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A Tale of Two Distinctions: G.E. Moore and Bertrand Russell on Memory and Ways of Knowing

This essay is © 2002 by Charles Johnson, and reprinted from A Tale of Two Distinctions at Charles W. Johnson: freelance academic and revolutionary, under the terms of the Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 2.0 copyleft license.

They are deeply immersed in illusions and dream images; their eye glides only over the surface of things and sees forms; their feeling nowhere leads to truth, but contents itself with the reception of stimuli, playing, as it were, a game of blindman’s bluff on the backs of things.

— Nietzsche, On Truth and Lie in the Extra-Moral Sense

I. Introduction

In Some Main Problems of Philosophy, G.E. Moore famously holds up an envelope and directs his audience to inspect it. In inquiring with them as to what happened, Moore launches into one of the most hotly debated issues in the past century of Analytic philosophy: the nature of apprehension, our cognitive relationships to the external objects amongst which we live, and our ability to make judgments about the world in virtue of what we see. In his effort to complete the story about the envelope, Moore comes to the topic of just what seeing is and what sort of cognitive relationships we bear to the things we see. In so doing, he turns to the issue of the knowledge of things, or apprehension, the cognitive relationship by which I am able to pick out a thing in the world and speak of it. In order to complete his story about the envelope, Moore must make a distinction between direct and indirect apprehension of things, which allows him to explain how we speak of those things which are not immediately picked out by their presence in our awareness. In considering similar problems in the similarly titled The Problems of Philosophy, Bertrand Russell develops a distinction that is in many ways similar—the famous distinction between knowledge by acquaintance and knowledge by description. Although Russell and Moore’s distinctions address a common problem and seem in almost every respect to be similar, a tension lurks beneath the surface between the two accounts. The tension arises from the different standpoints from which Moore and Russell attack the problem of knowledge of things, and it is cast in the starkest relief by consideration of their diverging views on the problem of memory and our awareness of the past. Careful consideration will show that, although neither Moore nor Russell’s approach to our awareness of objects is likely to be fruitful, the considerations that such comparisons raise highlight a crucial issue for any doctrine of apprehension, and Russell’s account will prove superior to Moore’s in expressing what it is to speak of a thing as it was. (I.1)

II. Moore: Direct and Indirect Apprehension

Moore’s distinction between direct and indirect apprehension arises in his effort to complete the story about the envelope. Both Moore and Russell have thus far agreed that when I beheld the envelope, a part of what happened to me was that I saw certain sense-data—a particular whitish patch of colour, of a certain size and shape (46). In the course of developing this part of the story, Moore is greatly worried by the apparently mutually exclusive properties borne by the sense-data observed by each of us. From different perspectives, it seems as though the envelope appears with many different patterns of color, perhaps even with different sizes and different shapes (from different distances and different angles). It seems, then, that the sense-data impressed upon me cannot be identical with the one envelope that we all see. Nor can they be identical with the other, mutually exclusive sense-data seen by the others around me. Moore—in the midst of a great deal of caviling—lays down three principles, described as the accepted view (because of their supposed widespread acceptance by philosophers) which he proposes as the most convincing account of how all of this is: (II.1)

  1. Esse is percipi: absolutely no part of the sense-data, which I ever apprehend, exists at all except at the moment I am apprehending it. (M. 40) (II.2.1)
  2. Privacy: no two of us ever apprehend exactly the same sense-datum. They would allow that we might, perhaps, apprehend sense-data exactly alike; but they would say that even though exactly alike—the same in quality—they cannot ever be numerically the same. (M. 41) (II.2.2)
  3. Dislocation: none of the sense-data apprehended by any one person can ever be situated either in the same place with, or at any distance in any direction from, those apprehended by any other person. (M. 42) (II.2.3)

Now, however, we are in something of a pickle. At the beginning of the exercise we had wanted to say that we all saw the same envelope. But if all we are aware of is the sense-data that present themselves to us, then there is nothing common to all of us that we can bring before our minds and say that we saw the same thing. The sense-data before our minds, on the accepted view, are different from one another just because they are before our minds, rather than a single mind. And thus, having for the moment accepted the philosophical view that all the sense-data seen by any one of us are seen by that person alone, we are committed to arguing that if we do in fact all see the same envelope, this seeing of the envelope cannot possibly consist merely in our seeing of those sense-data (M. 46). (II.3)

In order to resolve the tension between philosophical reflection and common-sense intuitions, we must now distinguish (at least) two different ways for a thing to be before the mind. With the accepted view of sense-data in hand, one way of knowing things will be the apprehension of sense-data that has already been explored. This relationship Moore dubs direct apprehension, and characterizes in terms of apprehension of sense-data under the accepted view, i.e., that which happens when you actually see any colour, when you actually hear any sound, when you actually feel the so-called sensation of heat … etc., etc. (M. 46). Moore later also allows that we have direct apprehension of propositions, but his basic characterization of direct apprehension is carefully tailored to accompany sense-data under the accepted view. In any case it will seem as though anything which counts as the object of a direct apprehension, except for propositions, will be something sense-datummy and subject to the conditions of the accepted view. (II.4)

However, our ability to bring one and the same envelope before all our minds and say, We all see the same envelope, there must be another way of knowing things, another mode in which something can be brought before the mind. This relationship Moore characterizes as the relation which you have to a thing when you do directly apprehend some proposition about it, but do not directly apprehend the thing itself (74), and he gives it the name indirect apprehension. Whereas both forms of apprehension places us in some cognitive relation (M. 78) which enables us to know truths about the thing that we apprehend, direct apprehension is the picking out of data that are directly confronting the mind in their experiential richness, whereas indirect apprehension is a much barer relation, only obtaining in virtue of having the ability to make judgments about the thing indirectly apprehended. Direct apprehension will be phenomenologically basic, whereas indirect apprehension will depend upon bringing various propositions before the mind. (II.5)

With this distinction in hand, the story about the envelope can now be completed. We all see the same envelope before us—but see here is being used in a sense other than the direct visual sensations that we have of its color, shape, position, and so on—for the objects of these sensations are, on the accepted view, essentially private. Rather, our seeing of the same material envelope consists, partly in directly apprehending certain sense-data, but in addition to this, being endowed with a cognitive relationship that can allow direct apprehension of a proposition connecting those sense-data to a material object, that is, knowing, besides and at the same time, that there exists something other than these sense-data (M. 51). Picking out the material object for all of us to talk about requires our perceptual faculty to convey the double existence that Hume so vigorously denied, presenting to us both a private sense-datum (directly apprehended) and also the ability to speak of a something quite other than these sense-data (M. 51). (II.6)

III. Russell: Knowledge by Acquaintance and by Description

Russell’s parallel distinction between knowledge by acquaintance and knowledge by description also takes its cue from Russell’s efforts to work out a story about the perception of office supplies. Like Moore, he is confronted with the question of how to string together many people’s radically private sense-data and connect them to the common envelope (or table) that is being observed. However, Russell leaves much of the ontological story about sense-data open, and he does not commit himself to the accepted view of sense-data in its entirety—in particular, he does not seem to take any particular stance on the esse-is-percipi thesis (1). The worry driving Russell in making his distinction is primarily a concern about how the sentences regarding a material envelope can be made meaningful. (III.1)

Russell frames this worry in the familiar terms of knowing what you’re talking about: it is scarcely conceivable that we can make a judgement or entertain a supposition without knowing what it is that we are judging or supposing about (R. 58). Our ability to talk about things (such as the material envelope) which are not brought before our minds in an unmediated confrontation requires us to have some cognitive relationship with the thing of which we intend to speak. But how can we account for the ability to bring things before the mind beyond the range of that which we primitively know? (III.2)

In order to get out of this pickle, Russell develops his distinction between knowledge by acquaintance and knowledge by description—a distinction which will, initially at least, track many of the same things as Moore’s distinction between direct and indirect apprehension. We have acquaintance, Russell writes, with anything of which we are directly aware, without the intermediary of any process of inference or knowledge of truths (R. 46). In acquaintance the thing that we know presents itself, as it were, nakedly before the mind, placing us in a cognitive relationship to, for example, the color of the envelope such that I know the colour perfectly and completely when I see it, and no further knowledge of it itself is even theoretically possible (R. 47). Acquaintance, like direct apprehension, is an essentially simple relationship between the knower and the thing known such that the thing is indubitably identified and available for judgments, without any need to refer outside of the experience of acquaintance itself. (III.3)

So far, so good. But Russell has already examined the phenomenology of seeing an object before us, and he has confessed that he failed to find in it any acquaintance with material objects such as the envelope. If he is to speak of the one envelope that we all say we see, then he will need to distinguish a second way of knowing things, which does not require this primitive acquaintance with the thing known. Russell finds this in the notion of knowledge by description. Anything which does not disclose itself to the mind in its full richness, as objects of acquaintance do, must be known to us indirectly, through a description. On Russell’s account, like Moore’s, our ability to speak of things to which we do not have a direct cognitive relation requires us to pick them out in virtue of our ability to make statements about them. For Russell, this ability is explained in virtue of picking out the object by a description phrased in terms of other things. Thus, (III.4)

There is no state of mind in which we are directly aware of the table [qua material object]; all our knowledge of the table is really knowledge of truths, and the actual thing which is the table is not, strictly speaking, known to us at all. We know a description, and we know that there is just one object to which this description applies, though the object is not directly known to us. (R. 47-48) (III.5)

The table itself does not show up on our cognitive charts, but we can use our knowledge of other things to, as it were, triangulate to the table itself and speak of it, even though it is not directly before the mind. (III.6)

If we are, then, to pick out objects outside of the range of acquaintance by speaking of them in terms of other objects which we have cognitively picked out, it soon becomes clear that all of the terms we use in the description must ultimately be reduced to the names of things with which we are acquainted. On Russell’s view, only objects of acquaintance present themselves as already picked out; therefore, only objects of acquaintance can provide a foundation from which to pick out objects beyond the range of immediate experience. He must introduce the principle of acquaintance as the basic requirement for any meaningful cognitive relationship involving description. Thus Russell: The fundamental principle in the analysis of propositions concerning descriptions is this: Every proposition which we can understand must be composed wholly of constituents with which we are acquainted (R. 58). (III.7)

With this distinction in hand, Russell can now survey the field of human experience to see what sort of things might count as objects of acquaintance, and what sorts of things will have to be triangulated by a description. Sense-data have already been taken as paradigmatic examples of objects of acquaintance, but this is not enough for Russell. In order to connect objects of immediate acquaintance with things outside of our acquaintance, we clearly cannot be acquainted only with self-contained particulars. Otherwise there could be no descriptions that identify anything other than a laundry list of objects of acquaintance. Russell, therefore, adds acquaintance with universals (according to what he describes as a roughly Platonic theory of their nature and self-disclosure) alongside our acquaintance with sense-data. With these two objects of acquaintance in hand, along with a rich set of logical operators, he can now begin to form descriptions that pick out objects outside of the range of acquaintance, as when he speaks of a material envelope or table as the physical object which causes such-and-such sense-data. Such a description can now be broken down into an existential quantification (logical operator) for a thing which is (1) a physical object (universal), and (2) causes [universal] such-and-such sense-data [various particulars]. By combining universals and particulars with which we are acquainted, we can reason outward beyond the range of immediate acquaintance and thus pass beyond the limits of our private experience (59). As long as a thing to be spoken of can be completely described in terms of other things which are directly before the mind, we can say that (in a certain sense) we know it, and we will be able to speak of it even though our native faculties do not allow us to have it disclose itself directly to us. (III.8)

Given the outline of Russell’s distinction, we can see that there are very close parallels with the distinction made by Moore between direct and indirect apprehension—with acquaintance being roughly equivalent to direct apprehension and knowledge by description being roughly equivalent to indirect apprehension. However, Moore and Russell have approached their doctrines from different directions. Moore developed his distinction between direct and indirect apprehension in order to complete the story about the envelope in light of a doctrine about the ontological status of the objects of our direct experience. On his view, direct apprehension is a phenomenon tightly fitted to sense-data, and indirect apprehension will have to cover nearly everything else. Russell, on the other hand, develops his distinction in light of a principle about the meaningfulness of sentences, and his distinction has far fewer ties to a particular view on sense-data. Because of this, Russell can—and, ultimately, must—add much more to the roster of objects of acquaintance than simply sense-data. Acquaintance less narrowly constructed than direct apprehension, and and it will turn out that this difference in approach leads Russell and Moore’s apparently congenial distinctions come into conflict. (III.9)

IV. The Remembrance of Things Past

The most dramatic separation between Moore’s and Russell’s accounts can be seen when we turn to their accounts of memory. Returning to the envelope, Moore observes: (IV.1)

I look at the envelope again and I see the whitish colour. I turn my head away, and I no longer see it. But I remember that I did see it a moment ago. I know that I did see it. There is nothing that I know more certainly than this. Moreover I know that that whitish colour was: that there was such a thing in the Universe. (M. 49) (IV.2)

What is the nature of the presentation of the envelope in memory? One potential confusion must be mentioned in order to dismiss it immediately. Both Russell and Moore note that memory of an object is apt to be accompanied by an image of the object, and yet the image cannot be what constitutes memory (R. 114-115). This is shown clearly enough by the observations that (1) the image is in the present, whereas what is remembered is known to be in the past (R. 115), and (2) that if the image itself were memory, then I could not possibly know that the image which I now see was at all different from the colour which I saw a moment ago (M. 50), but in fact we can and do evaluate the images that accompany our memories and speak of whether or not they justly portray the thing remembered. (IV.3)

Remembering an object, then, is having that object, safe at home in the past, before my mind now, presented to me by the faculty of memory. But what is the nature of this presentation? Is it knowledge by acquaintance or knowledge by description? Is it direct apprehension or indirect apprehension? (IV.4)

Moore argues that memory is one way of having before the mind, which is not direct apprehension (M. 47)—indeed, in this passage he introduces it as a paradigm case of indirect apprehension. When you remember an object, Moore claims, you are no longer directly apprehending the coloured patch which you saw (M. 47). Moore draws an analogy between the relationship between present sense-data and the material object with which they are connected, on the one hand, and the relationship between the present image and the sense-data remembered, on the other. Just as direct apprehension of present sense-data somehow also elicits indirect apprehension of the material object, direct apprehension of the mental image also elicits indirect apprehension of the remembered object. When you turn your eyes away from the envelope and remember what you saw, there is—so to speak—a leftward shift in the ledger: (IV.5)

(IV.6)ImageSense-dataMaterial envelope
ThenN/ADirect app. (Sensation)Indirect app.
NowDirect app. (Imaging)Indirect app. (Memory)Indirect app.

Russell, on the other hand, introduces memory as a paradigm case of the extension [of knowledge by acquaintance] beyond sense-data (R. 48). On the account of memory he develops, the essence of memory is not constituted by the image, but by having immediately before the mind an object which is recognized as past (R. 115, emphasis added). Here the image is, at most, a psychological illustration that accompanies the essential acquaintance with past objects, and our relationship with these objects is no more strained, just as immediate and cognitively simple, as it was when we had seen them face to face. In light of further deliberations about problems of fallacious memory, Russell will eventually recognize that some memories (or memories so-called, at least) are examples of knowledge by description, but here as always they are rooted in the primary knowledge of things, which is the acquaintance—here the acquaintance conveyed in (primary) memories. (IV.7)

Moore and Russell are each driven to the conclusion that they adopt by the prior commitments that structured their respective distinctions. For Moore, the driving force is his ontological theses about the objects of direct apprehension. For Russell, it is his semantic and epistemic commitments in the analysis of knowledge by description. (IV.8)

We reviewed earlier the three theses which Moore presents as the accepted view about sense-data, and noticed how Moore’s notion of direct apprehension is tailored to fit sense-data under the accepted view. It should come as no surprise, then, that the accepted view theses weigh heavily in Moore’s efforts to place memory in terms of the various ways of knowing a thing. The first of the three theses, the esse-is-percipi principle, holds a decisive weight here. Remember that on this principle, a sense-datum exists as long, and only as long as it is the object of direct apprehension. (IV.9)

As of yet, the thesis does not say anything about memory: whether I directly or indirectly apprehend something in memory, I apprehend what was then, not anything that is now. Nevertheless, when (1) is conjoined with the other two theses (privacy and dislocation), the doctrine that emerges does bear heavily on memory. Sense-data exist only as long as they are apprehended because they essentially dependent upon the act of apprehension. The relationship between the object of direct apprehension and the act of direct apprehension, in fact, is so tight that wherever there are two distinct acts of direct apprehension, there must be two numerically distinct sense-data to accompany them. And now, the pressure of the accepted view is brought to bear on memory. If, after turning away from the envelope, I directly apprehended the envelope’s sense-data in memory, then this would be a second, different act of direct apprehension. As Moore writes, the quality of the relationship changes such that (IV.10)

the relation which you now have to the image is obviously different from that which you have now to the sense-datum, which you saw but do not now see; while this relation which you now have with the image, is the same as that which you had to the sense-datum, just now when you actually saw it. (M. 47) (IV.11)

And since we have here two separate acts of apprehension, if both were acts of direct apprehension, rather than indirect, then that very fact would constitute two numerically distinct acts of direct apprehension, and thus two numerically distinct objects apprehended. You could not, then be thinking of the colour which you saw, and therefore having it before your mind in a sense (M. 47). Thus it must be that you are no longer directly apprehending it (M. 47), that you pick it out by entertaining propositions about it, but you do not have a direct apprehension of the thing that you remember. (IV.12)

For Russell, on the other hand, the looming issue in understanding memory is the principle of acquaintance. On his account, in order for me to have a thing before my mind, it must be picked out entirely by things with which I am acquainted. And so it is with judgments about the past just as much as judgments about the present. But here a worry arises: if the only vocabulary with which I can pick out a past thing is what is contained in the directory of objects of my acquaintance, then in order to describe anything before the present moment, I must have some acquaintance which allows me to speak of what has gone before, which is to say, some acquaintance with something in the past. Russell mentions his reasoning briefly twice: (IV.13)

This immediate knowledge by memory is the source of all our knowledge concerning the past: without it, there could be no knowledge of the past by inference, since we should never know that there was anything past to be inferred. (R. 49) (IV.14)

Thus the essence of memory is not constituted by the image, but by having immediately before the mind an object which is recognized as past. But for the fact of memory in this sense, we should not know that there ever was a past at all, nor should we be able to understand the word past, any more than a man born blind can understand the word light. (R. 115) (IV.15)

We can understand the arguments as a sort of elliptical transcendental argument, and reconstruct Russell’s reasoning more or less as follows: (IV.16)

  1. Knowledge of past things is possible. (IV.17.1)
  2. If knowledge of past things is possible, then either it is all knowledge by description, or else some memories convey knowledge by acquaintance. (IV.17.2)
  3. Either all knowledge of past things is knowledge by description, or else some memories convey knowledge by acquaintance. (IV.17.3)
  4. If all knowledge of past things is knowledge by description, then past things must be picked out entirely by from present or timeless things with which we are acquainted. (IV.17.4)
  5. Past things cannot be picked out entirely by present or timeless things. (IV.17.5)
  6. If all knowledge of past things is knowledge by description, then knowledge of past things is not possible. (IV.17.6)
  7. Not all knowledge of past things is knowledge by description. (IV.17.7)
  8. Therefore, some memories convey knowledge by acquaintance. (IV.17.8)

The crucial step in establishing that memory must convey at least some acquaintance is the introduction of the principle of acquaintance at step 4, and then the introduction of a principle at step 5 which we may call the flatness of the present principle. Roughly speaking, on Russell’s account, my acquaintance with present things (sense-data, acts of consciousness) and timeless things (universals) leaves me with a flat perspective on time. There are no objects of acquaintance in either of these categories which give me cognitive license to speak of a duration of time beyond the present moment or the view sub specie aeternitatis. Unless I have acquaintance with past things as past, I have no way of spreading my judgments outward in time from the present moment. Flashbacks in the cinema of my awareness would be indistinguishable from the ordinary forward motion of the plot. (IV.17.9)

V. Different Strokes

It seems, then, that in spite of the initial similarities between Russell’s and Moore’s distinctions, there is a deep conflict between them. If we have knowledge of past things, then Moore’s accepted view with regard to objects of direct apprehension and Russell’s principle of acquaintance come into conflict with one another. Moore’s view requires an essentially ephemeral character for direct apprehension. Russell’s requires acquaintance with past things in the present. What, then, are we to do? (V.1)

Such questions may themselves be questionable. There are, after all, very good reasons to reject both Moore’s account of sense-data and Russell’s principle of acquaintance. Nevertheless, even if we reject the motivations for Russell and Moore’s solutions on memory, we still must come to some kind of peace with how it is we speak of things that we experienced in the past. How do we get a cognitive grip on such objects? Will a Moorean indirect apprehension do, or do we need Russellian knowledge by acquaintence to account for our knowledge of how things were? (V.2)

Moore, if he were prone to saying such things, might tell the Russellian that she has the phenomenology all wrong. When, immediately after directly apprehending some sense-datum, Moore writes, you remember that sense-datum, or remember that you did just now directly apprehend it, there is nothing more obvious than that you now stand in a different relationship to the object than you did when you were looking at it. It seems that you are, ex hypothesi, no longer directly apprehending the snese-datum in question (M. 74). Otherwise, you would still be seeing it, rather than remembering it. (V.3)

Such a response, however, will only work by begging the question. On Moore’s account, it is true that the only way you could still have direct apprehension of the sense-datum is by it continuing to present itself visually to you. A Russellian account, however, can just as easily account for the phenomenological change. Memory, for Russell, simply is a different faculty of acquaintance from the sense of sight. In this way, one is acquainted with the past sense-datum, and why should the phenomenal character of this relationship be like the phenomenal character of being acquainted with a present sense-datum? If Moore assumes that the change from sight to memory requires a change in the underlying cognitive relationship, then he has in fact merely ignored one of his own principles about direct apprehension: with each of the different sensory faculties, Moore argues, (V.4)

what I mean by direct apprehension, namely, the act of consciousness, is exactly the same in quality: that is to say, the actual seeing of a colour, considered as an act of consciousness, differs in no respect at all from the actual hearing of a sound, or the actual smelling of a smell. They differ only in respect of the fact, that whereas the one is the direct apprehension of one kind of sense-datum, the other is the direct apprehension of another kind. (M. 47) (V.5)

And so, with memory, the phenomenal difference can be understood not in terms of the difference between direct apprehension and indirect apprehension, but rather in terms of the difference between a past object of acquaintance and a present one. (V.6)

Russell, for his part, can renew his transcendental argument on behalf of acquaintance with the past, even without the demands of the principle of acquaintance. If the present is inferentially flat in the way that Russell argues that it is, then quite apart from Russell’s semantic worries, there will simply be no way to get an epistemic grip on the past unless I am able to stand towards past objects of awareness independently of the present objects around me. Without an independent epistemic grasp on the past, as Russell writes, we will not be able to infer anything about the past, because we will have no basis on which to suppose that there are past things to be inferred. Russell’s division of our epistemic and semantic lives into acquaintance and description is certainly not to be accepted uncritically, but examination of his distinction and comparison with Moore’s highlights the crucial need for a theory of apprehension which respects the timeliness of things in the world, and raises concerns for anyone explicating our relationship to the things of which we speak and think. (V.7)

This One’s Going Up On My Door

Why should we suppose that what is merely necessary to life is ipso facto better than what is necessary to the study of metaphysics, useless as that study may appear? It may be that life is only worth living because it enables us to study metaphysics—is a necessary means thereto.

— G.E. Moore, Principia Ethica §28

The Cosmological Argument

The cosmological argument for God, also known as the argument from First Cause, has been one of the most frequent defenses of the rationality of theism throughout its long history. Cosmological arguments have been proposed by some of history’s greatest intellects, including Saint Thomas Aquinas and Aristotle. In essence, it states:

All events have a cause, and the world as we know it is comprised of events. Everything that we observe is an effect of some previous cause. Since there cannot be an infinite regress of events, there must be some Uncaused Cause outside of the world, that is, a God.

The problems with this argument are manifold. Some debaters, drawing on on some interpretations of Quantum Mechanics, may deny the iron law that all events must have a cause. Some also question the premise that an infinite regress of events cannot exist; however, a lot of modern cosmology points to a Universe with a definite beginning point. The issue of infinite regress will be dealt with at greater length below when we consider Craig’s Kalam Cosmological Argument. One way to circumvent the dilemma while preserving a definite beginning point for the Universe is to adopt the oscillating model of the Universe, which has at times received the support of Stephen Hawking, one of the foremost minds in modern cosmology. In this circular-time model there is an eternal cycle of bang/crunch events, where the crunched Universe bangs into another. Equations have been developed which can reconcile such a cyclical view with modern inflationary models of early Universe history. The primary factor in determining whether such models of the Universe’s geometry are true is the total amount of mass in the Universe; the amount of known mass is safely within the realm of an open Universe, but dark matter may account for the missing mass.

The logical implications of asserting that the Universe must have an explanatory entity are also theologically troublesome: the belligerent atheist can respond by asking why the Universe needs a Cause but God doesn’t. While at first such a question seems insipid and stupid due to the conception of eternal God, it is not stupid in the context of the Universe: for no apparent reason, the Universe is assumed to not be self-sufficient, while God is assumed to be so, which simply shifts the locus of the Uncaused Cause rather than resolving it. Thus, such a superficially trivial question in fact forges an important argument by analogy; the atheist is as justified in demanding, What caused God? as the theist is in demanding, What caused the Universe?

Even if we were to grant the theist’s argument for an external Uncaused Cause, his conclusion that such a being is necessarily a God is a non sequitur. This hypothetical explanation for the Universe could be any number of things which we would not call a god (indeed, Aristotle’s metaphysical primary only loosely qualifies as one)—the Cause could just as easily be the Tao or other transcendental, unconscious forces.

The most critical flaw in the cosmological argument, however, lies in its faulty understanding of time and causality. Modern cosmological theory states that the beginning of the Universe is, by definition, also the beginning of time. Causality requires time as a frame of reference1, and thus by definition the beginning of time—and the beginning of the Universe as well—has no cause in the traditional sense.

The Kalam Cosmological Argument

The Kalam Cosmological Argument is a spin on the First Cause argument which draws from medieval theology and subsequent philosophical cosmology. Its primary supporter today is the theologian William Lane Craig. Its essence is quite simple, following the mold of the previously presented cosmological argument: whatever begins to exist has a cause of its existence; the Universe began to exist. Therefore, the Universe has a cause of its existence. Craig goes on to argue that this cause is, in fact, a personal God, in order to dodge the blunder of the prior cosmological argument. It commits several critical flaws, many of which are committed by other cosmological arguments. Because of this, it will be useful to consider a rebuttal against this specific breed of First Cause.

The first premise may again be challenged: some schools of QM hold that the existence of particles is a matter of probability. Indeed, empty space seethes with ephemeral particles which wink in and out of existence with no apparent cause (whether they have a hidden cause or not is a matter of debate). The QM cosmologist may come again to say that the Universe itself is explained by quantum fluctuation, thus removing the necessity for God at the first premise.

But let us assume a more old-fashioned view of the Universe and move on to the second premise. As Craig correctly points out, the argument itself is quite simple, and most of the work on the argument is necessarily debate over the second premise and its implications. Craig uses two primary sub-proofs to demonstrate the necessity of a finite Universe. First, he argues that an actual, or completed infinity cannot exist in reality. Second, he argues that time cannot infinitely regress because of the impossibility of traversing an infinite set: since infinity can never be reduced to finity by subtraction, if the Universe is infinitely old (beginning at t=-oo) then there is no way that it could ever reach the present moment (t=0).

Craig, however, never gives proper justification for the first sub-proof. He cites thought experiments such as Hilbert’s Hotel2 but never bothers to show why these strange examples prove logical impossibility. His argument is, verbatim: Can anyone sincerely believe that such a hotel could exist in reality? These sorts of absurdities illustrate the imposibility of the existence of an actually infinite number of things.3 Read it carefully: Craig has done nothing more than resort to personal incredulity. This is the only justification he gives for his primary sub-proof. Why Craig expects transfinite sets to act according to our presuppositions rooted in the behavior of the finite sets which we observe is not altogether clear. Craig, in essence, simply refuses to believe ∞+1=∞, and attempts to convince us by his lack of imagination.

The second argument may also be defeated by a number of devices. One of the first is again an appeal to science. The oscillating, or cyclical model of Universe history presented in the previous section is one possible defense, because if time moves in a circle rather than a straight line, then the problem of traversal is eliminated; there is a finite beginning point, but one may traverse forever if he so desires without reaching a boundary. Although Craig attempts to refute this model, his attempt is anemic at best: he proposes two points which supposedly defeat the model: (i) that no known physics explain the re-explosion after the crunch, and (ii) that there is not enough observed matter to bring about the crunch. Both are essentially God of the Gaps arguments: I can’t explain this, therefore God exists. (ii) may be explained away by dark matter; this issue, as far as I know, remains unresolved. (i) is subject to another problem: there is no reason to assume that we can find a cause for the re-Bang, because the crunch involves the end of time, and thus, the end of causality as we know it.

A more fundamental problem of Craig’s argument, however, lies in his naive presuppositions about time. Craig explicitly presupposes a dynamical view of time according to which events are actualized in serial fashion, one after another.3 Craig assumes that time, rather than an expanded dimension of the Universe, is an external property of change and movement. However, this position is simply scientifically untenable. The dimensional nature of time has been a fundamental part of physics since Einstein, and its expansion in the Big Bang is one of the least controversial notions in cosmology today. Further, Craig does not realize the vast importance of the idea that the beginning of the Universe is the beginning of time. Yes, there is some finite distance into the past before which the Universe did not exist. But that is because time is part and parcel of the Universe, not some disjoint phenomenon in which the Universe exists. The Universe did not non-exist for a period of time and then suddenly wink into existence; at the moment of the Big Bang, the Universe simply was, and time only existed after that moment. The ultimate cause cannot be traced back further because there is no frame of reference in which to trace.

Finally, Craig attempts to justify that the Uncaused Cause of the Universe must be a metaphysical primary with a will, a volitional entity, which he (and I as well) considers a sufficient condition for godhood. The argument is based on the notion of sufficient causes: if A is a sufficient condition for B, then whenever A is observed, B must also be observed. Thus, it is argued, if the sufficient condition for the Universe’s existence was simply the action of some transcendental force, then the Universe should have always existed, a notion which was already discarded in the process of the KCA. Therefore, it is argued, the sufficient condition for the Universe’s existence was the act of will of its Uncaused Cause, which occurred a finite amount of time ago and therefore explains the finity of time.

This argument, however, is pitifully flawed and inconsistent with Craig’s previous argument. In his hypothetical dilemma, one must wonder why the action of the force at a particular moment is any less valid a sufficient cause than the volition of the God. Forces are, fundamentally, relationships, and they do not produce the same result for all values of their independent variables. However, this comparison betrays an even more fundamental flaw of the matter: the argument hinges on time progression. If God does not will the Universe to be at one moment, and then did will it to be in the finite past, then there must be a time progression and a change between these moments—God is dethroned from his eternal and immutable posture outside time. Craig dismisses a Universe existing infinitely into the dynamical past, but he proposes a God which exists backward infinitely before the Universe. The incoherency in a system of propositions is rarely so obvious. Thus we could turn Craig’s KCA (if we admitted its validity) against God Himself. Craig gives atheists the tools for impiety by wanting to have his ontological cake and eat it too.

Notes

  1. This necessity is established both in theory and in practice of causality. In practice, one of the criteria required for acceptance of a causal hypothesis is that the property which is being caused cannot occur before the property which is alleged to cause it. In theory, there are two primary notions of causality: necessary condition and sufficient condition. In the case of the former, if A is said to be a necessary condition of B, then A must always be present while B is present, i.e., in the same section of time. In the case of the latter, if A is said to be a sufficient condition of B then B must always be present while A is present. Again, the temporal frame-of-reference is required.

  2. Hilbert’s Hotel is a thought experiment which involves a hotel with an infinite number of rooms. All of the hotel’s infinite rooms are occupied and the NO VACANCY sign is lit outside. However, a weary traveler arrives at the front desk and asks for a room. Very well, the management responds, and in order to give the man a room, they simply shift the occupant of room #1 to room #2, room #2 to room #3, and so ad infinitum. When all the guests have been shifted, the hotel’s guests still all have a room, but room #1 is now left unoccupied and the traveler is free to have a room.

    More weirdness ensues if the experiment is carried further. If the traveler now in room #1 checks out the following day, then the hotel still has no fewer guests—despite what the maid cleaning room #1 may say. If all the guests are shifted back to the room they occupied before the troublesome traveler arrived, then the hotel’s only empty room is filled and the VACANCY sign goes back to NO VACANCY. The discovery of further oddities is left as an exercise to the reader.

  3. Craig, William Lane. The Existence of God and the Beginning of the Universe.

This essay is a revision of an earlier version that dates back to 1997. —C.J. 2006-07-10.

Morality and Atheism

This essay was co-authored by Ed. Stoebenau and Charles Johnson, based on an earlier version that dates back to some time in 1997. The views expressed in the first part of the essay are no longer the views of the author of that part (Charles Johnson); indeed, his views are now almost precisely the opposite of those expressed. —C.J., 27 May 2002.

One claim that theists make often in #atheism is that one cannot both accept atheism and objective moral standards at the same time. They feel that at least one of these two views is true: objective moral standards prove that God exists, or that if there is not a God, then there cannot be objective moral standards. This paper serves a few purposes. First, it directly shows that there are differing views on morality between atheists. One of the writers is a moral subjectivist; the other is a moral objectivist. In the first half, Charles Johnson defends a subjective view of morality. In the second half, Ed. Stoebenau defends a view that atheism and objective morality are consistent; one can accept both and still be ration in these respects. This paper shows that the moral argument for theism can be defeated in both of its premises: either there are not objective moral standards or they do not need to be from a deity.

Moral Subjectivism

The first response to the theist’s question is to question why a totally objective moral code is necessary or even superior to a subjective one. Granted, the ethos of most societies have a few universal elements. Some of these include taboos against murder and theft (although definitions of justification for killing and confiscation of property may differ from society to society) and against incest. Beyond these, however, morality seems to vary from society to society and from individual to individual. The subjectivist view is that these are due purely to differences in personality between societies in general and between individuals in particular, and because of this, no more objective than taste preferences or impressions of beauty. Many atheists feel that moral codes that are subjective to one degree or another are the way morals should be and in fact are treated.

At this point, the theist may well inquire why there is any degree of universality to moral codes. This conclusion can be arrived at in both a moral objectivist and a moral subjectivist perspective without calling in gods by examining how certain behaviors affect animal populations. To analyze behaviors from this evolutionary perspective, it is highly beneficial to consider the concept of the meme, as pioneered by noted evolutionary biologist Richard Dawkins. A meme is, in short, an idea, thought, or memory which replicates itself from mind to mind (some refer to the mind which the meme inhabits as a host). By separating the replication process of the meme from its host, we can thus draw an analogy between the neo-Darwinian conception of the selfish gene and the replication of beliefs. Because moral systems are usually indoctrinated into children as part of the socialization process, it should be clear that ethos can thus be analyzed memetically, and therefore we can apply the basic principles of evolutionary biology to forge a useful tool for seeking out the roots of morality, through sociobiology. For example, consider murder, theft, and incest, three taboos which are commonly brought up in arguments of this sort.

Murder and theft are demonstrably harmful to animals that live together in communities (gregarious animals). If a animals in a group go about killing one another and do not have some non-arbitrary code of offenses, to be known and avoided, which merit death, then they will not tend to survive very long in groups. In order to survive, any gregarious species must develop reactions against behavior detrimental to the group. Although genetics would be one possible route, it is fairly infeasible to consider genes as a source for ideas. Thus, a meme complex which promotes a general abhorrence for murder is superior from a survival standpoint to a lack thereof in gregarious animals, and such a trait would be preferred in natural selection. Theft is a natural extension of the same reasoning; by unjustified confiscation of property from one’s neighbors, an organism creates animosity against it, so a general concern for the rights of one’s neighbors is genetically superior for gregarious animals. This leads to a more generalized trait, which could cover murder, theft, rape, and a number of other moral taboos.

The taboos against incest are also easily explainable from the perspective of evolution: heavy inbreeding, especially between close relatives, reduces the genetic diversity of a population, which makes the population as a whole more susceptible to extinction when their ecosystem is disturbed. For instance, in a highly homogenous population, if a particular disease to which the population is particularly susceptible strikes, the chances are good that it may well wipe out most or all of the breeding population. Also, genetic homogeny increases the likelihood that damaging recessive traits (almost all non-neutral recessive traits are harmful) will be expressed. A good example of this phenomenon can be found in the heavily inbred royal families of Europe, where the genetic disorder hemophilia (caused by a recessive gene on the X chromosome) became widespread to the extent that it was considered a royal disease. In the wild, hemophilia would be extremely disadvantageous, and the inbred individuals would probably be selected out of existence within a few generations. Therefore, in general, natural selection favors those organisms which do not inbreed heavily, or preferably, at all.

One of the advantages of this evolutionary analysis of morality is that, since it is derived from principles of biology, it may be evaluated as any other scientific theory, in terms of how well it fits observed data and how its predictions of further results hold up against observation. An example of such a verified prediction would be as follows: in more interdependent animal societies, social order is more important to social survival than in less interdependent societies. Therefore, in general societal interdependence should correlate positively with altruistic behavior—the more order is critical, the higher the selection pressure in favor of behavior which benefits the group over the individual. A verification of this can be seen by observing colonial insects and comparing altruistic tendencies to less tightly-knit social animals—say, humans. Colonial insects such as honeybees routinely sacrifice their lives for the betterment of the hive. While altruism is often exalted as a heroic ideal in human societies, it is not in any way expected, instinctual behavior as in colonial insects.

This evolutionary approach is, of course, not the only philosophical explanation for commonality in morals within an atheistic worldview. For example, the popular atheist philosophy of Objectivism, founded by Ayn Rand, believes strongly in moral objectivism based in philosophy and logic, and attributes morality to the fundamental truth or falsity of a statement, a property of the Universe itself. To Objectivists, those actions which are rational and those beliefs which are true, are good; those actions which are irrational and those beliefs which are false are evil. In the introduction to The Virtue of Selfishness, Rand elaborates:

The Objectivist ethics holds that the actor must always be the beneficiary of his action and that man must act for his own rational self-interest. But the right to do so is derived from his nature as man and from the function of moral values in human life—and therefore, is applicable only in the context of a rational, objectively demonstrated and validated code of moral principles which define and determine his actual self-interest. It is not a license to do as he pleases and it is not applicable to the altruists’ image of a selfish brute nor to any man motivated by irrational emotions, feelings, urges, wishes, or whims. (ix)

Moral Objectivism

Having considered the counterpoints to the theist’s question, we can finally address the arguments that he has brought up. On the first argument, let us assume that there are objective moral standards. What other premises then, would we need to prove that God exists? Obviously, we would need a premise like if there are objective moral standards, then God exists. But this premise is too question begging to accept in an argument. To add more steps, let’s try moral standards can only come about by decree. We can also add to be objective, a standard must come from an absolute supreme source. Furthermore, we must also use The only absolute supreme source is God. Then, we can conclude that if there is an objective morality, than God exists. But are the premises sound for this argument? Again, there is good reason in thinking they are not. The last is non-debatable. The second depends on the soundness of the first, for if standards do not need a standard-giver, than neither do objective standards need an absolute objective standard. The first falls to the Euthyphro objection. Standards by decree cannot be objective, because they presuppose the objectivity of the standard giver, but if the standards come from such a source, they cannot be objective because there is no reason to believe that a standard-giver would give objective standards, without assuming external objective standards. So external standards are needed, and the first argument fails.

The second argument is that if there is not a God, than there cannot be objective morality. Even ignoring the Euthyphro objection for the most part, for the theist’s argument to succeed, he would need to claim that if God exists, than there is a God-given morality, and that if there is a God-given morality, than there are objective moral standards. Furthermore, if there is a God-given morality, than God exists. He also assumes that if God does not exist, then there is not a God-given morality. Of these premises, the last two are obviously true, the second we will assume to be true because of ignoring the Euthyphro problem, and we assume the first is also true, even though it is not necessary (for example, the deist’s God might well not care a whit about human morality). However, from the premise that God does not exist, all we can conclude is that there is not a God-given morality. We cannot conclude that there are not objective moral standards, because we do not have a premise of either If there is not a God-given morality, than there are not objective moral standards, or If there are objective moral standards, than there is a God-given morality. The second of these was shown to be false in the first part, and there is no non-question-begging reason to assume the first to be true, as this would beg the question for a divine command theory of morality.

Some theists, especially Calvinist Christians object to this argument because it is not divine commands which form objective morality, but rather the divine nature of God. But what would be the case if the nature of God were the standards of morality, assuming that God exists? It would mean that omnibenevolence would only mean God is what God is. While it is certainly true that God is what God is, it is not the case that omnibenevolence is just what God is. Omnibenevolence itself presupposes that there is an independent standard by which God is morally perfect; to deny this denies any meaning to the word. So this argument also does not give any reason why an atheist should not accept an objective morality.

There is also, in my opinion, a conclusive argument that objective morality and atheism are logically consistent: it is the deductive problem of evil. This can be shown by the following proof of consistency, where ⋄ means it is logically possible that, and → is strict implication.

if [⋄(A & C) & (A & C) → B], then ⋄(A & B)

It must be noted that neither A, B, or C need be true; they only need to be possible. Now let us let A be there is an objective morality, B mean there does not exist a deity and C mean the amount of evil in the world is so much that God does not exist. Now it is certainly the case that even if one does not exist that an objective morality is possible, and so is it possible, even if it is not the case, that the amount of evil in the world is so much that God does not exist. It is also the case that A and C in this case are consistent: it is possible that there is an objective morality and there is a large amount of evil in this world. But as these two premises together imply that God does not exist, then it must be the case that atheism and moral objectivity are consistent.

Bibliography

Memetics and evolutionary origins of ethics:

Theistic and atheistic origins of ethics:

Notes

Note 1: For this paper, the following terms should be differentiated with respect to morality: objectivism, subjectivism, relativism, and absolutism. Moral objectivism is just the view that morality is objective: there is such a thing and it does not depend on how it is perceived. Moral subjectivism is the view that there is not an objective morality: moral codes depend on the perceptions of the persons. It should be noted that moral subjectivism does not necessarily lead to moral anarchy, the view that anything goes. Moral relativism, while generally considered to be synonymous with subjectivism, is just the view that the morality of an action is not just an either/or thing: there are degrees to right and wrong. Moral absolutism has two differing meanings. In its first form, it is just the view that morality is universal, and so is a subset of objectivism. In its other form it is a view that there are not degrees of right and wrong; there are no shades of gray. A moral objectivist can be a relativist or an absolutist of either form, and even a relativist and an absolutist of the first form. A subjectivist can hold that someone can be any of the relativists or absolutists. ↩

Note 2: Although there is plenty of debate in the field of aesthetics as to whether beauty is objective or subjective, I think we can agree that impressions thereof are fairly subjective. ↩

Note 3: Be sure to note the difference between Objectivists, adherents to the philosophical system founded by Ayn Rand, and moral objectivists, adherents to the philosophical position that morality is independent of the individual. Keep in mind that all Objectivists are moral objectivists, but not all moral objectivists are Objectivists. ↩

Note 4: Rand, Ayn. Introduction. The Virtue of Selfishness. New York: Signet Books, 1964. vii-xi. ↩

Note 5: The problem of evil given here does not need to be sound. All needed for this argument are the possibilities of the statements. An atheist can be consistent in believing that the deductive problem of evil is unsuccessful and that it can be used to show the logical consistency between atheism and moral objectivism. ↩

The Ontological Argument: an assessment

This essay is © 1998 by Ed. Stoebenau. It is based on an older version that he sent me to host on my website some time in 1997. In moving it over to my new website, I have updated the formatting to correctly represent the logical notation that Ed. originally used. —C.J. 2006-08-02.

The ontological argument is unquestionably one of the most interesting arguments for the existence of God. Similar to all ontological arguments is that the concept of God entails that there exists in reality a being which corresponds to this definition, or more simply: God exists. Any perusal of the philosophical literature will show that the ontological argument is still very much debated in different forms. I will show that the ontological argument does not succeed in what it tries to do, namely, prove that God exists. I will consider the first form of Anselm’s original argument, Descartes’ argument, Hartshorne’s, and that of Plantinga.

Anselm first gave what has become known as the ontological argument in his Prosologion. He used the definition that God is that being than which no greater can be conceived. Using this, he gave a reductio ad absurdum, that if one claimed that this being did not exist, then there exists a being which is greater than the being which no greater can be conceived. A major assumption of Anselm’s was that whatever exists in both the mind and in reality is greater than that which exists only in the mind. However, it is tough to see why one should accept this premise as sound. Is five dollars actually being in my pocket greater than 100 dollars existing in my mind? Can we even make such a comparison? This does not seem likely. One cannot claim that an old worn down coin is greater than a hypothetical brand new one of the same date, just because it exists. Furthermore, the premise that if one denies the existence of God, that there is a being greater than the being which no greater can be conceived, presupposes the actual existence of that being, so the argument runs in a circle. Hence, Anselm’s original argument fails.

Descartes’ ontological argument is simpler than Anselm’s, but unfortunately is more question-begging also. His argument is:

  1. God contains all perfections.
  2. Existence is a perfection.
  3. Therefore, God contains existence (or God exists.)

The second premise is highly questionable at best. Generally, one would think that bringing something into in existence would cause an imperfection in the object; one does not see how at first why God would be any different. For example, if one thinks of a perfect hill (such as the one just outside of Buchanon VA), the conception of the hill would be more perfect than a hill in existence; hence bringing something into existence does not make it more perfect, and therefore existence is not a perfection. So Descartes argument also fails.

Hartshorne’s ontological argument is based on Anselm’s second argument and claims that God’s existence is logically necessary. Hartshorne’s argument is given here, where ▯A means it is logically necessary that A, ~A means it is not the case that A, → is strict implication, ∨ means or, and g means God exists:

  1. g → ▯g
  2. ▯g ∨ ~▯g
  3. ~▯g → ▯(~▯g)
  4. ▯g ∨ ▯(~▯g)
  5. ▯(~▯g) → ▯(~g)
  6. ▯g ∨ ▯(~g)
  7. ~▯(~g)
  8. ▯g
  9. ▯g → g
  10. g

This argument is valid. Furthermore, given an Anselmian conception of God, premises one and five are sound. Premise two is just the law of the excluded middle, and premise three is a law of the modal logic S5. Premise nine is obviously sound, so this leaves premise seven as the only premise to question. Premise seven says that it is logically possible that God exists. If you were to change it to:

7′. It is possible that God does not exist.

Then using premise one, and 7′, one gets this conclusion:

10′. God does not exist.

Therefore, one must have a good reason to prefer it is possible that God exists over it is possible that God does not exist. However, there does not seem to be. Therefore, with two premises of equal prior (epistemically) likeliness leading to opposite conclusions, I conclude that Hartshorne’s argument cannot succeed.

Alvin Plantinga’s ontological argument is similar to Hartshorne’s, and falls to the same attack. Plantinga’s argument is based on the semantics of possible worlds. For him, logically necessary existence means existing in all possible worlds, logically possible existence means existing in at least one possible world, and logically impossible existence means existing in no possible worlds. A modified version of Plantinga’s Argument follows:

  1. The proposition that a thing has maximal excellence if and only if it has maximal excellence in every possible world is necessarily true.
  2. The proposition that whatever has maximal excellence is omnipotent, omniscient, and morally perfect is necessarily true.
  3. There is a possible world in which the property of possessing maximal greatness is exemplified.
  4. Therefore, the property of possessing maximal greatness is exemplified in every possible world.
  5. Therefore, God exists.

Again, this argument can be critiqued similar in a way to Hartshorne’s, by using this premise:

3′. There is a possible world in which the property of possessing maximal greatness is not exemplified.

Combined with 1, we get:

4′. Therefore, the property of possessing maximal greatness is exemplified in no possible world.

From this, we can conclude that God does not exist. Since both 3 and 3′ are equally likely and lead to opposite conclusions, I conclude that Plantinga’s ontological argument does not succeed.

I have examined four ontological arguments. I have concluded that none of them succeed in what they try to do: proving God’s existence. They either rest on highly questionable premises, or on premises in which different premises equally likely lead to opposite conclusions. Therefore, if there is to be a proof for God’s existence, it lies elsewhere.

Other web sites:

For further reading:

  • Plantinga, Alvin: The Ontological Argument
  • Plantinga, Alvin: God, Freedom, and Evil
  • Plantinga, Alvin: The Nature of Necessity
  • Barnes, Jonathan: The Ontological Argument
  • Hick, John & McGill, Arthur C.: The Many-Faced Argument
  • Hartshorne, Charles: Anselm’s Discovery
  • Oppy, Graham: Ontological Arguments and Belief in God