an endeavor to reach the conception of a nature, than which nothing more excellent or more exalted exists. And since men are moved by different kinds of pleasures, partly by those which pertain to the bodily senses, partly by those which pertain to the intellect and soul, those of them who are in bondage to sense think that either the heavens, or what appears to be most brilliant in the heavens, or the universe itself, is God of gods: or if they try to get beyond the universe, they picture to themselves something of dazzling brightness, and think of it vaguely as infinite, or of the most beautiful form conceivable; or they represent it in the form of the human body, if they think that superior to all others. Or if they think that there is no one God supreme above the rest, but that there are many or even innumerable gods of equal rank, still these too they conceive as possessed of shape and form, according to what each man thinks the pattern of excellence. Those, on the other hand, who endeavor by an effort of the intelligence to reach a conception of God, place Him above all visible and bodily natures, and even above all intelligent and spiritual natures that are subject to change. All, however, strive emulously to exalt the excellence of God: nor could any one be found to believe that any being to whom there exists a superior is God. And so all concur in believing that God is that which excels in dignity all other objects.
Note the emphasis on excellence here. We get a similar precursor in Boethius (Consolation of Philosophy, Book III, Prose X, emphasis added):
Next to consider where the dwelling-place of this happiness may be. The common belief of all mankind agrees that God, the supreme of all things, is good. For since nothing can be imagined better than God, how can we doubt Him to be good than whom there is nothing better? Now, reason shows God to be good in such wise as to prove that in Him is perfect good. For were it not so, He would not be supreme of all things; for there would be something else more excellent, possessed of perfect good, which would seem to have the advantage in priority and dignity, since it has clearly appeared that all perfect things are prior to those less complete. Wherefore, lest we fall into an infinite regression, we must acknowledge the supreme God to be full of supreme and perfect good. But we have determined that true happiness is the perfect good; therefore true happiness must dwell in the supreme Deity.
Anselm himself ties his famous "ontological argument" to the Good both before and after the argument itself. In the prayer of Proslogion 1, he repeatedly refers to man's good as contemplation of God, without which nothing can be happy, and reflects on how man has lost this good. And then, more explicitly, we have a more explicit tie-in at Proslogion 5:
What are you, then, Lord God, than whom nothing greater can be conceived? But what are you, except that which, as the highest of all beings, alone exists through itself, and creates all other things from nothing? For, whatever is not this is less than a thing which can be conceived of. But this cannot be conceived of you. What good, therefore, does the supreme Good lack, through which every good is?
Interestingly, one finds this connection between the Good, or happiness as possession of the Good, in conjunction with very different kinds of arguments that still receive the label "ontological argument". Spinoza's is perhaps the best known example, since the "ontological argument" in Book of the Ethics is Spinoza's first step in the attempt to prove that there is a happiness that is utterly unshakeable and certain (which is why I sometimes tell people that in a sense you have to read the Ethics backwards to understand its point properly). And Iris Murdoch's not-quite-acceptance, not-quite-rejection of an "ontological argument" in her excellent Metaphysics as a Guide to Morals is intimately and explicitly linked with her attempt to explore the idea of the Good. This is a link that I think needs to be studied more.
Merry-Making Lambs
Easter Carol
by Christina Rossetti
Spring bursts to-day,
For Christ is risen and all the earth's at play.
Flash forth, thou Sun,
The rain is over and gone, its work is done.
Winter is past,
Sweet Spring is come at last, is come at last.
Bud, Fig and Vine,
Bud, Olive, fat with fruit and oil and wine.
Break forth this morn
In roses, thou but yesterday a Thorn.
Uplift thy head,
O pure white Lily through the Winter dead.
Beside your dams
Leap and rejoice, you merry-making Lambs.
All Herds and Flocks
Rejoice, all Beasts of thickets and of rocks.
Sing, Creatures, sing,
Angels and Men and Birds and everything.
All notes of Doves
Fill all our world: this is the time of loves.
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